Page 4 of The Specialist

“I am.”

He tugged on my hand. “Come with me.”

“Egan, I need to sleep.”

He frowned. “I know this. I have it all ready.”

I let him take me into his apartment. “Have what all ready?”

“A bath. Food. Then you sleep. I drive you to hospital after.”

I opened my mouth to object, but the aroma of whatever he was cooking stopped me. My stomach grumbled at the appetizing scent.

“I have a bathtub,” I protested weakly. It was the truth, but Egan’s was bigger. Deeper. Perfect for soaking.

“No. You are staying here until you go.” He stopped in front of me. “Please. I am begging of you.”

I tilted my head. He looked upset. His accent was thicker, his words not as precise as usual. His eyes held a wariness I wasn’t used to seeing. I recalled his phone call in the early morning hours and the anxiety I had heard in his voice. I stepped closer, cupping his cheek. “What is it, Egan? What is wrong?”

He sighed, a long, heavy exhale of air, and leaned his cheek into my hand. He covered it with his much larger one, silent for a moment, his eyes closed. It was as if he was drawing strength from my touch. Then with another exhale, he straightened, opening his eyes and meeting mine.

“All is well. I am being a friend. You are tired. I am looking after you.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but he laid a finger on my lips, silencing me.

“For my friend,” he stated again. “Now, come.”

I let him lead me to the bathroom, not surprised to see the tub filled, a candle lit, and a large towel waiting for me.

“Are you tracking me?” I half joked. “Is that how you knew I was home and got all this ready?”

“I sense you near,” was all he said. “You relax.”

He backed out of the room, and I stared at the closed door.

I sense you near.

I tried to repress the delicious shiver I felt at his intimate words.

I failed.

* * *

I stepped from the tub, relaxed and warm, then realized I had no clean clothes to change into. Obviously, Egan had thought of that too, and on the vanity were a T-shirt and a pair of his boxers. I hesitated a moment, then slipped them on. The shirt came down past my thighs, and the boxers were loose like a pair of shorts. Egan had seen me in a bathing suit and this covered way more, so I decided simply to go with it.

I bundled up my clothes and headed back to the living room, suddenly starved. Egan glanced up, a strange look passing over his face, then he looked back to what he was doing with a small shake of his head. He muttered something under his breath, a slight smile tugging on his lips.

I stopped. “What?”

He looked up, his eyes no longer anxious. They were dark. Heated. A shiver ran through me at the barely held passion I could see in them. But his voice was mild as he spoke. “You are…delightful in my clothes.” Then he indicated the high counter. “Sit and let me feed you.”

It was the accent. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for why so many of the things he said to me sounded so intimate. Normally, he spoke carefully, choosing his words and enunciating them deliberately, his accent controlled. But when we were alone, or he was upset, angry, or in the moment, his control slipped and his accent came out stronger. I loved hearing it, but I never told him that.

He slid a bowl in front of me, and I inhaled deeply.

“Oh, I love your mushroom soup.”

He grinned and placed a bowl for himself beside me. We ate in silence for a few moments. The dense rye bread was fresh and speckled with caraway seeds. The mushroom soup didn’t taste like the kind that came from a can. It was thick, rich with spices, and laden with mushrooms. I loved it when he made it. He had told me in Romania that soup was very popular, and although I had tasted various kinds, this one was my favorite.