Series: Like Us Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 241
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1182(@200wpm)___ 946(@250wpm)___ 788(@300wpm)
“Bonsoir,” he says in a shudder. “Do not be alarmed. I took a midnight dip. A dare of my own creation. You would be absolutely horrified, Mom. Which is…to my delight.” He flashes a teeth-chattering grin. “Donnelly, here, went first, as prompted by yours truly. He withstood the ice better than I. Luna, you chose a strong one. Hugs and kisses.” He mimes two cheek kisses. “Nighty night, heathens.” He stands and grips my eyes, silently telling me to follow.
If this was just a dare, I’d stick my tongue out at the camera and say hi to Papa Cobalt, but this wasn’t that. This whole thing is my fault. And now Eliot’s covering for me.
I owe him.
I don’t want to be indebted to anyone, let alone a guy eight years younger than me. What the fuck am I doing?
No control. I had no control.
23
PAUL DONNELLY
The warmth of the house suffocates me all at once, and we leave a wet trail into the living room, the ceiling vaulted. Balconies off the different floors overlook this homey but grand space. No one is hanging over the railings and eavesdropping. It’s dark and cold and late.
I inhale a lungful of Christmas pine, the ten-foot spruce decorated in the corner. Gifts already hide the tree skirt. I find Eliot’s phone on the leather couch cushion. While he sheds his sopping pants, I ask him if I can use it. He says, yeah.
I want to call Farrow for his medical opinion. ‘Cause I have no clue if Eliot is hypothermic.
Eliot can speak, but he hasn’t quit trembling. His lips are bluish.
I dial Farrow’s number, knowing it by heart, and I fiddle with the switch on the gas for the fireplace. It roars to life.
“Eliot?” Farrow doesn’t sound groggy.
“Donnelly,” I answer. “What’s the signs of hypothermia?” I could use the internet, but why do that when I have a better resource who’s bound to say, “Where are you?” It takes Farrow about a minute to enter the living room. Even less time to assess the damage inflicted upon the middle Cobalt child.
“All wet clothes off,” Farrow says. “Sit by the fire. I’ll grab more blankets.” But Eliot has already thrown his soaked pants and shirt over a rocking chair.
No shame about being naked, he walks a few feet to grab the only quilt. He flings it around his body and asks, “What about a hot shower?”
“It could shock your lower extremities. You’ll want to gradually warm yourself.”
“I love my doctor friend,” I say into a smile, teasing him.
Farrow rolls his eyes, and I smile a little more. It’s about the best I’ve felt since I woke up on the lake. He returns with a heap of wool blankets, then tells me, “You too.” Like I’m also a patient.
“I’m not wet,” I whisper as he comes closer.
His ash-brown hair is ruffled like he’d been in bed, and he runs his thumb over his lip piercing. He’s looking me over, and now I’m shifting away from him.
“Donnelly.” He catches my bicep, his voice as hushed as mine. What happened? is all over his face.
His concern is easier to cradle. Maybe because he’s closer to my age. Maybe because we’ve known each other since we were teenagers. Maybe because we’re both bodyguards and supposed to protect the same people. I can’t say why exactly, but while Eliot is out of earshot, I tell Farrow, “It’s my fault.” My eyes burn. “I’ll tell you another time.”
Farrow nods, not pushing. “I’m serious, man. Your pants are wet, and you’re shaking.”
Right.
So I strip to nothing—already not wearing underwear. With a wooly green blanket tucked around my naked body, I face the fire and sit beside Eliot on the coffee table. Farrow brings us both steaming mugs of decaf before returning to bed.
I don’t talk much. It doesn’t feel like I need to.
Eliot watches the flames, hypnotized by them. And when he’s toasty, he rises and nods in a silent goodnight. I nod back, my body unable to unwind. I can’t unroot myself.
A lump ascends in my dry throat, and I try to swallow enough coffee to slide the ball back down. And then feet pad across the floorboards. I look to the left, and I see her.
Luna.
She’s only in that thin black nightgown and knee-high socks, her hair messy on her shoulders, and her eyes rest easily on me. A sentiment more vital than air surges inside my lungs.
She collects one of the woolen blankets Farrow left behind. Quietly, she sits next to me on the table, then says, “Eliot told me what happened. He said you were out here alone.”
Yeah.
I nod a few times, unblinking as I stare at the black ring inside my coffee.
He’s Luna’s best friend.
I’m eight years older.
I’m in security.
I never really wanted Eliot or Tom to see me as broken. Never wanted anyone to. I don’t even view myself that way. How do I go back to just being the cool, down-for-whatever older guy in his eyes? Is that even possible? Was this inevitable by getting closer to Luna?