Fated (11 page)

“We went to elementary school together. She lived in the trailer park down the road from my parents’ house, and we ended up walking to school and home again every day.” Toby frowned and tilted his head. “Where did you go to school? I don’t remember ever seeing you.”

Hart laughed softly. “No offense, but I think I’m about a decade younger than you. And I went to a private school. All boys, uniform, that sort of thing.”

“Is that why the last name stuck? Did they call you Mr. Hart when they rapped your knuckles with a ruler?”

“That’s part of the reason, and no, I am not telling you my first name.”

A silence fell, and Hart realized this was the moment Toby would either take his leave or Hart would invite him to stay. Warmth flooded through him at the thought. The silence stretched while he failed to make up his mind, and then Toby did it for him.

“Do you maybe need some help with those books?”

Hart straightened, surprised. “I—You don’t have to. They’re old and dusty. And I’m sure you have better things to do with your evenings.”

“I am exactly where I want to be, Hart. And I know your wrist still hurts because I see you favoring it, so just let me help you.”

Hart blinked at Toby, momentarily out of words. Habit made him want to say no thank you, to seek solitude, but the truth was, being alone all the time became its own sort of trial after a while. He could do with the company.

“Yeah, I’d like that. It’s through here.” Together they entered the study, the floor still covered with piles of books and boxes. On top of the empty book cover still stood the dirty wine glass, the one he’d left behind when he found his father’s note. “I’ll go put this in the dishwasher.”

Toby stared around the room with wide eyes. “Can I look around?”

“Of course, be my guest.”

By the time he returned, Toby was nose deep in an old book, and when Hart stepped into the room, Toby startled. “What is it?” Hart said.

“Uh, there’s a note in here. It’s old and in pencil. I can make most of it out, but—”

Remembering the last note, Hart felt goose bumps rise on his arms. He took the book when Toby offered it, and keeping his finger on the open page, he checked the front. It was one of his mother’s old romance novels. For some reason it tickled him that this would be the first book Toby reached for. Aware of Toby’s eyes on him, he reopened the book.

Maybe a rocking horse for his second birthday, Sabine. He’d love that, don’t you think?

Carefully closing the book, he dragged a palm over his face, and then he burst into a loud laugh. “I remember that rocking horse. It had this fluffy mane, and by the time I was two and one week, I’d yanked all of it out. It’s still upstairs in the attic, I think. Unless Dad got rid of it when I moved out.”

“I don’t think he would have.” Toby took the book from Hart’s hands, placed it on the desk, and then, to Hart’s utter shock, pulled him into a hug. It wasn’t until Toby’s strong arms settled around his shoulders that he became aware of the acute ache in his chest, a burn as painful as the ones on his skin. Mortified, he felt tears drip down his face.

“I’m fine,” he croaked, patting Toby a little awkwardly on the back. “Ignore me.” He gently untangled himself and took the book to put it in one of the boxes.

“Are those to be given away?”

“Yes. They’re not bad or anything, I just can’t keep all of them.”

“Can I have it?”

“Uh, sure. Help yourself to anything from that box.” He turned around and began to scan the shelves, only taking down books he’d want to keep or sell to the antique dealer. Catching on to what Hart was doing, Toby began to put the other books into the boxes.

“Did he write a lot of notes in books, your dad?” Toby asked when they were nearly halfway done.

“It’s the second one I’ve come across.”

“But you’re not opening all the books.”

“No.” He turned to look at the books in the boxes, worlds compressed in cardboard and ink, and wondered what he’d be missing out on, if they’d be treasure or torture. “I don’t have the time to check them all.”

“We’ll find some more,” Toby said, and he smiled, so Hart found himself smiling back. The pile of books worth keeping steadily grew, and he had a faint suspicion he’d have to sort through them again.

“W
HAT
ABOUT
the desk?” Toby asked when Hart handed him the last tome. “There’s books piled on there too.”

“There’s books piled everywhere in this house. When Mom was still alive, she managed to keep most of them at bay in here, but over the years they slowly took over the house.”

“Like a fungus, but a nice one. I like it. My parents, they—” Toby stopped so suddenly Hart looked up in alarm. Massaging the back of his neck, Toby swallowed and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Your parents?” Hart prompted him, putting a hand on Toby’s shoulder.

