Page 7 of Afterglow (Ottawa Regents #3)

The Subject of My Obsession Has Been Living in My House

Fletcher

Wade was right.

All I’ll be doing this summer is reading and jacking off.

Between this concussion and Behraz Irani traipsing around my apartment in those tiny, flouncy dresses, my head’s gonna implode.

The first two days are absolute torture.

I can’t get out of bed without feeling nauseated or disoriented, or both.

The room spins every time I stand, and I’m not sure if it’s from the brain injury or Behraz holding me up.

She’s surprisingly strong, considering I’m probably a foot taller and at least seventy pounds heavier.

I’m goaded back into bed each time with a shush.

My temporary roommate seems to be both ever-present and absent. I barely see her, but I smell her goddamn rose perfume everywhere. It’s intoxicating and infuriating.

All the while, I don’t have to worry about anything else but healing.

Not sure if Behraz called her friends or my teammates, or if Landon sent a cleaning crew and Wade asked his private chef to come over, but dirty laundry disappears and returns to my closet clean and folded, and the fridge and pantry are fully stocked.

Like clockwork, thoughtful meals appear in the kitchen.

Avocado toast, topped with sliced hard-boiled eggs.

Hot oatmeal with walnuts and seeds. Salmon with sweet potatoes and green beans.

Blueberry smoothies and lemony kale salads with cranberries and cilantro dressing so good I want to bathe in it.

And don’t get me started on the hearty stew served with brown rice and a cucumber salad. It has lentils and veggies, some type of fish, and is spiced so perfectly, I swear it brings me back to life.

I’m gonna have to thank the chef, because I go from struggling through a slow walk across the room to a steady jog along the canal in a matter of days. No sign of headache, either.

I laugh through panted breaths and clap once in victory before heading back home. Fourteen days have gone by in a blur, and I made it through.

Tomorrow, I’ll attempt a trip to the gym , I tell myself while entering the apartment and slipping off my sneakers.

But I’m not prepared for what awaits me. Or who, rather.

Behraz Irani is curled up on the couch with all the blackout curtains drawn. A picked-at take-out container of poutine and a half-empty handle of whiskey sit on the coffee table.

She’s still here? The homecare nurse already cleared me. Maybe she feels guilty, but it’s not a big deal. Concussions are practically in the job description of professional hockey players.

For two weeks, I barely survived her curious brown eyes peeking through the door to check on me. Two weeks of stolen glances across the living area, when exiting our rooms, were too close for comfort. But now? There’s no avoiding her.

Music plays from the large TV. Subtitles sit at the bottom of the screen as a woman stands in the middle of a field, drenched from the rain and visibly crying.

The camera pans to a scene at a temple where another woman dressed in traditional Indian clothing wails while dancing to a folksy, heart-wrenching tune into the clouds above her.

Definitely the type of Bollywood movie Landon and Wade watch all the time. Those two are obsessed.

Obsessed? I’m one to talk. Or not talk.

The subject of my obsession has been living in my house, and I haven’t managed to say a word to her. She’s right here, and yet, I don’t dare to open my mouth.

A chunky knit pink blanket drapes over her head and shoulders, the panels held together at her chest like a burrito.

She shifts. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I inch closer to the couch to get a better view of the TV.

Then Behraz sniffles. My throat clears, not by any intention of my own, and it catches her attention.

She gasps out a sob and whips her head to me.

Streaked tears stain her reddened cheeks. Usually bright, brown eyes cloud with pain.

Something breaks. It’s my heart.

“Oh,” I say aloud.

Behraz leaps up from her seat and launches onto me, wailing. I nearly lose my footing when her arms circle my neck, damp tears smearing the chest of my t-shirt.

It nearly killed me the first time Behraz Irani touched me like this. And not just because of the bicycle crash. Her hands on me, God , they feel as close to paradise as possible. My entire body goes stiff. Both hands twitch, wanting to rid her of whatever hurt she’s feeling. She deserves comfort.

You don’t have words, Fletch, but you can do this.

I soften and wrap her in a hold, lifting her until her face buries in my shoulder.

Her loose, dark hair surrounds me, full, lush, and silken.

The cotton of her pants swishes against the exposed skin covering my knees.

She continues to wrack through heavy sobs as I lower us until we’re seated on the couch.

I should stop thinking about how good she feels.

So soft and warm. Need to stop breathing the delirium-inducing smell of roses from her skin and saltwater from her tears.

It has my nervous system in pieces. Need to ignore how close we are, how my heart is almost touching hers.

But goddamn, I’m a selfish bastard. I don’t want to stop.

“I’m”—she snivels through the trickle of snot between her cute little nose and tempting set of pink lips—“so… sorry !” Her face returns to my collarbone, tight grasp moving from my neck to fisting my shirt.

I angle my hips away from her, afraid the contact will signal my half-hard cock to move into phase two.

She lifts her head and glances up, expression painted with turmoil.

“I messed up! Everything is all messed up!”

“Uh?” My armpits sweat with a fury.

“No matter how hard I try”—her head sways against me in disbelief—“nothing goes right in my life.”

