Three years ago, when I looked into them for the very first time in real life, it had shocked me beyond belief.
Much like right now.
He’s saying my name and it’s just like in my vision.
I can’t breathe.
I don’t know who this man is, but I know he means something to me.
He’s literally the man of my dreams and that scares me half to death.
I know nothing about him, but he’s here, saying my name and touching my arm and I still can’t breathe.
“Are you okay?” he asks me, and I can hear the obvious concern in his voice.
‘No, I’m not okay at all’ I want to scream, but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out.
I can feel the anxiety clawing its way out of me and I know I only have seconds to get it under control.
I think of the technique one of my doctors taught me when I was younger.
Five, four, three, two, one…
I need to concentrate on five things I can see, four things I can touch, three things I can hear, two things I can smell and one thing I can taste.
Five… I can see him, the table, the waiter taking orders, cars on the street, my bag on the seat.
Four… I can touch him, the seat, the floor and the tablecloth.
Three… I can hear him saying my name, the people at the next table talking and the hum of energy from the kitchen.
Two… I can smell him, and garlic bread, and honestly, I’m not sure which smells better.
I can feel my breathing settling now as my body becomes more grounded and calm.
One… I can taste… my eyes immediately dart to his lips, but I grab my glass of orange juice before I do something stupid.
“I’m so sorry,” I finally say as I put my glass back on the table. “You gave me a fright.”
I look up and he’s still watching me carefully.
“Rylan?” I ask, even though it’s obviously him.
“That’s me,” he replies, his face lighting up with a smile so beautiful it actually pains me to look at it.
I find myself smiling back at him; like I don’t even have a choice in the matter.
It’s not lost on me that all five of my senses were drawn to him first and foremost, and considering I don’t know him in the slightest, that’s an unexpected revelation.
He sits opposite me and I’m overcome with a feeling that maybe my life is only just beginning right in this very moment.
“And that’s why I was late,” he replies with a shrug, only now getting around to explaining why he’d kept me waiting.
“You’re an obstetrician?” I ask, surprise clearly colouring my voice.
We’ve been talking for over half an hour, and so far, I’ve managed to keep myself from asking him how or why it is that he frequents my dreams at night.
I’ve also managed not to freak out and panic again, but the more he talks the more I get a feeling of déjà vu that I can’t explain.
He nods and smiles, acknowledging that it’s somewhat of an unexpected field of medicine for him to be in.
He looks like a real man’s man – not someone that looks at women’s private parts all day, while periodically delivering little bundles of joy.
His shoulders are broad and strong, his golden skin is freckled from time spent in the sun and his hair is as dark as the night sky.
If I didn’t already know he worked in the hospital, and someone had told me to guess, I would have gone with something like a builder or a farmer – something that required him to have strong, rugged hands.
He’s tall and lean – he’s very obviously physically fit, and I know I really need to stop looking at him.
“You got it, I’m an obstetrician,” he confirms with a shrug.
“And you were delivering a baby…” I repeat his words back to him, still not quite believing.
He chuckles and the sound is warm and comforting.
I smile at him while I watch the curve of his mouth as the laughter falls from his lips.
“She came early. We weren’t expecting her until next week, but really, at this point I should know better than to expect a baby to come on its due date.”
“Did you know Emmett and Lucy are having a baby?”
He points to himself. “Who do you think is delivering it?”
I gape at him. “Seriously?”
He nods his head proudly.
“Wow… you must be good. You should have seen how long it took her to decide on a car seat. I can’t even imagine the process she went through to pick a doctor… did she bring you in for a formal sit-down interview?”
He grins, and once again the breath is stolen from my lungs.
“I know you’re joking, but you’re actually not far off.”
A realisation I’d previously missed appears front and centre in my mind.
“Hold the phone, so she knows you? That sneaky little she-devil gave me the distinct impression she didn’t know you.”
My eyes are narrowed now, and my finger is pointed at him in an incredibly accusing manner.
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.” He holds his hands up in surrender.
I make a pretend shooting motion with my finger, and he laughs – really laughs for the first time tonight.
It’s a perfect sound and I’m already wishing I was funnier so I could say something that would let me hear it again.
“I can’t believe she played me like that.” I scowl half-heartedly.
He looks right into my eyes. His stare is strong and unwavering, and I almost shudder under the weight of it.
“Did she choose wrong?” he asks seriously.
I hold his gaze and shake my head, one small little movement that he doesn’t miss.
She chose good – really good.
He’s interesting, kind, funny, and somehow, manages to pull off this intense thing he has going, all the while looking like an absolute dream.
But the thing is, I’m not sure that Lucy and Emmett chose him at all.
I’m forced to think, that after nearly four years of dreaming of the deep blue eyes that are now focused on my face, watching me carefully, that perhaps this meeting was just meant to be.
