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  “Life is measured in width and depth, rather than length, Lyra. We can’t control how long we’re here, but we sure as hell can decide what we do with the time we’re given.”

  Those are the last words Tavian spoke to me last night before I disappeared into my hotel room, and I haven’t been able to get them out of my head since. I’ve spent most of my life obsessed with how long people are going to live, so much so that I failed to see the important part—how they are living. And in the process, I’ve completely neglected the worth and meaning of my own life. I don’t want to do that anymore. I want my parents to be proud of me. I want to be proud of myself.

  I still don’t know how or why I can see the numbers in people’s eyes, and I’m not suddenly going to become outgoing and fill up my social calendar, but I’m no longer going to allow it to keep me from experiencing everything. During this past week, Tavian has stirred up energy and emotions inside me I forgot exist. Excitement, admiration, wonder, affection, hope, and something I’ve never felt before—desire.

  “It’s easy to forget that our giant sun, this fiery ball of gas our lives quite literally revolve around, is just another one of those thousands of stars we saw last night,” Tavian muses aloud.

  I nod and take a small sip before replying. “And to think we’re only two people among seven billion here on Earth, and our planet is just a small part of the Milky Way galaxy, and our galaxy is only one of over 100 billion galaxies in our universe. And that’s not even considering a multi-universe existence.”

  “It’s funny, ya know?” He chuckles, and I love how his deep timbre vibrates through me. “So many people think the more we learn about math and science, the more the existence of God or a higher being is disproven, but I think it’s the exact opposite. With the sheer massiveness of whatever really exists out there, the chances that everything necessary could come together in the precise way it needed to in order to create a world where life can exist and flourish… it has to be divine intervention. There’s no way this—us and everything around us—is a fluke. It’s all meant to be.”

  Quietly, I contemplate what he said as I watch the sun wave her final goodbyes and disappear into the horizon. I’ve often questioned and cursed the existence of God, wondering why someone who’s supposed to be the definition of all that is good and holy would curse me not only with losing my parents young, but also with seeing the numbers. Especially if there’s not anything I can do to change them. I was a good kid who obeyed her parents, was nice to everyone, and did well in school. So why me?

  But now I wonder if I’ve been missing something. If I should’ve been using my power for something positive rather than hiding from the world, like the way Tavian is always making people smile, brightening their day, if only for a few fleeting seconds.

  “All right, guys, time to load up on the bus and head back into town! We’re leaving in ten!” Gracie, our tour guide for the day, yells from the doorway of the villa where we had our tasting.

  I sit up straight and finish off what’s left of the sweet red in my glass. Drinking has never interested me before. The drunk idiots I crossed paths with on my college campus were enough to deter me from partaking; not to mention, drinking alone is a bit depressing. However, the wine I’ve had today has been downright delicious, and as I pop to my feet to go inside, my brain gets a little fuzzy for a split second. I stumble just slightly, but it quickly clears up and I steady myself. I giggle, thinking how the term buzzed is pretty appropriate for this feeling.

  “Come on, buttercup.” Tavian stands next to me and extends his hand, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner. “Let’s get you to the bus and back to the hotel. I think we may have hit your threshold.”

  “Hold on,” I say while digging my camera out of my backpack. I agreed to put it up earlier when he insisted I needed to experience some of the day while not hiding behind the lens, but I have to get some final shots to remember this incredible day—the day I finally found some clarity. “Let me take just a couple pictures of the vineyards with the twinkling lights. It looks like a fairy tale or something out there.”

  He grunts his approval and waits, holding our two empty glasses as I walk around and snap a few dozen photos of the enchanted panorama, capturing every angle possible with different light settings. I’m almost finished, wanting to get one last shot from the corner of the porch, when I trip over a raised section of the wooden decking and tumble to the ground. My right hand shoots out to break my fall, and as it crumples underneath the weight of my hundred-and-twenty-pound frame, white-hot pain surges from my fingers all the way up to my shoulder.

