Finding Him

by Van Dyken, Rachel

  She said his name again.

  Noah.

  I wondered if this Noah realized how lucky he was. To have a woman cry out to him even in her weakest moments, in her sleep, to need him so desperately that she couldn’t stop saying his name.

  Jealousy hit me hard and fast because I knew my name would never fall from a woman’s lips like that.

  I was either a checkbook or a business ally. Women wanted me for my money, my power, and my influence.

  Finding someone normal only happened once in a lifetime, and look how that had turned out.

  “Mmmmm . . .” She lifted her head and then reached her bandaged hands around my neck. “I missed you . . .”

  I froze. Dear God, let her wake up.

  She moaned again. “Feels so good, right?”

  Fuck.

  I clenched my jaw as she moved on my lap and then straddled me. Not how I planned on spending my morning. “Princess, you’re dreaming . . .”

  “It’s such a good dream,” she argued in a sultry, sleep-filled voice.

  My body was on fire.

  Shit.

  Her forehead touched mine, I could almost taste her, could feel the warmth of her breath on my face.

  One touch.

  Nobody would know.

  We were snowed in.

  I was justifying one graze of her lips.

  I was going insane.

  I muttered a curse and pulled away just as her mouth came crashing down onto mine.

  And then I forgot everything.

  Everything.

  And kissed her back.

  Her lips were searing hot, her body molded against mine like it was made for me, and when her tongue slid into my mouth, I thought I was going to die on the spot.

  She tasted so fucking good.

  So good.

  “Mmm . . .” She pulled back. “Noah . . .”

  I jerked away.

  Lucky bastard.

  She thought I was him.

  That wasn’t cheating.

  It was just unfortunate.

  “Hey.” I shook her by the shoulders a bit. “You were dreaming again.”

  Her eyes opened so fast that you’d think I told her we had company, and then she stared at my mouth.

  Was it red from her kiss?

  Swollen?

  “See something you like?” I joked.

  She rolled her eyes and shoved at my chest. “Sorry.”

  “What do you have to be sorry for?”

  “Inconvenience. And you don’t seem like the sort of guy who likes to be inconvenienced. No, you’re a planner and I’m ruining your plans.”

  “Technically, I ruined yours first,” I argued and then reached for my phone. “Looks like we still don’t have cell service. Do you feel well enough to get dressed and eat something?”

  She nodded, her eyes uncertain even as she said, “I think so.”

  “Take it easy, alright?” I slowly unraveled us and tried like hell not to look at her breasts as I helped her stand.

  She slumped against me, body weak. I steadied her and waited, but she just swayed in my arms again.

  “Food,” I repeated. “You need food. Let’s keep you wrapped up, try that first, and then we can see about a shower, okay?”

  “I’m not dirty.”

  My lips twitched. “I didn’t say you were, I just thought it might make you feel more like yourself.”

  Her face changed as she looked away. “Yeah, I haven’t felt like myself in a while, I doubt a shower’s going to help.”

  “You never know,” I whispered as shadows danced across her face, twirling around secrets I knew she’d never tell a stranger, least of all one like me.

  “Pancakes.” She changed the subject. “Let’s make pancakes. I have enough ingredients and it should warm us up.”

  “You stay, I’ll make the pancakes.” I set her back down in front of the fire, forgetting I was naked as I stood. She watched, and my body found great pleasure in being seen. “Ignore . . .” I choked on my next few words as my body acted violently against my brain, showing her exactly what I thought about her smooth skin. “That.”

  She jerked her head away. “Consider it ignored.”

  “Huh, that easy?”

  “Searching for compliments?” She smiled but didn’t look at me.

  “Nah, I’ve lived a life swimming through a sea of compliments, they kind of fall on deaf ears after a while.”

  She tilted her head up at me. “I know what you mean.”

  “Does that mean you’re going to let me know what your name is?”

  She sighed and then very quietly said, “Keaton Westbrook.”

  I froze.

  Stared.

  Stared a bit harder.

  And then felt like the biggest ass on the planet.

  No, worse than that.

  The hair that grows on the ass.

  “Keaton Westbrook,” I repeated.

  “The one and only.”

  “And Noah,” I finished, feeling like an even bigger fool.

  “Normal Noah.” Her eyes filled with tears. It was what the press had dubbed her boyfriend. People were obsessed with their story until a bigger one hit—mine.

  I should have recognized her the moment I saw her, and then I should have run like hell in the opposite direction.

  Everyone knew about her and Normal Noah.

  I knew it, and I had been in a coma.

  Their love story was front-page news because of her own social media following along with the fact that her parents were celebrities in their own right.

  People dubbed Keaton “America’s sweetheart” because of how genuinely nice everyone said she was, always doing the right thing, always positive. No wonder he fell in love with her.

  Keaton had met the love of her life.

  And he tragically died in her arms at the age of twenty-seven.

  News reports said they could hear her screams echo through the entire hospital.

