Page 33 of Wild Card

“People can’t soften their chests, Gwen,” he grumbles between coughs from behind closed lids.

Always arguing with me.

“I can. So you can too.”

“I don’t want to be an old pervert like Bash, but I need to point out to you that our chests are very different.”

I bite down on a laugh and just end up snorting.

“Plus,” he continues, “I don’t need to soften my chest. Because my new kidney is on the way.”

I freeze and stare down at Clyde. “What?”

“I must have forgotten to tell you. Bash is giving me a kidney tomorrow.”

My lips pop open. “Sorry?”

A raspy smoker’s laugh spills from his lips as his eyes finally flick open. “Yeah. Couple weeks ago, he brought it up over beers.Went and did all the testing. Turns out the two of us are a match made in heaven.”

My heart swells with joy, and my eyes fill with unshed tears.

“Gwen, if you get all sappy on me, I’m leaving. All this universe and energy yoga shit is already toeing the line for me.”

I smile and swallow the lump in my throat. He always claims he’s skeptical about yoga, but he keeps coming back, sullenly admitting that it does, in fact, make him feel better. So I don’t take his threats to heart.

“I bet Bash loves being referred to as your ‘match made in heaven.’”

A mischievous grin curves across his wrinkled lips. “He hates it. Still giving me a kidney, though.”

My head shakes as I gaze down at the frail man, feeling a weight lift off my chest, replaced by an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Fucking Sebastian Rousseau.

His name plays on repeat in my head as I guide Clyde through a “nap”—what he continues to call the Savasana. My words come slow and steady as I lull him into a state of meditation. I’ve tried to tell him that dozing off defeats the purpose, but he’s so exhausted these days, I figure if he’s relaxed enough to drift off, then comfortable sleep might be one of the most restful things we can do for his body.

I watch his chest rise and fall, his breaths slowing and lengthening as he slips from consciousness into what I hope is a peaceful dream state.

The blocks prop up his thin limbs. His fingers unfold as the tension melts away. I blink a few times as I watch over him, hoping he finds rest.

Relief.

Relief that he might make it through this hits me hard and fast. I might still have someone to visit. Someone who looks forward to having me around—who takes an interest in me.

As emotion wells in my tear ducts, I swipe at my eyes and head to the basket in the corner. I pull out a thin fleece blanket, then return to Clyde’s resting form, draping it over him gently. Just to make sure he doesn’t catch a chill.

I dim the lights and slip out of the studio, sniffing as I meander to the front, where I know there’s a box of tissues.

What I don’t expect to find there: Bash.

He’s lounging in a chair, one ankle slung over his knee as he casually flips through a yoga magazine wearing his typical hypermasculine boots-jeans-flannel combo.

My heart thuds when he glances up and meets my gaze.

For several moments, we watch each other in silence. His eyes taking a leisurely cruise over my bright-pink matching leggings and crop top. My skin prickles under his attention so I pull my oversized, cream cardigan tighter around my shoulders.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice quavering as I force myself back into motion and round the front desk, heading toward the small table in the corner.

He never comes in, and he neverlooksat me. But right now, he is, and it has me squirming under his attention.