The Life That Mattered (Life #1)(20)

“What is this?” she whispered when I eased her to her feet.

We weren’t drunk on alcohol, but clearly intoxicated with some thing.

My lips brushed hers while my fingers threaded through her hair. “I don’t know.” I grinned. Biting her bottom lip, I sucked it slowly before releasing it. “But I can’t wait to find out.”

Did she have a story? I did.

Mine involved dying and coming back to life with a new set of rules.

Hinder not the soul’s intended path unto the light, lest shards of darkness shed upon thee.

I didn’t want to think about those rules or any rules for that matter.

We slowed it down. It was just us. A mattress on the floor. A box of condoms. And all night.

We turned into nothing more than flesh and breath. An exploration of need.

My impatience warred with my desire to kiss her everywhere … taste her everywhere.

“Roe …” she moaned when I pushed into her.

“Evie …” I whispered over her lips before tasting her mouth.

Her back arched away from the mattress, her firm nipples brushing my chest as I moved inside of her. It would not be a one-time affair.

One hit.

I was an Evelyn addict from one hit.

Every day felt borrowed since my accident. Every minute felt like the first and the last.

Right then Evelyn became my beginning and my end—origin and destination. And maybe … if the impossible could find a way to be possible, she could be everything in between.

We owned the night without questioning the reason behind any of it. By morning, I woke to the condom box on the bed beside my head with a note scrawled on it.

Roe,

Had to work.

Evie xo

I grinned, rolling over to bury my face in the pillow that smelled like flowers.

“Evelyn Taylor …” I chuckled to myself. “What are you doing to me?”





CHAPTER FIVE





Evelyn


Spending every free moment with Ronin became my new pastime, interrupted only by Sunday football with Graham. Even that turned into a foursome where Lila sat next to Graham with her laptop, playing catch-up on work. Ronin pretended to watch the games, but I didn’t miss him occasionally cracking open a book to sneak in a few chapters while Graham and I yelled at the refs and coached our favorite teams from the other side of the screen.

“Book nerd,” I’d whisper in his ear during a commercial just before teasing his earlobe with my teeth.

“Science geek,” he’d murmur in return, pulling my wrist to his mouth to kiss my carbon atom tattoo.

Once a week, we foraged for dead trees to harvest more firewood. These outings involved snowball fights and playing tag like two young kids. After taking turns splitting the wood with my grandfather’s ax and piling it next to the house, Ronin started a fire in the wood-burning stove while I made hot chocolate. We piled pillows and blankets on the floor and watched the flames behind the glass door while slurping the froth from the melted marshmallows atop the steamy hot chocolate.

“You have a white mustache.” He eyed my upper lip while setting his mug aside and crawling toward me like an animal on the prowl.

I shook my head, knowing exactly where his mind was going. “Nope.” I swiped my tongue over my top lip several times. “This isn’t happening. Sorry. I need to shave my legs.”

“I’m just helping you get a little marshmallow goo off your lip.” He took my mug from my hands and set it aside next to his mug.

“Then why did you take away my hot chocolate?” I grinned, crawling like a crab backward.

“Because…” he caught up to me, wedging his body between my legs, his head hovering over mine “…this is happening. Hairy legs and all.”

That was me—as is. Take it or leave it, hairy legs and all.

He always took me as is. Always.

As we lost our clothes in the sea of pillows and blankets, embers crackled and “Amsterdam” by Gregory Alan Isakov flowed from the portable speaker on the kitchen counter. Ronin converted me to a lover of indie folk music. He converted me to a lot of things … like eating an apple every day and holding plank for two minutes every night before bed.

He broke all the boyfriend molds, unlike anyone I had ever known—a kind soul, laidback, a product of a culturally diverse family, and wise with the silent confidence of a true nomad. My handsome wanderer.

His biggest fault? Long showers. In all fairness to him, it was hard to put on an entire concert within the confines of a five-minute shower like I usually took—hence the hairy legs.

The first time I heard him, I recorded it from the other side of the door and sent it to Lila.

Me: I’m dating a shower singer. I can’t stop grinning!

Lila: Damn! He’s good. I can’t imagine Graham singing in the shower or anywhere for that matter.

After sliding the phone into my pocket, I cracked open the door to his bathroom, biting my lower lip as I gawked at the blurred outline of his sexy-as-hell body. He sudsed his hair, biceps flexed as he massaged his scalp, eyes closed, and lungs belting out the lyrics to Sinatra’s “The Best is Yet to Come.” I learned he only sang jazz in the shower. Also, I learned if he caught me spying on his shower concert … the chase was on.