“Doesn’t matter.” Toby began to carefully pile the old newspapers together. Scattered pens he collected in a wood-carved penholder and books he put to the side for Hart to go through. Watching him Hart found himself curious, wanting to know more about Toby, to see beyond the irredeemable flirt he no doubt was. Shaking it off, he sorted through the pile. As he suspected, they were all worth keeping, otherwise they wouldn’t have been on his father’s desk.

Toby reached for the last hardcover, the one under the pile of newspapers that’d had that blasted coffee mug on top when Hart had started tidying in here, and put it with the rest, but then he picked it up again. “
The Ego and I
by Jonathan Hart,” he read. “One of your dad’s?”

“Yes. He wrote several books. I think that was one of the last ones. It’s his own take on Plato’s theory of the soul and Freud’s psychoanalysis… or something, I’m not sure. I didn’t actually read it.”

Toby gave him a wry smile. “I don’t blame you. Can I?”

Hart nodded, and Toby leafed through the book. Tightening his grip, he stopped the pages from fanning past and turned them back. From the way he tilted his head, Hart knew he’d found another note, only this time, Toby’s eyes went wide.

“What is it?” Hart came to stand beside him and read over his shoulder.

The idea,
his father had written,
of
mens sana in corpore sano
could be taken a step further. A healthy mind could induce a healthy body. Miraculous healing the touch of God? Or someone breaking free from their own confines to reach a higher state of being?

A little like my boy did, when he broke free from my chains.

Toby stared at the words as if the book had spoken aloud. Hart felt confusion amass in his mind. How many of these handwritten notes were really to be found in these books? The only way to find out would be to go through them one by one.

“Miraculous healings,” Hart mused. Coincidence? He cast a glance in Toby’s direction. “My dad had farfetched ideas sometimes. It’s what he did… think about things. He wasn’t crazy.”

“No.” Toby put the book down. “I didn’t think he was. I think this is… amazing. You have no idea.” Toby lifted his hands like he’d reach for Hart, but then he let them fall to his sides again. With his hair loose like this and the faint shadow darkening his cheeks, eyes gleaming like black pools with a touch of moonlight, he looked like a swashbuckling pirate who’d found Blackbeard’s treasure. “He must’ve been an extraordinary man.”

“He was. He…. He—” Hart felt himself choke up again, and he averted his eyes. “We’ve done a lot. I think we can call it quits for tonight.”

“Yes. Of course. But if you don’t mind, don’t take this book to a secondhand store. If you don’t want it, I’d love to have it. I’ll pay you.”

“No, take it. I have a copy myself.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Positive.” Hart switched off the soft sconce lighting on the walls and went into the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee or something?”

“No, I’m good. But I would like to take a look at your arm. I think the wound is seeping a bit.” He pointed at a small yellow stain on the white wrappings and went into the living room, returning with his battered doctor’s bag. When he saw Hart eyeing it, he laughed. “Freddie gave it to me when I went into premed. It kind of became a lucky charm.”

“And you needed your lucky charm here tonight?”

Toby didn’t answer but seemed to make a point of not making eye contact as he began to take out supplies instead. Then he turned to Hart and unwrapped the wound on his wrist.

“Do you need to take a painkiller? You didn’t have one with dinner.”

“Probably. Will I still need to eat something first?”

“It wouldn’t hurt.”

Hart waited for him to finish taking the bandage off and then rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, where he found a packet of chocolate mallows.

Toby lifted an eyebrow at them, and Hart said, “Dad could eat two boxes of these in one night. He loved them.” Tearing the package open, Hart huffed when Toby poked his good side.

“Careful, those abs don’t maintain themselves.”

“Shut up,” Hart said, and made sure he did by stuffing a mallow in his mouth.

Chocolate flakes broke off and clung to Toby’s lips, immediately melting under the heat of them. With a muffled laugh, he covered his mouth and ate the mallow. “Wow, that’s sticky.”

“I know,” Hart said. He bit the cookie off the bottom, ate it, and then sucked the marshmallow out of its chocolate shell.

“Save the best for last, huh?” Toby leaned against the kitchen island and watched him with an amused grin.

“Want some water?”

“After that? God, yes.”