I’ve never been a big believer in fate, because then I’d have to accept the fact that someone, somewhere deemed it my fate to suffer when others don’t, but after spending tonight in his magnetising presence, I might have to rethink my views on the world.
“Well… good then,” he replies, reminding me where I am and who I’m with, even though my eyes haven’t left his for a moment.
The sight of him in my mind has become a sense of calm for me, a comfort even… and I hope to God that I’m reflecting my behaviour in a way that is appropriate for two strangers meeting, rather than someone greeting a familiar memory.
“Tell me something about you.”
I refrain from groaning in response to his request.
I absolutely hate talking about myself. I despised the first day of school every year; the one where you had to stand up in class and tell the group a fun fact about yourself.
I would literally rather stick pins in my eyes than tell another ‘fun fact’.
There’s very little to tell about me that isn’t going to get me that look. The look of sympathy.
I loathe the look of sympathy.
I don’t want people to feel sorry for me, I want them to accept me for who I am and not what I’ve been through. I don’t want to become my condition, but sometimes I fear I’ve done exactly that.
“What do you do for work?” he prompts when I don’t reply.
I smile at the question because that is one I can answer – even if it’s not with total honesty. Technically, I don’t work – I volunteer, but he doesn’t need to know that just yet.
“I work at an animal shelter.”
His eyebrows raise in surprise. “That might be as rewarding as delivering babies.”
“I actually helped deliver a whole litter jus
t last week,” I brag.
“Well then, here’s to new life.” He picks up his glass and holds it up to me.
I reach for my glass and clink it gently against his, repeating his sentiment back to him.
I spend the entire time it takes for our mains to arrive talking about the shelter and the quirky animals that come through, and he’s either an excellent actor, or he’s genuinely interested because he asks me questions the entire time.
I get to hear him laugh again and my insides feel all fuzzy and warm.
We eat in a comfortable silence and I’m aware that he’s watching me as closely as I’m watching him.
I’ve already learned that he’s the kind of person that eats each element on his plate separately, not starting the next type of food until the last one is finished. He’s methodical even in his eating habits.
I, on the other hand, am quite the opposite, I eat a little piece of this, then that, then this again. It’s the unrestrained artist coming out in me I think.
“I paint,” I blurt the words out before I even consider the implication of them.
I only paint for me, and the reason I don’t tell people about it is because the first thing they ask is if they can see my work.
He’s watching me again – honestly, I’m not sure he ever stopped, and I can almost feel him rummaging around in my thoughts – like he somehow understands that even though I brought the topic up, I’m not entirely sure I actually want to talk about it.
“What do you paint?” he asks cautiously after a moment of silence.
I fiddle nervously with the gold ring that I wear on a chain around my neck.
“My feelings, my thoughts…” I shrug. “Whatever comes to me.”
He nods for more than a few seconds, like he’s processing the information.
“I bet they’re incredible.”
I wait for it – the ‘I’d really like to see them sometime’, but it doesn’t come; he simply picks up his glass and takes another sip.
“That’s a beautiful ring.” He tilts his head in the direction of the ring I’m still playing with and I’m taken by surprise – he’s as observant as he is intense.
I bring it up to my face so I can study it, as though maybe I’ve forgotten what it looks like all of a sudden.
“It was my aunt’s. She gave it to me before she passed away.”
And there I go again… speaking before I think, but much like before, he doesn’t ask me questions that I don’t want to answer.
“It matches your eyes beautifully,” he simply replies.
I can feel myself blushing again. Even though he didn’t technically give me a compliment, it still feels like one.
It does match my eyes – that’s why she gave it to me. My Aunt Rita was more like a grandmother to me growing up, she was fifteen years older than my mother, and their parents – my grandparents, were both gone by the time I was born.
She was an absolute loon and I loved her dearly.
She lived long enough to see me get my new heart, and then she was gone, leaving behind a longing ache in my chest, the most wonderful memories, and a trail of wealth that gave my entire family more than we ever thought we’d have.
“You loved her.” He’s not asking a question, but merely reading my expression and stating a fact – it seems to be a skill of his.
We might not eat the same way, but we both appear to share the talent of reading people.
“I loved her very much. She was kind, kooky and very generous.”
When she passed away, she left me the home I now live in along with a small fortune that will ensure I never want for a single thing. Auggie and Charlie have one each too.
She’s the reason I can spend my time painting and volunteering without having to worry about how I’m going to pay the bills.
None of us had any idea that Rita was so well off, or that when she died, she’d leave everything to the five of us. She never had any children of her own, so my parents, my siblings and I, we were it for her.
“She gave me a house.” The words come out without thought yet again.
I don’t know what it is about him, but my walls keep slipping and I find myself telling him things I’d never normally consider telling a someone I just met.
Maybe it’s because he doesn’t feel like a stranger to me at all.