  It was still front-page news when I woke up from my coma. The first thing I read about, Keaton Westbrook and the love of a lifetime. Meanwhile my brother was sleeping with my fiancée.

  And I remember thinking, It could be worse.

  I could be dead.

  Only to look up at the news channel and realize that while I was able to say that, he wasn’t.

  He’d been in the same hospital.

  The news crews followed me like a madman.

  And a young girl with a single red rose passed me in the hall with tears streaking her face, and all I kept thinking was how pissed I was at my own family.

  So when I ran into her and the rose fell from her hands, I did nothing.

  When the petals scattered across the floor, I kept walking.

  When her sobbing reached my ears, I ignored it.

  And when I watched the news later that night, the guilt came.

  His final gift to her.

  A single.

  Red.

  Rose.

  After his death she honored him by going every day and bringing roses to cancer patients. And what did I do?

  I’d stepped all over the fucking petals.

  Chapter Nine

  KEATON

  His face was stone as he stared down at me like he was putting the pieces of the puzzle together, like he was seconds away from saying something he couldn’t take back, like I’m sorry.

  I didn’t want his sorry.

  His pity.

  Or an apology.

  I’d suffered through enough of those, and they were meaningless words people used in order to fill the awkward void at a funeral, or when they didn’t know what else to say.

  Chills still wracked my body. He pressed in next to me again.

  I went from being searing hot to icy cold within seconds. My brain was still sluggish, but not enough that I didn’t realize I was very much naked in a friggin’ billionaire’s arms, and he wasn’t pushing me away.

  Yet.

  My han
ds felt heavy as they wrapped around his body to keep close. His eyes searched mine before he bit out a curse. “Death is . . .” He looked away. “So very fucking final, isn’t it?”

  Not the apology I was expecting.

  I nodded, my voice would have come out scratchy and hoarse, filled with emotion a stranger didn’t deserve, and if I couldn’t even cry in front of my own parents . . .

  Or at his funeral . . .

  Then it would be ridiculous to cry in this man’s arms, this man who didn’t seem to care about anything but himself.

  “The cabin, my cabin,” he clarified. “Why did you rent it for thirty days?”

  “Vacation,” I said quickly.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Why are you here?” I countered.

  His lips turned upward into a tense smile. “Same.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Julian Tennyson was too good-looking to be naked against me, and my body was too aware of the fact that he had more muscle than I originally thought. I expected him to be soft hands, soft everywhere from too much whiskey and late nights at the office.

  He was the exact opposite of soft.

  It was a problem.

  A growing problem.

  I cleared my throat. “So now what?”

  “Now . . .” He sighed and looked around. “We pray that our cells start working, and I get you out of here as soon as possible.”

  I scowled. “A little injury isn’t going to get me out of your hair. Unbelievable!” I started to move away from him when he gently pulled my body down. I had no choice but to follow since I was weaker than I expected.

  “Listen.” He tilted my chin up gently. “I found you passed out in the snow, you have frostbite on your hands, and this is the first time you’ve been coherent enough to carry on a normal conversation where you don’t call me the wrong name.”

  “What?”

  “Not important,” he said quickly. “The point is, you need medical attention I can’t give you, and I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if—” He stopped talking, his throat moving in a swallowing motion as he sighed. “You need a doctor. And lucky me, I had some of the best in the city. I’ll take you in, and we’ll assess the damage.”

  “And then what?” I whispered. “You come back here, and I lose the cabin for good?”

  “Anyone ever told you you’re stubborn as hell?”

  “It’s part of my charm.” I blinked my eyelashes at him, thinking it was sexy when it was probably so slow and awkward that it looked like I was inebriated.

  “Uh-huh.” He licked his full lips. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it, and do you really want to come back up here alone for thirty whole days?”

  “You don’t understand.” Panic set in. “I couldn’t do this at home, couldn’t get the words out—” Damn it, I felt weak. “I thought being in the one place . . .” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Never mind, you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Rich-girl problems?” He smirked.

  “Really?”

  “Sorry,” he quipped. “Old habits . . . I’m not the most trusting person on the planet.”

  “Yeah, well, waking up to a world very much changed probably does that to someone . . .”

  He was silent and then he whispered, “It really does.”

  “I need to come back.” I tried again. “I promised him and the publisher that gave me an advance that I’d write our story.”

  His interest seemed piqued as he tilted his head and pulled my body tighter against his. I couldn’t think clearly when he was that close, when I could see the gold flecks in his eyes. “I bet that’s hard.”

  “Why would you say that?” I said defensively.

  His eyes softened. “Because the story has to end, and you’ll have to type the final words that nobody wants to repeat let alone release into the universe . . . The End. You may as well be typing The End of Us, The End of Love, The End of Everything. I don’t envy you that, not one bit.”

  He spoke like he knew of loss. Was he talking about his fiancée? No, there was genuine hurt in his eyes right along with fear and anxiety. It was like looking into a mirror.

  I stared at the fur blanket surrounding us. “How about those pancakes?”

