Everlasting (The Immortals #6)(8)
I study him careful y, wondering if he’d sincerely been planning something like that al along, or if he’s just trying to entice me with a plan he made up on the fly.
“But…” He pauses, securing the sash in a way
that leaves it dipping low against his hips, the robe hanging open and loose, al owing for a wide swath of bare chest and defined abs to remain on display. I slide my back up the headboard while lifting the sheet to my chin—his state of near nakedness making me extremely aware of my own. Stil not used to living as a couple, living so intimately, the morning always leaves me feeling more than a little shy and inhibited.
“Ever, I know how eager you are to get right to the bottom of al the things that are bothering you. And, like I said last night, I’m wil ing to help…”
I look at him, bracing myself for the ful -on brunt of his honed and polished negotiation skil s. I can practical y see the case he builds in his eyes.
“So, I’m wil ing to give it one week. I’l give you one ful week of my nonstop, undivided, crazy-old-lady-code-cracking attention, and then, when that week is up, if we haven’t gotten anywhere, wel , al I ask is that you accept the defeat graciously so we can move on to my much better, much brighter, much funner plan. What do you say?”
I gnaw at the inside of my cheek, taking a moment to gather my reply. “Wel , I say that depends.”
He looks at me, shifting in a way that loosens the robe ever so slightly. Expanding the view. Not playing fair.
“Depends on this plan of yours.” I keep my gaze fixed on his eyes. “I need to know what I’m getting into—where you’re planning to take me. I can’t just blindly agree to any ol’ thing. I have my standards, you know.” I look away, look down at my hands, refusing the sight of him, the whole glorious bounty of him, and choose to focus on my cuticles instead. Hearing him laugh in reply, the sound of it like a deep, joyous roar that fil s up the room, fil s up my heart. Happy to know that the dark moment from a moment ago is forgotten for now.
Turning and making his way into the bath, the words drifting over his shoulder when he says, “A vacation. Just you and me and some glorious exotic location. A right and proper vacation, Ever. Far from everyone, and everything. A vacation in a place of my choosing.
That’s al you need to agree to. Leave the details to me.”
I smile to myself, loving the sound of that and the images it spurs in my mind, but I’m not about to reveal that, so to him I just say, “We’l see.” The words drowned out by the sound of gushing water coming from his oversized shower. “We’l see about that,” I whisper, tempted to join him, knowing that’s exactly what he wants, but with only a week to crack the code, I head for his laptop instead.
chapter four
“Find anything?” Damen rubs a towel against his wet hair, ridding it of excess water before tossing it aside in favor of a quick comb-through with his fingers.
I push away from his desk and swivel a few inches toward him, rol ing the chair back and forth and from side to side as I say, “I ran several searches—ran those numbers she mentioned, thinking it might be a date, or a code, or a link to an important passage, or hymn, or a psalm, or a poem, or… something.” I shrug. “I even ran that name she mentioned, Adelina. But nothing came up. So then I ran a search on the numbers and the name together, but stil nothing. Or at least nothing that seems even remotely connected to us, anyway.”
He nods, disappears into his walk-in closet for a moment, then reappears wearing a clean pair of jeans and a black wool sweater.
While I opt for the far easier, somewhat lazy approach of manifesting my own set of clothes, which turn out to be pretty similar.
Except that my sweater is blue. He likes me in blue. Brings out the blue in my eyes, he says.
“So, where do we start?” He lowers himself onto the chaise and slides on some shoes—black TOMS
slip-ons, one of the few things he actual y buys anymore—but only because part of the proceeds go to charity.
Gone are the handcrafted Italian leather motorcycle boots he wore when we met. It’s now cheap rubber flip-flops in the summer, TOMS in the winter. Aside
from
his
opulent,
oversized,
multimil ion-dol ar mansion, and the shiny, black, ful y loaded BMW M6 Coupe that sits in the garage (a car I pretty much forced him to re-manifest and keep), his somewhat recent vow to live simpler, less flamboyantly, more conscientiously, and less materialistical y appears to be one he plans to keep.
“For the next week, I’m al yours.” He rises to his feet, taking a moment to shake out each leg and settle the hems of his jeans.
“Only for the next week?” I stand before the framed ful -length mirror that leans against the wal , trying to convince my hair to do something other than just lie flat against my head. But after manifesting some curls and waves that don’t real y do it for me, I return it to the way it was and settle on a low loose ponytail.
“While you and I have no expiration date, this little project of yours does—as you clearly agreed. So, tel me, where do we start?” He looks at me, awaits further instruction on how to proceed. I check out my profile, smoothing my hands over the stray wisps of hair that insist on springing out from the sides, thinking I should try something else, that I’m not quite pleased with the reflection that stares back, when I take a deep breath and force myself to accept it.