“You can stop now,” I said softly. “The fire’s out.”
Bodhi turned toward me, blinking multiple times in what appeared to be an effort to clear his mind, then mercifully ceased his firefighting efforts. The towel was still wrapped around his knuckles and he held on tightly, seemingly unconvinced of lasting safety. Regardless, if a second wave was coming for us, his charred towel wouldn’t have much fight left in it. I needed to pry it from his hands.
“Here, let me take that,” I offered and, as if it were a loaded weapon, I cautiously extracted the towel from his steely grip. “We’re safe now.”
The reassurance surprised even myself. After the last hour, it seemed almost deceitful to speak such hopeful words. Bodhi stood, conflicted, his hands curling into fists. I could see in his body language that he wanted to believe me, but he’d seen too much to take my baseless predictions at face value.
Looking toward the orange hued horizon, a myriad of emotion passed over his troubled face. I felt nothing but sympathy for this man. Had he been anyone else, anyone ordinary, I might have wrapped my arms around him and given the guy a supportive pat on the back. But Bodhi wasn’t just anyone, and that fact wasn’t far from my mind. Celebrities, as a whole, shied away from the touchy-feely approach. From what I gathered, they treasured their privacy and what interaction they did have with the general public did not include hugging or light petting. Still, I had to wonder, now that we’d faced death together, where was the line drawn between strangers and Stockholm Syndrome survivors.
In the end, Bodhi made the call on the type of support system he needed, and it didn’t include me. Shoulders slumped, he unexpectedly dropped onto the sidewalk, burying his head into his hands. Perhaps even more awkward than consoling a celebrity was consoling a crying one. At least that’s what I assumed he was doing, even though he maintained a steely silence. All I could see of his internal turmoil was his quaking body. With each vibration of his broad shoulders, my own resolve weakened. Depleted myself, I took a seat beside him and allowed the tears to flow freely down my cheeks. There was a time and place for superhero strength and then there was now… the time to be human.
* * *
Sitting side by side consumed by our own harrowing memories, neither of us spoke. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. There was some solace in knowing I wasn’t the only one who felt so gutted. Several minutes of parallel suffering passed before Bodhi slowly rose to his feet and offered me his hand.
“We should probably keep moving,” he said, sounding more in control than he looked. Gesturing toward the growing smoke cloud on the horizon, he added, “It’s still coming this direction.”
Illuminated by the headlights, I got my first solid look at the guy who saved my life and, maybe it was a case of hero worship, but I was awestruck in his presence. Looks-wise, Bodhi Beckett had seen better days. Half-naked, hair wildly unkempt and covered in thick layers of soot and ash, the guy had a serious cro-magnum man vibe going on. And yet, props to him for being distracting enough to temporarily take my mind off the plume of fire and smoke currently gobbling up the landscape. Normally I wasn’t into the whole ‘hunter and gatherer’ look, but I made an exception for famous popstars surviving their first apocalypse.
Staring back at me from behind long dark lashes, Bodhi’s light blue eyes were as pretty as they were haunted. I wondered if this troubled expression of his had been with him longer than just tonight. Certainly he appeared wiser and more poised than his celebrity alter ego would suggest. The young guy mugging for the camera on the cover of magazines was a far cry from the subdued one standing before me now. Yet something told me getting to the bottom of his story would take longer than the handful of minutes I probably had left with him.
From my position on the sidewalk, Bodhi seemed larger than life… and I suppose he was. This was a guy worshipped by millions and now suddenly he was here with me, sharing a moment neither one of us could have foreseen. I blinked him in, my brain still catching up on the idea that my savior was also a pop music superstar. And for the first time since crossing paths with Bodhi, I felt wholly unworthy of sharing his space.
“Breeze?” he questioned, still offering a hand to me.
“Oh geez, sorry,” I said, sliding my palm against his. “I’m trippin’ out.”
And like a weed peeking out from a crack in the sidewalk, a smile fought its way to the surface, instantly transforming Bodhi’s serious expression into one of relief and amusement. “You and me both.”
I allowed him to pull me to my feet but was unprepared to be planted inches from his imposing body. How had I, in a matter of an hour, gone from pathetic Breeze sitting on the sofa calling her deadbeat daddy for emotional support into the Lara Croft of firestorm survival? And more importantly, how was I now suddenly in a full frontal stare down with a guy whose face I’d seen staring back at me from the pages of a magazine?
His eyes burrowed into mine as if they were looking for a safe place to take refuge and, oh lord help me; Bodhi Beckett instantly became my newest obsession. It was like the heavens had opened up and handed me a dream come true. All those little, defenseless animals I’d nursed to health over the years had brought me here—to the wounded landscape of the man who stood before me now. In my mind’s eye he was the flawless mix of beautiful but scarred. A man who was broken just enough that his fragmented pieces could still be painstakingly sewn back together again. Honestly, I had to keep myself from salivating. Oh, how I’d love to get my hands on him, not in the biblical sense… okay that too… but for a mender like me, Bodhi was the perfect project and I was convinced that, given half the chance, I was just what this guy needed.
Bodhi’s eyebrows lifted as he continued to stare, and I wondered what his internal dialogue sounded like. It probably went something like this –how do I get this googly-eyed dork to let go of my hand,orwhere can a guy get a restraining order at this late hour.
Yes, it was times like this I was glad human beings weren’t equipped with mind-reading capabilities, because if Bodhi had picked up on even an inkling of what I’d been thinking, he would have dropped my hand and run toward the flames. Certainly I was the last thing a guy like Bodhi was looking for. He was a shiny billboard of accomplishments and I was, well, one of those dull, brown corkboards you hang on the wall and cover with post-it-notes. If my lackluster brilliance hadn’t been enough to hold the interest of a cheating ex-fiancé, there was little hope a gleaming superstar would find me fascinating.
Thankfully, Sweetpea and his incessant barking ended the awkwardly long stare down between the two of us. Bodhi wisely diverted his eyes away from my psychotic plotting and fixed them on my small charge. A grimace instantly hardened his features as he took in the ramped-up dog slamming himself into the sides of his carrier. Good lord, Sweetpea’s anxiety levels were through the roof tonight, and even though he wasn’t my pup, I was still embarrassed.
“That dog needs meds,” Bodhi commented absently, not even trying to be funny, even though it sort of was.
I nodded my agreement. “Or chloroform.”
“Yeah, I vote for chloroform.”
I laughed but it died off quickly. It felt almost inappropriate, like we were at a funeral. And I suppose, in a way, we were.
“Hey, I’m really sorry about your house,” he said, surprising me with his genuine concern. “But at least you got your animals out, right?”
“I’m not sure the house is actually gone. It wasn’t on fire when I left it but… I guess its chances aren’t real good, are they?”
“No, not good at all.”
“Anyway, it’s not my place. I was pet-sitting.”
Bodhi’s eyes widened as he glanced from me to the creature convention in the backseat of his car. “Wait. You were saving someone else’s pets?”
I shrugged. “I take my job seriously.”