  “Owww!” I shriek when I crash to the ground, careful to keep the camera from destruction.

  “Lyra!” Tavian shouts, tossing the wineglasses to the side and rushing over to me. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  Mortified, because this is now twice I’ve eaten my shit in front of him, I scramble back up to my feet, wipe myself off, and wave him away. At least there wasn’t anyone else out here to witness my clumsiness. “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just kind of a klutz sometimes.”

  Thankfully, he picks up on my embarrassment and doesn’t make a big deal about the fall. Instead, he ushers me to his side, hooking his finger in my belt loop, and leads me out to the 4x4 minibus we’ve been traveling in all day along with Gracie and six other English-speaking tourists. I ignore the throbbing on my right side, hoping it will go away on its own.

  Once we’re seated on the bus, ready for the hour drive back into town, I glance down to my lap, and even in the dim lighting I can see my wrist is double its normal size and two of my fingers—the pointer and middle one—are swollen and purple. The pain is sobering, and instead of fading away like I hoped it would, it’s intensifying. I’m not going to be able to hide this.

  Leaning in close to Tavian, I whisper so that no one nearby can hear. “I think I did something to my hand when I fell,” I admit sheepishly.

  “What? Where?” He gently grabs hold of my forearm and lifts my now deformed hand up to inspect it, and I wince. Instantly, a scowl covers his face and he snaps his gaze over to me. “You said you were fine. This isn’t fine. You’re hurt and we need to go get it checked out at the hospital.”

  “No! No hospital!” I exclaim loud enough to garner glances from the couple sitting across from us and the elderly women in front of them. Panic swells in my chest and my pulse thumps rapidly. Even though I’ve made great strides in coming to terms with my parents’ deaths and wanting to live a more fulfilling life, I still want to avoid places like hospitals and nursing homes.

  “But it could be fractured or your fingers dislocated. We need X-rays to know for sure.”

  Shaking my head, I grit my teeth and refuse to budge. “Nothing is broken or dislocated, and I am not going to a hospital. We can try to find a pharmacy near the hotel to get a wrap or brace and some ibuprofen, and I’ll ice it in the room. I should be good as new tomorrow.”

  Tavian’s forehead wrinkles with uncertainty as he looks at my hand again. “One night,” he grumbles. “If it doesn’t look significantly different in the morning, I’m taking you to get it checked out. And it’s not up for discussion.”

  I open my mouth to argue with him anyway, but am stopped short when he dips his head down to my fingers and peppers soft kisses all along the puffy, discolored knuckles. The fight inside me fizzles out, the voice in my head constantly reminding me he belongs to someone else silenced. I know it’s wrong and selfish, but I don’t care right now. Don’t care about anything except how he makes me feel cherished and appreciated. How in the world I was lucky enough to run into this man, who is beautiful both inside and out, I have no idea. But I know without a shadow of a doubt that I will never again meet anyone like him. My time with him might be limited to just these couple of weeks—or who knows… maybe we could keep in touch when we’re back at home—but either way, it’ll be too short. I need to make the most of whatever time I have.

  We return
to the hotel, and Tavian directs me to my room to shower and get comfy while he heads out to find a drug store and to pick us up some takeaway. I gripe for all of about fifteen seconds, maintaining I’m going to be fine and don’t need him to tend to me, but while I’m mid-protest, someone passes by me in the lobby and accidentally brushes up against my right arm. I recoil like I’ve been shot, flames blazing under my skin from fingertip to shoulder.

  Tavian growls—like honest to God growls—at the man who unintentionally bumped into me, and I decide it’s best I listen to him and go up to my room. It’s probably safer for everyone, and I could really use a shower anyway.

  Unfortunately, as soon as I’m inside the bathroom of my hotel room, I take one good look at myself in the mirror and my shoulders slump forward. Not only do I look like a hot, windblown mess from spending the day in a non-air-conditioned bus, but I also realize that without use of my dominant hand, undressing myself out of this cute little romper is going to be difficult at best. And then, even if I figure out how to wiggle out of my clothes, I can’t wash my hair once I’m in the shower.