His eyes widen in surprise, and just when I expect him to question me further, he brings out the line I was expecting earlier, when I told him that I paint.
“I’d really like to see it sometime.”
My heart is beating overtime at the very thought of having this beautiful man in my home, I’m scared, so scared to let people into my life.
This all feels like I’ve been thrown into a pressure cooker. The force is already building up, and I don’t want it to explode, or the lid to lift and the air to escape. I just want to stay right here with him and let this pressure build.
I’ve never felt this comfortable and yet off kilter at the same time, but I think I like it – it feels like living.
“I think that might be okay,” I tell him coyly.
He dips his head and grins, like that was exactly the answer he was hoping for, and for the first time in a long time, I think that maybe everything might be okay after all.
Rylan
“This is a beautiful house.”
It’s an understatement – the huge Victorian home in front of me is as stunning as it is grand, but I’ve quickly come to learn that Violet isn’t one for making a fuss, so I don’t say anything more about it.
“I love it.” She smiles as she glances up.
We’re walking up the path to her front door, and there’s nothing out here but us, the silence and the moonlight.
This whole evening has felt this way – like it’s just been her and I, talking like neither of us had anywhere else in the world to be.
I glance at her again and shake my head in disbelief that I’m the guy that gets to bring her home tonight.
She really is a beautiful woman; I’d have to be blind not to see the obvious beauty in front of me, but it’s not just about her pretty face, she radiates goodness and warmth too.
She’s cautious – I can see that, but she’s got a sense of freedom about her that I’m not sure even she knows what to do with.
We’re strolling so slowly, dawdling even, and I get the impression that she doesn’t want this night to end any more than I do.
I can’t quite comprehend the feeling I have inside me when she’s around. I feel… at peace. It’s something I haven’t experienced in a very long while, and I’m not ready to let it go just yet.
I glance down and brush the back of my hand against the back of hers. I feel like a teenager all over again, and it’s a sentiment I welcome.
It feels like a stage of my life that I can manage right now – it’s innocent and pure and there’s no expectation on either of us to do anything more than just be here. I’m not walking her to her door with the hope that she’ll invite me in and we’ll have wild sex all night long.
It’s not that I don’t want to do that, because as much of a gentleman as I am, I’m exactly that, a man – but just not tonight.
Even if that was on her agenda, which I’m confident it’s not, Violet deserves more than that, and so do I.
I take her hand in mine when we reach the steps – under the pretence that I’m helping her up them, and don’t get me wrong, I am happy to help, but this contact is as much for my benefit as it is for hers. I’ve been dying to feel her skin against mine again ever since I touched her arm. The satisfied smile on her face makes me think that maybe she feels the same way I do.
Her hand is small and delicate in my much bigger one, and I like it. It feels right.
I don’t let go when we reach her door, and neither does she.
We turn to face one another, and I’m struck again with just how pretty her eyes are.
They sparkle like cut crystal does in the sunlight. Even out h
ere in the dark they shine, and when I look into them I get an inexplicable feeling that I’m not only looking at an important part of my future, but also somehow at my past.
It shocks me to my core that I feel this way about her after only a few short hours, but if there’s one thing I’ve learnt from delivering babies into their parents’ waiting arms, it’s that a person’s whole life can change in a mere fraction of a second.
“I’d really like to see you again.”
Yet another understatement.
“Well… you’ve got my number.” She shrugs.
She’s nervous – she’s not sure if I’m going to kiss her or not.
I step towards her and reach my free hand out slowly towards her face.
There’s a strand of hair that seems to find its way across her forehead often, and I sweep it away and tuck it behind her ear.
I lower my lips to her forehead and place a soft kiss there.
She visibly shudders at the action and it makes me want to do it again.
I pull back, one of my hands resting on her jaw, the other still intertwined with her hand. She looks up at me. Her eyes are cautious but curious. She wants to be kissed.
She tilts her face up towards mine, and I slowly lower my lips to hers, pressing them together ever so gently.
Her free hand reaches for my neck and lightly tugs down, inviting me even closer. I go, willing and eager for more of her.
Her lips are so soft and smooth, and I can taste the mint she took from her handbag earlier.
I want more. God, do I want more, but instead I pull away, knowing that I haven’t earnt more, not yet anyway.
“Thank you for dinner,” she whispers into the small space between us.
“You’re welcome.” My reply comes out just as quietly.
I lean in and press my lips to hers once more, just quickly before I lose myself in her all over again.
“I’ll call you,” I promise as I take a step back.
I’m still holding her hand in mine, and as much as I don’t want to let it go, I know it’s time. I bring her fingers to my lips and kiss her skin one last time before I let go and reluctantly leave.
I watch her from my car. She unlocks her door and waves to me before going inside.
My Heart Wants (The Heart Duet Book 2) Page 2
