Heart's Price (MxM)

Chapter 2

A sudden clattering sound shatters my nerves.

I'd fallen asleep on the bench, head dropped forward on my chest, pen poised over the unfilled form, the clipboard balanced on my knees. It is this, sliding from my lap to the tiled floor with a sharp racket of plastic, that startles me awake

I straighten, pushing my gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of my nose, and wince at the kinks that pinch my neck and back. Blinking at the dog-shaped clock on the wall, I see that nearly two hours have passed.

No wonder I can't feel my legs.

Bending to retrieve the clipboard, I set it carefully on the bench and then rise stiffly to my feet. I spend several minutes pacing the room, restoring the flow of blood to my tingling limbs, and then stretch the tightness from my back. Catching sight of my reflection in the dark window, I frown.

As is my custom, I'm dressed in neat, professional attire: light gray slacks, a dark gray fitted shirt, a waistcoat, and a tie. Usually, there's not a line out of place, not a button undone. Now, I look like I dressed out of last week's laundry hamper.

Doing my best to smooth out the wrinkles, I finally glance at my face.

Like my siblings, I have amber-colored eyes, which look a little odd against the browned caramel tone of my skin. My hair is short and dark, and my features are trim, neat, and soft: a short, slightly wide nose, a small but full mouth, a rounded chin and a refined jaw. I look younger than I am, and the only thing I really like about my appearance is my eyes. Their odd color and almond shape lend them a sharp, focused look, although they're hidden behind my glasses most of the time.

At the moment, even my eyes have lost their appeal, and all I see in my reflection is a short, disheveled little failure of a man.

Giving him a sneer, I sit back down and return to the form, filling it out with something closer to my usual style: quick, efficient, and unemotional. I use my brother's address, and the rest is easy enough.

I've just finished this task when I hear a door open somewhere out of sight and quick footsteps on the tiled floor, and then a man rounds the corner and fixes his eyes on me.

Like the women who'd relieved me of the dog, he wears teal scrubs, and he carries a sheaf of papers.

He's also gorgeous.

I so rarely experience attraction, it always takes me by surprise. Sex and gender have no influence, but whatever strange mix of things does appeal to me, I am presented with it now.

Tall and toned, his skin is the color of cream and his hair is burnt auburn. It's long and wavy and falls over his left shoulder to just below his collarbone. His eyes are the same color as his hair—a dark, reddish-brown—with a slight downward slant beneath dark, level brows. A refined nose, sensitive mouth, and sharp jaw complete his face, along with a dark dusting of stubble—thicker around his mouth—that trails down his throat. My eyes are drawn by this to his neck, which is broad and strong and yet strangely vulnerable above the low collar of his medical shirt. I can imagine him as an ancient Celtic warrior, broadsword in hand, bound for battle, beautiful but fated to fall.

Dragging my mind from my strange fantasy (as a scholar of language, I'm prone to such things) I blink, suddenly aware that I'm staring, and that the beautiful man has been speaking to me and I haven't heard a word he's said.

"I'm sorry," I say. "Could you repeat that, please?"

His lovely eyes narrow with something like displeasure, and his expression is borderline hostile. I wince. I know how annoying it is to have an important sentence met with a blank stare and a request to repeat oneself.