  Jesus, Lyra, pull yourself together.

  Exhausted and a bit woozy from the pain, I trudge out to the room and plop down on the leather armchair. I close my eyes and lean back on the headrest for what seems like less than a minute before pounding on the door startles me and I jolt straight up.

  “Lyra! Open up, it’s me!” Tavian yells from the hallway.

  I leap to my feet and rush over to let him in. “Here, let me help you,” I say when he ignores my outstretched arm.

  “No, I’m here to help you.” He sets the load he’s carrying—which smells phenomenal—on the small table, and despite the agony I’m feeling, the tingles return between my legs when he eyes me up and down. “You didn’t shower.”

  “I didn’t,” I confirm as my left hand digs through the Styrofoam cartons of chicken and pasta, suddenly starving. “I couldn’t figure out how to undress or wash my hair one-handed, so I sat down to feel sorry for myself and nodded off.”

  Tavian’s eyebrows arch high and his lips curl mischievously, and I lose focus on the food for a few seconds as my thoughts turn impure. “For someone who insisted down in the lobby that she could take care of herself, it sure seems like you could use some help. Good thing you’ve got me around.” He smirks.

  I roll my eyes and pretend I’m annoyed by his I-told-you-so comment, but in fact, the mere thought of him helping me take a shower has my entire body charged like a live wire. I’m not sure I can do this without spontaneously combusting.

  Lowering myself into the chair, I go to reach for a fork to feed my growling stomach and haunting insecurities, but stop short when I realize, once again, I can’t feed myself with my left hand. Not only is it awkward as hell to a hold a utensil with these fingers, but I need both hands to cut the chicken breasts.

  “What’s wrong? Do you not like it?” Tavian asks, peering over and inspecting my food.

  I glower up at him and push the dinner in his direction. “I need your help cutting it and eating.”

  His short-lived concern rapidly evaporates and the cockiness from a minute ago returns. God, I love that dimple. It’s almost enough to make me forget about the incessant pulsing in my right hand.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you,” he gloats. “What did you say?”

  Giving him my best unamused stare, I swallow my pride while secretly loving boosting his ego. “I need your help, Tavian.”

  “All you had to do was ask, buttercup.” He winks and lifts a forkful of food to my mouth from his container. “Use me for whatever you need. I’m all yours.”

  TAVIAN

  07.13.15

  By the time I finish feeding Lyra dinner, my dick is stiff and throbbing. I don’t know how in the hell I’m going to be able to get through this shower without blowing my load like a seventh-grade chump. I already nearly lost it watching her sweet lips wrap around that fork time after time, getting jealous over some fucking fettuccini Alfredo, so I can only imagine what’s going to happen when my hands are on her soft skin, fingers threading through her long hair.

  Think about football, cleaning toilets, Ma’s apple pie… maybe not apple pie. Anything but her. Just do what you need to do to help and get out. You can do this. Do not be a goddamn jerk.

  We’ve agreed to shower in our underwear based on the rationale that it’s no different than swimsuits. And even though we’d both bought swimsuits in Barcelona, we realized I would have to help her put it on, which would expose her even more than just stripping down to her bra and panties and defeat the whole purpose. Not that I would mind, of course.

  Break up with Annie first. You have to break up with Annie. Lyra deserves better than being the other woman. I refuse to make her a secret.

  After I throw away the empty food cartons, I glance over to where Lyra remains seated at the table. Her stare is focused on the glass of water in front of her as she traces her uninjured middle finger around the rim and bounces her knees nervously. I want nothing more than to scoop her up in my arms and carry her to that bed then fuck her so long and hard that she forgets all about the pain in her hand and whatever demons lurk from her past.

  I can’t though. Not yet. But I’m already running out of time.

