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***
Ocean was right. Micah’s address isn’t far from the tattoo shop, just a few streets down, and then I’m standing in front of his building, wondering if I’ve gone nuts. Who says Micah wants to see me?
The walking stick, I remind myself. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll just ask for it, take it and be on my way.
Simple. Easy. My pulse shouldn’t be so loud in my ears.
It’s only concern, I tell myself. This Rafe guy was worried, too, so I’m not alone in this, which only serves to double my anxiety.
Which is ridiculous. And I should stop.
Taking a deep breath, I ring the bell. And wait for a while. No sound comes from be
hind the door. I shift from foot to foot and cast a glance over my shoulder at the dark landing. Two more doors loom in the dimness. One of them is missing a number.
Quiet.
I ring the bell again, and when nothing happens, I check the piece of paper. I’m at the right place. Maybe Rafe made a mistake? Or maybe Micah is not in.
Just when I’m about to turn and go, I think I hear footsteps and push the paper into the pocket of my jacket. I lick my lips, my nervousness returning.
The lock creaks and the door slides open. “Yeah?” a hoarse male voice says, and I catch a glimpse of a suspicious blue eye through the opening.
“Micah? It’s me, Ev.” Oh God, this sounds so lame. I shift my weight again, my leg twinging. “I, um. I forgot my walking stick at the cafe...” I feel ridiculous addressing his eye and not even seeing his whole face. “I was hoping maybe you noticed and got it for me.”
“Ev?” His voice cracks. He turns away and coughs, and the worry gently gnawing at my insides morphs into a voracious monster.
“Are you all right?” My voice goes high-pitched, and I wince. Calm down, Ev. “That cold still hasn’t cleared up?”
“What?” He pulls the door open and leans against it, bracing one arm on the frame. One bare, muscled arm. Attached to his muscular bare chest. “Oh, the cold, yeah. I’m fine.”
Fine. “Why did you stay home if you’re fine?”
He blinks at me, a slow sweep of long lashes against high cheekbones, and I have a moment of oh-crap-I’ve-gone-too-far panic.
But he doesn’t slam the door in my face as I think he might. “Rough night,” he mutters. “Ocean said he’d cover for me at work, so I stayed home to sleep.”
Straightforward. Honest. A rough night. I want to ask what made it rough, but I think I’ve already overstepped the boundaries of our... friendship? Acquaintance?
I drop my gaze from his face, and that’s a mistake. My mind blanks a little as I realize he’s shirtless and barefoot, lounging in front of me in only a pair of gray low-hung, draw-string pants. My gaze slides back up his long legs to his narrow hipbones and a spectacular set of abs, complete with sexy divots forming a V line.
My mouth is honest-to-god watering. I tear my gaze off those lickable abs only for it to be caught by his defined pecs and then his amused sky-blue eyes.
“Is there anything I can do for ya?” he drawls lazily, and I swear my panties get wet at the raspy sound.
Well, wetter.
Which is kind of alarming. No guy has ever had such an effect on me before. Certainly not Blake. God, absolutely not.
The thought sobers me, and I realize Micah’s still waiting for my answer. “No, I... I passed by the tattoo shop, looking for you,” I say. “Rafe gave me your address.”
“He did?” He lifts a golden brow and his mouth quirks in a lopsided grin. “Then you’d better come in.”
Come in? Not sure that’s safe, not with the way my treacherous body is reacting to him, but when he draws back, I take a step forward as if a thread stretches between us, pulling me to him.
I walk into his apartment, into a small living room with a faded blue sofa, a checkered armchair and a low black table with glass stains. A box of tissues is carelessly tossed on it, together with a half-eaten bag of Cheetos. Curtains cover the windows, the only light a lamp in a corner.
“Want something to drink?” he asks and yawns, then turns and stretches his arms over his head until his spine pops.
