Page 42 of Ice Cold Hearts

My eyes jerk open and I’m treated to the sight of short auburn hair just a few inches from my face. It’s not breasts I’m cupping in my hands but pecs.

“What the fuck!” I shout, flying up into a sitting position.

Ian glances up at me, squeaks like a broken dog toy, and recoils so hard from me that he manages to launch himself clear of the bed and onto the floor.

It’s only after I hear the thump of Ian hitting the floor that I register Oliver is sitting in the corner of the room howling with laughter. His face is blotchy red and there are actual tears running down his face. If I didn’t want to punch him right now, I might be worried he was having some kind of fit with the way he’s wheezing.

“This is better than I could have ever imagined,” he says between bursts of laughter. “I just wish I hadn’t left my phone downstairs last night. I could have cherished this moment forever.”

“Laugh it up, Chuckles,” I spit, “but she was next to me when we fell asleep. She left.”

That sobers him up immediately.

“She could be downstairs,” Ian says hopefully. “None of us has left the room yet.”

I look around the room for any sign of her just in case I’m wrong, and there’s nothing. All my bold talk last night about seeing where things go, taking care of her, and not letting her get away crumble in her absence. As soon as she leaves, I become a coward again.

Still, I pull out my phone in some deluded hope that she might have texted.

Nothing.

A pit forms in my stomach.

She’s probably regretting last night and wants to distance herself.

Why are you disappointed? I scold myself. No connection means no attachment, and no attachment means no risk. This is a good thing.

“Her shoes and jacket are gone,” I say, stepping into my role as Captain Wet Blanket.

It deeply unnerves me that I’m disappointed by Emily being gone when I wake up. Usually, it’s a relief. I can’t stand the “How did you sleep” song and dance routine.

If things are a quick hookup after a game, I always leave her place before she’s up to avoid having to talk at all. On the rare occasions we’ve found someone who appeals to all three of us, I’d give the shortest answer possible until she stopped bothering to ask me.

There was a time when I cared about having breakfast together and how they slept. I used to look for a companion instead of just a warm body. Those were days when I waited on the edge of my seat wondering if she’d want to see me again because it meant I might get to find someone who fit me as well as my parents fit each other. That was when I’d text my mom after a few months of dating that if things kept going well, I might have a date for their holiday party.

I was younger, naive, and convinced of my own immortality then.

Everything changed after that idiot stole my family from me with one bad decision. I didn’t even get to take my rage out on him. The lucky bastard died at the scene.

His son didn’t have to run between triage rooms in the E.R. as their loved ones faded out of existence.

His son didn't have to hear his parents screaming themselves hoarse as they cried out for each other.

His son didn't have to choose which parent to sit with once his surrogate brother finally found where they were.

His son didn't have to make life-changing medical decisions to try to save him.

After that, it seemed pointless to make any new connections because I knew they'd be viciously ripped away from me. I’ve had enough heartache for a lifetime. I don’t need any more.

So many people have tried to cozy up to me over the years for various reasons. Most of the time, it was to get their fifteen minutes of fame.

The only people who managed to weasel their way into my world were Oliver and Ian. Oliver because he was already there and stubbornly refused to leave, and Ian because… well, I knew what it was like to be in a place so dark you forget what the light looks like. I don’t like that Emily is already someone I miss. If she has this strong a hold on me already, it will be absolute hell trying to forget her when she leaves us.

Part of me wants to do everything I can to stop or stall or end this connection I feel with her, and yet, the larger part of me can only think about texting her. The internal struggle is too much to deal with right now, so I do what I always do—focus on something I can control.

Getting dressed is a manageable task. I find my boxers and pants easily enough, but no matter where I look, I can’t find my shirt.

“Where the hell is my shirt?” I growl. “For that matter, where the hell are your shirts?”