  “C’mon, I promise I won’t bite too hard,” I tease as I hold my hand out to her, hoping my playfulness will relax her a bit. “We’ll bandage you up when we get out. And if you’re a good patient, we can order an ice cream sundae for dessert from room service.”

  “All right.” Peering up at me hesitantly, she stands on wobbly legs and forces a tight-lipped smile. “But only because you promised ice cream.”

  I lead her into the bathroom and turn the shower on so the water can heat up, and then make sure the shampoo and soap are easily accessible. Turning to face her, I pull my T-shirt over my head and toss it off to the side. My shoes, socks, and pants follow until I’m stripped down to my thin cotton boxers, standing directly in front of her.

  She drags her blue-gray eyes, filled with locked away secrets and untapped innocence, down the length of my body, and I know exactly when she reaches my package. Her pupils dilate and she swallows hard. My cock doesn’t miss it either; the bastard pulses with excitement.

  Fuck, this is going to be more difficult than I thought. Please, God, do not let her make the first move. I won’t say no. I can’t say no.

  I stride toward her, a lump lodged in my throat, and reach out to free her from the one-piece shorts outfit thing she has on. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so nervous in my life, and coming from someone who likes to dive off cliffs and swim with sharks, that’s saying a lot. My fingers fumble over the row of buttons as I try my best not to brush against the swell of her breasts or her flat stomach. She watches as I finally manage to get them all undone, and I curse under my breath when the material falls away, whooshing off her shoulders to a puddle at her feet, leaving her in a purple lace bra with matching panties.

  Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

  Dear, sweet heaven, she is more beautiful than I imagined, and this is nothing like seeing her in a bathing suit. Her tits are a perfect handful—perky, round, and dying for my touch. And her most intimate area appears to be completely shaven, barely hidden beneath a tiny swath of fabric. I deserve a fucking medal if I make it through this shower without touching her in a way I shouldn’t.

  This was the worst idea ever.

  Lyra glances down at her body with noticeable uncertainty then peeks back up at me before crossing her arms over her chest and twisting away. “If you don’t want—”

  “I want to,” I cut her off, my tone gruffer than I expect. “I want to help you any way you need me. I told you… I’m all yours.” Those last three words are truer than she could possibly know.

  Something that looks a lot like hope flashes in her eyes and she smiles bashfully. “I-I-I’m not used to being this… naked in front of anyone.”

  Thoughts of any g
uy before me seeing her truly naked—hell, even like this—has me seeing red. Knowing her aversion to getting close to people, it makes me think she hasn’t been with many guys, maybe only one or two.

  Still, no one deserves her. Not even me.

  “You’re not naked, buttercup. Like we said earlier, no different than a bikini,” I reassure her, another attempt to ease the thick tension, but my throbbing dick is not getting the memo. “Let’s get in before we run out of hot water.”

  She nods and pads over to the steamy shower, stepping under the spray without waiting for me. I quickly adjust myself, a futile effort to conceal my raging boner, and join her.

  Here goes nothing. Or fucking everything.

  I move in behind her and wait as she allows the water to rain down on her, doing my damnedest not to look at her ass and the way her soaked panties are now completely sheer. If she turns around to face me, I’m done for.

  “Let me know when you’re ready for me to shampoo you up,” I rasp, busying myself with opening the bottle.

  “I’m ready,” she says softly. “Remember, I’ve got a lot of hair, so you’ll need quite a bit.”

  Inhaling a deep breath of willpower, I squeeze out a handful of orange-scented gel in my palm and begin to soap up her dark hair that hangs almost to her tiny waist. My fingers diligently work the shampoo into her scalp, massaging from temple to temple, forehead to neck. My eyes remain locked on the back of her head as I focus on my task at hand, but when I reach the pressure points behind her ears, she whimpers and arches into my touch, her ass brushing against my rock-hard shaft. I bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from fisting her hair and hauling her pretty little mouth to mine, and somehow, someway, I manage to restrain myself.