Page 33 of When Hearts Collide
I don’t want to break down in front of him. This cold man. This oxymoron. A man who makes me feel so warm with a simple gaze.
But why am I falling apart in front of him…after holding everything in all these years?
A thousand thoughts skate through my consciousness as I give up the fight and wipe my sleeve over my wet cheeks.
“I-I’m sorry, Professor,” I stammer, my voice thick. “This is inappro—”
Suddenly, a solid wall of heat appears in front of me, the enticing scent of the forest and citrus enveloping me completely, almost like a tender embrace. I stare at his chest, his heaving chest, like he, too, is struggling to breathe and make sense of this. His muscles flex under his crisp shirt and tailored vest, and he lets out a ragged exhale.
The sound is rough. Anguished. Completely masculine.
My body shakes. I don’t know if it’s from the emotions of the day or from everything I’ve bottled inside me for so long.
Or perhaps it’s from him. This fortress of a man who can make me feel so out of control just from his mere presence.
Wordlessly, he lifts his hand and brushes his thumb gently over my cheek, wiping away the tears there. My eyes flutter shut of their own accord, my skin blooming under his caress. I lean into his palm, relishing the slightly rough scrape of his skin against mine, and his warmth against my chilled skin.
I whisper, my voice shaky, “I grew up poor, so poor we were barely keeping the electricity on. All our money went to Mom’s health care when she was diagnosed with lymphoma. At first, the doctors were optimistic, but I remember so little of that time. I was too young. Then, she went into remission. And for a while there, we were happy again. There was laughter and dancing in the house, trips to the park, and cookies for breakfast. I got snuggles and bedtime stories.”
I don’t know why I’m telling him this, but the cork bottling it all, forcing me to be the responsible, cheerful person for the people around me, has finally popped, and everything comes tumbling out.
Perhaps it’s because he’s silent, offering nothing except for his heated presence radiating with so much intensity, standing a mere inch away from me. His large hand is still cupping my cheek, his thumb smoothing soft circles, igniting a flurry of sparks at the light contact.
I continue, “Then, I remember one day, Mom’s eyes were red when she picked me up from school. When we got back home, she gave me a tight hug before locking herself inside her bedroom. I heard her sobs. Gut-wrenching sobs. They weren’t something a seven-year-old would ever forget. From that moment on, we were sad again. It turned out the cancer came back.”
More tears slip out and he carefully wipes them away, still not saying a word, still a mountain of knotted tightness in front of me. He feels like a haven, blocking the storm raging around me.
“The battle was hard fought, but we lost her in the end,” I choke out the next words. “My family moved to New York afterward, but we were barely holding on, you see. But a teacher saw me. He looked after me and saved me when I was drowning in pain.”
My hand slowly lifts from my side, my fingers unbiddenly reach for the buttons on his vest. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I want to touch him, to let him feel an ounce of what he’s making me feel right now. The silent comfort is akin to carefully wrapping bandages around my bleeding heart.
I hear his sharp inhale, a ragged half-breath. I feel the slight rippling of his muscular chest from my touch. All man. Every inch of him.
I still don’t look up as I whisper in this startling intimacy, “I wanted to become a teacher then. To make a difference in someone else’s life like the way he made a difference in mine. You see, it’s the ultimate way I can honor my mom…to make something out of a tragic situation.”
My exhales are loud in the office, which seems smaller than before, or maybe the man in front of me has a presence filling the entire room. Unable to stop myself, I continue to fiddle with his buttons—little elegant squares of tortoise pattern rimmed with gold—they look expensive, unattainable, unapproachable, just like the rest of him. What am I even doing? But I can’t stop myself. I want to lean on him, on this pillar of quiet strength.
I’m tired and he looks like he can be my respite. My oasis in the desert.
The silence stretches on, the tension thickening with each second. The tingles on my cheek where his hand is grazing me spread south to the rest of my body, the warmth chasing away the chill inside me.
A magical elixir.
“I lost my mom when I was young too.” His deep, raspy voice pierces the silence, like he’s talking to a lover in the dark. “I know the pain, the hole inside your chest that can never be filled.”
My breath freezes as I listen to his quiet words.
“She’d sit with me in our rose garden and read me parables inherent with life lessons. Back then, I didn’t understand them. They were just interesting stories with happily-ever-afters for a six-year-old.” He chuckles and my eyes flutter shut as I imagine the little boy he once was.
“She had a way with words and could explain difficult topics in a way I could understand. I’d fall asleep with the sound of her voice in my ears, the warm breeze on my face, the taste of the sweet grapes on my tongue. And later, I’d repeat the stories to my brothers, watching their eyes light up with curiosity.”
Slowly, he drags his hand to my neck, his touch still barely above a graze, but feels like a searing brand. I let out a gasp and his fingers squeeze ever so slightly before releasing. It’s almost like he wants to feel my vitality, to see how I’ll react.
I feel a pulsing heat in my lower belly. He trails his fingers to my chin, the sensitive scraping eliciting a shiver in me, and tilts my head up.
My lips part on an exhale as my eyes finally meet his. Mesmerizing slate, rimmed with dark blue, the hue so imperceptible, it’s almost black. They’re the color of the turbulent skies. His brows are angry slashes on his forehead, completely at odds with the gentleness of his fingers. He looks furious at himself.
“It’s why I’m a professor now.” He swallows before his thumb lightly touches my bottom lip, like he’s testing the texture. “It was her dream to become a tenured professor…and now, mine.”
