I smile. Of course he gets it. He’s a chef. “Exactly.”
“I can almost see you. Edible.” His voice is now a hushed, gravelly tone. “But you know what would help?”
“What?”
“A picture.”
The breath catches in my throat. He wants a picture.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” I’m all composure, though my pulse says otherwise.
“My phone’s locked, so only I’d see it. Besides, you already know I don’t like to share you. Would it help if I sent you one first?”
Why does he have to sound so gentle yet deliciously persuasive?
Before I can respond, there’s a rustle and a soft whoosh. Then—ding.
I click on the notification. Sam’s smiling—no, beaming—dimples flashing, dark hair mussed, his signature scruff, andeyes bright and direct. It’s intimate, unguarded. My heart stutters.
The sight of him pinches my heart. I’d love to see him in person, to touch him, then I remind myself why this is better. We’re taking it slow, and the fact we live in two different cities helps. It helps keep me from losing myself or falling heart first into something I might never recover from.
“Olivia?” Sam calls through the phone.
“I got it. You have a nice smile.”
“Nice?” He chuckles. “Your turn.”
I hesitate only a moment, offering a few mental words of encouragement, then lift the phone. With a quick glance to make sure the frame is harmless but suggestive, I dare not take too long or I will change my mind. My shaky finger hits send and then I click off the light and drop my head on the pillow.
“Look at you.” His voice drops to a growl, threaded with awe. “Damn, Livvy. You’re beautiful. I wish I was there.”
I close my eyes, the sound of his voice wrapping around me like a tender caress.
“Now you’ve done it. You’ve made my night.”
I smile into the dark, every nerve alive. “You and me both.”
He laughs softly. “Tell me more.”
And when I do, my voice low and unguarded, it feels like falling—slow, certain, and unstoppable.
12
SAM
“Bloody hell, would you cut out the racket?” Bas shuffles slowly into his kitchen.
“What are you going on about?” I quickly turn my back to face the stove so he doesn’t catch me watching his awkward, sluggish, and clearly painful gait.
Theragoût de boulettesimmers, small bubbles rising to the surface of the rich brown liquid. Stirring, I fight the urge to help him, forcing patience and pretending all is normal.
Slowly, he sidles up beside me, resting a forearm on the counter and slumping over. “What’s got you tearing my kitchen apart? What happened?”
Hot anger roils within my stomach at how much weight he’s lost. I see him every day and even then, it’s impossible to miss. He’s rail thin. Disturbing and heartbreaking. He’s being eaten from the inside and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
He won’t talk to me about it, even when I push, and I’m lucky if I find out about his appointments or what the doctors are saying. I’ve only managed to tag along by sheer force of will. And I’m not alone; even Alec is being shut out.
Bas most probably thinks it’s easier on us. For our own good. He won’t say it, but he’s given up. The treatments are only prolonging the inevitable. My father is preparing to die.