  “Almost forgot.” His smile was forced. “Stay by the fire and I’ll be just a minute. Any requests?”

  “I’m shocked you can even cook,” I teased.

  “I can’t.” He let out a laugh. “So if they taste like shit, eat them anyway and keep my pride intact, yeah?”

  I gulped because when he stood to his full height, the fur blanket loosened from my body and pooled around his legs. I sucked in a breath and tried not to look affected, but he was everything I didn’t realize I’d been missing in a man.

  I wanted to hate him for pointing it out without realizing.

  He was healthy.

  So healthy.

  Strong.

  Virile.

  With thick legs and corded muscles around his midsection.

  Even his color screamed health.

  I locked eyes with him and nodded. “I’m starving. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Hmm.” He crossed his arms and then gave me a view of his ass as he quickly grabbed a pair of sweats lying across the couch and pulled them on.

  I would never admit I was disappointed.

  Just like I wouldn’t admit that I felt guilty because I stared.

  Guilty that I found him attractive.

  Guilty that my heart was beating so wildly against my chest.

  Guilty that Noah’s wasn’t.

  Guilty that Julian was right.

  I didn’t want to type the words.

  The End.

  And a part of me worried . . . I never would.

  Chapter Ten

  JULIAN

  I didn’t show any outward reaction, when internally I was a complete mess. What were the odds? Both of us in the same cabin at the same time, miserable, angry, and without electricity until the generator finally kicked on?

  She’d lost the love of her life.

  And part of me wanted to say, I know how it feels.

  The staggering conclusion my brain came to had me reeling for the next thirty minutes as I read directions and tried to make pancakes that didn’t taste like complete shit.

  My mom.

  She was the love of my life.

  When I thought about loss.

  Losing something precious and valuable.

  I thought of her.

  Only her.

  My hands shook as I dumped the batter into the skillet and waited for it to bubble so I could flip it. Keaton had been silent, dozing in and out of sleep. Every few minutes I’d glance over my shoulder to make sure she was alright, and every few minutes I would curse the blanket that kept inching down the right side of her body until I saw nipple.

  Not just any nipple.

  But the perfect nipple.

  I’d seen a lot of naked women in my life, not because I constantly cheated on my fiancée, though I did make one unforgivable mistake, but women had a tendency to pull off their clothes in my presence. Didn’t matter if it was a bar, a seedy bathroom, the boardroom—they wanted me to see the goods, and all of them thought the same thing.

  If I saw, I’d take.

  They had no clue that I didn’t give a fuck.

  That I’d stopped feeling the minute I realized I couldn’t get Isobel back. A drowning man doesn’t want more water—he just wants a life raft.

  And I’d been drowning so long without any hope of rescue.

  Until I almost died.

  Should have died.

  I snorted and flipped the pancake over and waited while the sun started rising over the horizon. At least three feet of snow covered the mountainside, and what I could see of the outside was so bright that it burned my eyes.

  We had at least a day or two before the roads would be clear, maybe more.

  I w
asn’t a doctor by any means, but even I knew that someone needed to check out Keaton’s hands before she lost fingers—if it was even that bad, and I prayed it wasn’t.

  I’d acted fast.

  She was alive.

  I just had to remind myself of that.

  I wouldn’t survive another death on my hands.

  More blood.

  I reached for the pancake without thinking, burning two of my fingers before grabbing the spatula and tossing it onto the plate. I cursed and gave my hand a shake.

  “Are you okay?” came a groggy voice from the living room.

  She just had to have a sexy voice when all I needed was for her to go back to her annoying self.

  “Almost lost a fight with a hot pancake, but other than that, good to go,” I said dryly as I crossed the distance between us and held out the plate to her.

  Keaton’s eyes flashed with excitement as she stood and reached for the plate.

  A few things happened at once.

  I stumbled in an effort to grab the blanket that was already falling from her body, the pancake wobbled then went flying, and the plate unfortunately crashed to the floor.

  My hands caught the blanket at her waist just before it dipped below her hips, and I held it there, like a dumbass, with pancake and glass at my feet.

  “Sorry.” Her voice was small as she stared at me, and my hands refused to let go of the fur as they very tightly pulled it back around her shoulders and held it there. “My stomach was making all decisions for me.”

  “You won’t hear me complaining,” I said honestly. “Though I figure if I look one more time without your permission you’re going to go grab that knife and figure out a way to hold it at my throat, frostbite be damned. Am I right?”

  Her smile was wide, infectious. “What is it with you and being petrified of knives?”

  “Not petrified,” I mused. “Just . . . careful when women filled with rage point them at me.”

  “You were rude.”

  “So were you.”

  She huffed.

  I stood my ground.

  And then she sighed, her shoulders relaxed. “Fine, I’m calling a truce.”

  “Pancake truce,” I added. “We shake over the broken plate and food and start over, how’s that sound?”

  Her eyes darted from mine to my mouth, then back again. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a fresh start.”