Hart filled two glasses from the tap and swallowed his meds in one gulp, watching over the rim of his glass as Toby wiped the chocolate off his mouth.

“Do you want to wait until the painkiller kicks in, or will you be all right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Toby patted the island countertop. “Hop on, then.”

Hart watched him work, eyes intent on what he was doing. When the burn was comfortably wrapped again, Toby’s hand lingered on Hart’s wrist.

“How are you feeling?”

“All right. It didn’t hurt that much.”

Toby shook his head. “That’s not what I mean. Your father just died, you were wounded in an explosion. That’s going to leave scars.” Hart lifted his wrist and opened his mouth, but before he could say something clever, Toby added, “Invisible ones. I’m just…. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you talked to someone. It doesn’t have to be me.”

“I thought orthopedic surgeons were all emotionless butchers.”

Hurt flashed through Toby’s eyes, and Hart nearly apologized when he waved it away. “Well,” he drawled with a little smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “there was this one mandatory psychology class in college.”

“Ignore me, I’m an idiot,” Hart said softly. “But I’m fine. Really.”

The moment was here. Toby stood close, and his eyes drifted to Hart’s mouth. They’d both taste of chocolate, Hart’s mouth maybe a little bitter because of the painkiller. Time to move, to put a stop to this, to break this moored, anchor-taut tension. And then Toby’s mouth was on his. Hart stopped thinking past the feel of the grip on the back of his head, the tongue warm between his lips. He gripped Toby’s shoulders and felt strong, wiry muscles bunch beneath his fingers. As he roamed lower he could feel Toby respond with a soft sound, and he pressed closer. The kiss deepened, and it stirred awake a sleeping predator. Like a languid cat it stretched under Hart’s skin, a deep satisfaction warming him from the inside out when he dug his fingers into Toby’s firm buttocks. Toby made a small noise—surprise, contentment, or both—and Hart tensed and relaxed his fingers, lifting Toby to the tips of his toes so they latched together like lock and key.

It didn’t last of course. In the study, the old Westminster began to chime ten, and an image of Jonathan Hart lovingly winding up the clock he’d inherited from his own grandfather settled onto Hart’s closed eyelids.

Perched on the kitchen counter of his father’s house, Hart sat kissing a stranger while his father lay stone cold and dead in some mortuary.

He gasped for air, lifting his face to the ceiling. With reluctance he pulled his hands off their target. “I can’t do it, not here. I’m sorry.”

“No, the fault is mine.” Toby immediately stepped back, lifting his hands from where they’d drifted to Hart’s thighs. “I should never have… not in your dad’s house. I’m sorry.” He swallowed and took a deep breath, running his fingers through his hair. “Damn,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “That was some kiss.”

Hart was startled into a laugh. “Yes, it was.” He thought of Isaac and the sweet feeling in his stomach evaporated. But Isaac wasn’t his, and never would be.

“Let me take you to dinner.”

“Toby….” He closed his eyes and licked his lips. The skin around them tingled from Toby’s five-o’clock shadow, and he resisted the urge to rub at it. “Listen, this is a—”

Toby advanced on him but stayed just far enough away that they didn’t touch. He looked at Hart’s mouth, perhaps as shiny and kiss-swollen as Toby’s. “Don’t say mistake.”

“Ill-advised, then. I’m—It was great, but I’m not sure we should start going on dates.”

“It’s just dinner. Come on. You’re not exactly having a good time here in Brightly. Let me cheer you up a little.”

“Look, I’d like to. But you’re involved with the case, and—”

“Hart, I’m not asking you to screw me senseless, although no objections there. I’m asking for some nice food and a glass of wine on one of my rare evenings off. We won’t discuss the case at all, how’s that?”

“One of your rare…. What about tonight?”

“I, uh, swapped a shift.”

“God.” Hart leaned his elbows on his thighs and buried his face in his hands. Through his fingers he saw Toby reach for him and then drop back. With one hand Hart pulled him close enough to rest his forehead against Toby’s sternum. He smelled of freshly laundered clothes and mild deodorant.

Gently Toby put his hands on Hart’s head. “You need a haircut.”

Hart snorted. “Leave me alone. I’ve been busy.”

Toby didn’t reply, just tugged gently at his hair, then massaged his scalp. “So? What do you say?”