Page 27

26

Mor

The strangest thing happens on the drive back from the grocery store—and not just the fact that I find myself fascinated by Bo’s description of a vacuum cleaner.

No, what really throws me off is how I become suddenly fascinated with Bo himself.

I mean, up until this grocery run, I found the monster interesting.

His past, his tangled grid of feelings, his plans to approach a world he hasn’t lived in for almost two decades.

But that was a general curiosity that I’m sure plenty of people who know about his circumstances would feel.

Now though, my interest has widened to include more things.

Like his forearms and how they tense when he gestures.

Like his deep voice and how the pitch leaves goose bumps rising along my skin in waves.

Like his thick thighs and how they shift in his jeans as he turns toward me in his seat.

Like his broad body and how much space he takes up.

And how I like it. I like all of it.

I’ve never been so mesmerized by someone’s physicality before.

Aware, sure. I notice how people look in a general sense.

But suddenly, with Bo, I want to explore his body.

Want to touch and caress parts of him I can see and parts of him that I can’t.

So odd.

The urge remains when we arrive at the library and as he helps me carry most of the groceries into the kitchen of my house.

When he sets a bag down on the table, my eyes find the way his fingers flex around the cloth handle.

In fact, I can’t remove my focus.

That is, until Bo shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

A flash of rich brown calls my attention, and before I can block out my magical insight, I’m already interpreting the emotion.

Mortification.

Bo is embarrassed about something, and the knowledge sets off an ache deep in my chest.

“I’ll go,” he mumbles when, only a moment ago, he was happily explaining his fascination with the advances from Dyson.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, worried about this change in him.

“I liked hearing about the vacuums.”

There have been times I’ve accidentally rambled on about books for too long, not realizing I was boring my audience.

I don’t want Bo to think I regretted asking him about his interests.

“Oh. I … I’m glad.”

But the chocolate shade remains, and from the way his pockets bulge, I can tell Bo has fisted his hands beneath the material.

This combination of events sparks a realization.

His hands. Hands with fingers that don’t look exactly human.

Not with the webbing that stretches between them.

The flexible pieces of skin that hint there may be something just a bit different about Bo Folan.

Maybe I should keep this theory to myself.

But his suppressed distress has my bossy nature coming out.

I want to demand that he realize there is nothing wrong with him.

But things are never that easy.

Still, maybe I can help in a small way.

“Bo?”

His eyes flick to mine, then down to the floor tiles between his boots.

“Yeah?”

“I want to see your hands.”

He flinches, and I know I’m right.

“You don’t … why?” The words are hesitant, then harsh, his vulnerability showing.

“Because I’m nosy,” I say with a shrug.

“And because I think you want to hide them from me.”

His pink flush spreads up to his forehead.

I find the color endearing.

Reminds me of the rosy hue of longing that I might find in an aura.

“They’re monstrous,” Bo mutters, as if the simple words will make me accept what he believes to be a fact.

But that is merely an opinion, one I’m starting to think other people in Bo’s life formed for him.

Pressed upon him when he was vulnerable enough to believe whatever someone who was supposed to care about him said.

“They’re different,” I volley back.

“And interesting.” I step forward and lay my hands lightly on his elbows before tracing my touch down to his wrists.

“And they’re a part of you.” My voice is quieter now as I circle my grip around his wrists.

“And I like you.”

“You do?” he rasps.

I nod and give a small, questioning tug, trying to use my bossy bitch witch nature for good.

“Show me, Bo.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

At his slightly defiant words, I hide a smile.

The large monster—who, by all accounts, shouldn’t have reason to fear anything or anyone—takes a bracing breath before extending his hands to me.

Treating this as the gesture of trust it is, I don’t hesitate to cradle his palms in mine, just like when he let me sift through his emotions the other day.

Only this time, I’m not studying the colorful aura surrounding the man.

I’m entirely focused on the physical.

“Spread them, please,” I murmur, not wanting to force his fingers apart.

That seems like too much of a violation.

If I’m going to examine this part of Bo, he needs to actively give it to me.

Another heavy breath on his end, and then he does.

As Bo splits his fingers, the thin webbing stretches with them, creating small bridges just below each first knuckle.

The skin is so thin that I can see the shadow of my fingers through it as I trace the underside.

This piece of him is warm and flexible.

I can’t help stroking along the edges, bending my face closer so I can study every detail.

I have the oddest urge to press my lips against the triangle between his thumb and forefinger.

Instead, I run the pad of my thumb over the webbing, wondering if I’ll be able to find a pulse.

Bo lets out a noise—part grunt, part gasp—and he fists his hand.

“I’m sorry.” I glance up at him.

“Did I hurt you?”

His pupils are blown wide, mouth slightly parted.

“No. Not hurt.” He clears his throat, and his neck, which already holds the touch of a flush, deepens to a red that reminds me of wanting.

“No one has ever …”

He doesn’t have to finish that statement for me to understand.

To read the words lingering beneath the surface.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask about Georgiana.

Something obviously went on between them.

But maybe it wasn’t physical.

Or maybe it was, and she still avoided his hands.

That second possibility has me seething on two fronts.

The first for Bo, who deserves to be cherished for all of himself.

But also because the thought of her touching Bo brings me an irrational storm of jealousy.

That siren had better keep her talons to herself .

The fierce words stay behind my clenched teeth because I have no right to say them.

And I don’t even know why I want to say them.

Bo’s brows furrow, and I scramble to change the subject.

“I wonder if we would have met,” I land on.

“Hmm?” Bo continues to stare at where I trace his webbing.

“If you’d never gotten turned into a statue,” I explain.

“If you were forty instead of twenty-three, I wonder if we would have met.”

“We …” He trails off, expression turning introspective.

Then he frowns. “We would have.”

“I don’t think so. You deserved better than what Folk Haven was back then. You would’ve found somewhere better.”

Bo’s mouth goes slack, and I’m surprised by his shock.

Is it really so outlandish of a thing to ponder?

Georgiana was the one who said he’d had plans to leave Folk Haven.

If he had, we likely wouldn’t have ever come to know each other.

The thought makes me sad.

I like knowing Bo.

But who knows if he feels the same way about me?

And yet I don’t regret our honest confessions.

I’ve never talked to anyone about my parents.

I’m only close with my siblings, and they have plenty of their own trauma.

No need for me to pile mine on their shoulders as well.

But Bo didn’t fold under the darkness of my past.

And maybe that’s why I give in to the urge to thank him in a way I know I shouldn’t.

Without meeting Bo’s eyes, I dip my chin and place a quick kiss on his knuckles.

“Thank you for showing me,” I mutter.

Then I retreat from the kitchen, not ready to see what reaction my actions had on the monster.