“What’s that?”
“I brought you some dinner, though it appears you’ve settled on lobster.”
“Har har.”
“Aloe?”
“Isn’t helping.”
Heath placed the container on the counter and held up a finger. “Give me a moment. I have just the thing.”
Evan watched him fill the electric kettle with water and switch it on before disappearing into his room. He returned a few minutes later wearing basketball shorts and a tank top, which was so unexpectedly casual, Evan wondered if he’d raided his suitcase. Except the tank top was pink and printed with a bust of Shakespeare.
“What are you?—”
Heath walked right past him and onto the patio, returning this time with a fistful of mint sprigs from the small herb garden just outside the kitchen door. What sort of witchcraft was he up to?
“This will take a few minutes. You should eat before the food swims away.”
Trepidation and curiosity led him to the container, which was cleverly separated into several pockets. One contained ceviche so fresh, he agreed it must have been swimming only moments before landing on the plate. The other was a small salad of microgreens he assumed they’d plucked straight from the island’s garden. Finally, there was a soft, spongy spice cake topped with banana slices, covered in warm caramel. He dug into that first.
“And that’s why I didn’t take Izzy’s bait.”
“What bait?”
“She was certain you’d be a dessert first guy. I said, of course you were, especially after turning yourself into wiener schnitzel.”
Evan paused with the fork still in his mouth. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me to put sunscreen on if you knew I was burning?”
“I’m not your mother.”
It was impressive, the force that off-the-cuff comment had when it hit him in the sternum. He staggered to the side a few steps and felt his head reel.
Heath closed the distance and reached out, then thought better of it. “Are you okay? Was that… I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t know.”
“You still don’t.”
Heath’s eyes dropped to where his hands rested on the countertop. “You’re right. I don’t. I’m also sorry for assuming.”
Evan scraped the last trace of caramel from the container, possibly also some of the container itself, and stuck the fork back in his mouth, working the tines clean with his tongue. He caught Heath watching and hollowed out his cheeks, dragging it through his lips clean.
What in the fuck was he doing?
Heath’s hands were knuckle-white on the counter’s edge, his eyes gone cobalt and glassy and his lips parted just enough for Evan to hear the rasp of his breathing. He held that gaze for a second too long, then let the fork drop with aclang.The spell broke, and Heath cleared his throat in that exaggerated way he had when he was uncomfortable, then turned to check the kettle.
Evan kept his focus on the container, scooping up some of the ceviche and salad and shoveling it into his mouth. It was beyond delicious, but his brain had difficulty processing anything but what the fuck he’d just done.
Heath kept his back turned while pouring the water over several bags of chamomile and the mint he’d muddled with noticeable aggression. He placed the entire concoction into the freezer, but continued facing away until Evan clearedhisthroat.
“Mom died when I was ten.”
It had been years since he’d said those words out loud. Longer still since he’d said them to someone new. The last time he’d talked about her with a stranger, he’d been eleven and still struggling with adjusting to a life so vastly different from where he’d started. His father had dragged him to a psychiatrist and demanded they put him on medication to fix his obvious shortcomings. When the doctor refused and suggested he’d benefit from grief therapy, they’d sent him to boarding school instead.
A gift, really, being anywhere but that house, with those people.
“Oh, Evan. I’m so sorry.”
He shoveled more food. “Like you said, you didn’t know.”