So, we have something in common.

“I failed the bar exams three times. It’s an open textbook exam! The answers are right in front of my eyes, and I still can’t get it done on time. I’ve been beating myself up, like, how can I be so stupid?”

You’re not , I want to say, but nothing comes out. I keep quiet and listen.

“Turns out, I’m not stupid. Nope. I have a learning disability and ADHD, and the time constraint is the reason I haven’t been able to pass. And it’s all so expensive! The exam, the ADHD assessment, the therapy. So, of course, I’d get kicked out of my sublease?—”

Wait, what? Kicked out?

“My roommate’s boyfriend took it over and paid the back rent I owed.

I guess I should be thankful I don’t have to pay for it.

I wish I could go back to my brother’s place, but he moved to Muscat with my parents.

I sold my piece of shit car because I couldn’t afford gas or insurance or to fix it up all the time.

I’m closer to thirty than twenty, and I ride a banged-up city bike with a fucking basket on it all around Ottawa like a primary schoolgirl.

I have no money, no place lined up to live next, and I haven’t told anyone because everyone already thinks I’m a clumsy, absent-minded fuck-up.

Admitting all this to them would just be the cherry on the shit sundae.

They’d know what a fucking broke-ass failure I am. ”

Behraz takes a shaky inhale before continuing.

“I thought I could figure it out myself, then I ran you over. And no one’s here.

Everyone’s gone, living their perfect fucking lives, and I’m here, alone.

Completely fucking alone, trying to make sure you don’t die and you”—there’s a brief pause to rise from my shoulder and release a few more tears before she forces eye contact again—“why do you hate meeee?”

“I”—can barely get out the words—“don’t?”

Short sobs staccato her words like hiccups. “Then”—sob—“why”—sob—“won’t”—sob—“you”—sob—“talk”—sob—“to”—sob—“me?”

Oh, God. This poor girl thinks I hate her because I have the biggest crush on her and can’t seem to piece together more than two words whenever she’s around.

“Because I suck.”

Three words. Progress.

I’m surprised she could even hear me over it, but her wailing quiets. She pushes herself away from my chest, and I reactively free her from the hold. “What?”

My hands find each other between my knees, knuckles cracking as I fidget with them. Heat creeps up my neck. My tongue goes lax, pretending to be dead when put on the spot in these unexpected circumstances. “I’m…I’m not good with words.”

“No shit,” she mutters, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand.

My knees clench around my entwined hands. “I’m sorry, too. Um , for everything.”

Her hands fly to her face as she recoils to the corner of the sofa.

“Oh, my God. No, I’m so sorry. I just physically assaulted and trauma-dumped on you.

” She sniffles. “You know what’s crazy, though?

We’ve been living together in this apartment for a couple of weeks.

I’ve been doing your laundry and cooking you all sorts of meals from that list your doctor gave me—” She points to a piece of paper in the kitchen stuck to the fridge with a magnet.

“Granny’s dhansak recipe single-handedly got you outta the house with a clean bill of health. ”

“That was…all you?”

I don’t think my own family has ever taken care of me like that.

“Yeah, silly. Who do you think? Your fairy godmother? It’s the least I could do…considering I took you out. I mean, the team sent a young kid named Leo to help?—”

“Oh. My PA.”

“—But the poor guy was supposed to be on vacation. So, well…I felt bad enough, and basically asked him to help me order groceries and whatever you needed for a couple of weeks, and then sent him on his way. Between me and Nurse Linney, we had it covered.”

“Wow, um. I didn’t know.”

“Anyway, what I meant to say was that we’ve been living together— technically, I’ve been living out of my suitcase —and though you’ve seen me have an embarrassing meltdown…

we haven’t been properly introduced.” Behraz gets to her feet and straightens her worn-in, oversized University of Ottawa tee before extending a hand.

“Behraz Irani. Most people call me Bea.”

I stand, too, but afraid that towering over her makes her uncomfortable, I hunch my shoulders to accept the shake. “Fletcher Donovan.”

A static shock sparks between us.

“Sorry,” we say together.

Another blush sears my skin, this time going as high as the tips of my ears. We retake our spots on the sectional, the silence awkwardly filling the room.

“I’m sure you wanted no part of it, but now you know the fucked-up disaster that is my life,” she resigns.

“But I know so little about you.” One of my shoulders lifts in a half-shrug.

“Other than you have Pokémon collectibles, some sort of intimate friendship with SuzyQ doughnuts, and have an insane collection of fantasy novels.”

“That’s…a pretty good summary.”

Bea motions to the filled bookshelves to point out a Pokéball and a Customer-of-the-Month trophy from my favorite doughnut shop. “And that you’d rather have an almost-stranger take care of you instead of your family.”

When the almost-stranger is the woman you’ve been fantasizing about for six years, and your family is a bunch of jerks? I think I made the right choice.

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah?” She leans on a hand on the cushion next to me. My eyes follow the acute angle of her elbow up to her face. Her head tilts to the side, those goddamn eyes rounded with curiosity and concern. “Wanna talk about it?”

Not really. Not at all. But after these past two weeks, I owe her that much.