All Amity Allows (Fall for You Book 2) Page 3

  He frowned at her obvious joy and worried about the implications of that expression. It wasn't that he wanted her to be sad as such, he’d just needed to see some sort of evidence that she'd been affected in some small way by the events of the previous night. That she’d spent some time mourning the loss of their relationship. That she cared that they were no longer together.

  The sight of the tiny smirk on her lips made his heart beat faster in his chest, until he felt the urge to strike something. Her smile shouldn’t have made him so irrational, but it did. Maybe it was because he'd expected her to come to work with blood-shot eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and a heavy countenance. Perhaps hoped was a better word. Regardless, it was a disappointment to see her so content. So . . . happy. It made him yearn for another session with his punching bag despite the way his knuckles already protested against the weight of a simple pen.

  Was it really too much to ask for her to have had a day of sorrow, mourning over what they'd shared? Maybe two. That really wasn’t much, was it? Something to prove that it hadn’t all been a waste of his time—that she had actually cared for him at least a little. That some tiny part of her felt bad for the shit she’d put him through with her feelings for Evan and her constant denial of them. For stringing Drew along when he deserved so much more.

  He wanted something to justify the aching burn in his chest. The agony of something like a simple heartbeat couldn’t have been any more painful, not even if he’d been forced to undergo open heart surgery without anesthetic. And yet, there Becca was, smiling.

  When their gazes met, she had the decency to at least look a little sadder than when she’d first entered the hospital. Almost as soon as she’d glanced his way though, her eyes darted away again. The fleeting eye contact confirmed everything that Drew had feared. She’d already moved on. At least, in her own head. Whether she’d physically moved on as well was too much for him to even consider without spiking his desire to punch the closest wall.

  Regardless, the action was a big black line drawn underneath the ledger of their relationship. A marker dividing all the blissful days they’d shared so far from all the dark ones still to come for him. Drew might have spent years pining for someone who he'd thought he had no possible chance with, but he wasn’t stupid enough to continue obsessing when the evidence was clear that she no longer wanted him.

  In the wake of her apathy, he felt every part the gawky, pimple-faced teen she’d unknowingly rejected years ago once more. As that sensation cut into him, he curled his agonized fingers into a fist, turned, and walked away from her without a word or backwards glance.

  Seeing her so carefree when he was filled to the brim with sorrow was like having a huge stick shoved into the turmoil bubbling inside him and spun rapidly to stir up all the sediment. It took everything in him to control his outward appearance. His fingers clenched and twitched as he formed and unformed tight fists, but that was it. He managed to suppress all other outward signs of his anger. To everyone else, he would have appeared a paradigm of control.

  Drawing in a deep breath as he headed back to meet his next patient, he resolved to push Becca from his mind.

  “Huh.” Amity sat back in a slight daze as she considered everything her brother had just shared with her. Her car still whipped between the lanes of the interstate at speeds which far exceeded legal limits, but she kept the engine well under the red line while she was otherwise distracted, processing Michael’s words.

  The story he had told her was one of loss and of love. Of heartbreak and sorrow, and of love triumphing even as it destroyed. There was something about it, which she needed to clarify though, because surely she’d heard one part wrong.

  “So let me get this straight,” she said, glancing over at her brother to watch for any telltale signs that he was hiding something or that she’d hit a raw nerve. “You made this guy, this Evan, a cupid, used his soul for years as penance for his crimes, claim you’ve been happy with the results he’s achieved, and now you’re going to reward him by making him human again?”

  She curled her nose up in disgust. She couldn’t think of anything worse. A cupid wasn’t quite as unlimited as an angel in their ability to conjure the things they needed, but humans had to work for everything they wanted. They had to deal with messy emotions and other messy things like toilets and showers. Hot and cold. Eating for sustenance rather than pleasure. As much as she preferred the company on Earth to the far too pristine vistas of Heaven, she couldn’t think of a worse punishment than to be forced to be human for a limited span before moving on—either up or down, depending on one’s life choices.

  Michael’s mouth twitched with frustration. He’d never intentionally let it show—there were rules against letting his emotions control him after all—but she could see it nonetheless. After spending a number of millennia with her family, she’d picked up the ability to read most of their tells. Of course, her natural ability to detect bullshit helped with that too.

  “You know we had no say in the reward. It was determined at the moment of—” He cut himself off when she started to move her hand in a mimicry of his words. He frowned at her, the first definite sign that she’d broken through his impenetrable virtue.

  Her mouth twitched as she enjoyed the moment a little too much. “Yeah, yeah, I know. It was pre-ordained when he was judged. What I mean is why would anyone willingly choose to be so . . . limited?”

  “Not everyone craves the material things over emotional fulfillment.”

  The judgment in his tone was impossible to miss, but she was long used to it. It was like each of her brothers spent their time trying to be more virtuous than any of the others. Almost as if it was their idea of fun. She wasn’t willing to buy into that crap though. She could think of other much more enjoyable things: shoes, cars, companionship. Not that she thought any of her brothers had ever felt the touch of a woman. Even if they had, she certainly didn’t want to know about it.

  The memory of holding someone—of touching another—made Amity feel a little sad. It had been so long since she’d felt any sort of real intimacy—too long. She missed it. Craved it. For centuries, the reign of the chastity brigade had taken over the natural order of things. After all, it wasn’t as though the Heavenly host had never been able to spread the love. In years past, angels were known for their affection and attractiveness more than their pious attitudes. They had inspired statues and stories, murals and reliefs. People had worshiped them for the joy they could bring to the world and not just the miracles they could produce.

  Then modesty and the shifting notion of sin had arisen, and the good times had ended. The good book was penned—the word of man masquerading as the word of God. In the millennia since, intimacy between humans and angels had become strictly frowned upon, which left Amity bereft of the attention she’d once been lavished with. That had been just one adjustment she’d had to make in a long line of them since that time.

  Despite her protests, she felt vindicated by one thing—she wasn’t the only one on Earth who thought her brothers took their devout attitude a little too far at times. She’d seen that truth repeated in many a mind throughout her service.

  “So, Amity”—Michael said her name like it tasted foul in his mouth, even though phonetically it was only marginally different from her true, angelic, name—“the cupid’s mistakes need to be rectified. Rebecca’s human lover”—he closed his eyes, no doubt calling the name to his mind—“Andrew must be healed. He cannot do it himself, not after cupid’s touch inspired emotions within him. Are you going to help us or not?”

  She grinned at him. He’d been so busy being a disapproving ass that he hadn’t felt her shift herself and the car—as well as everything inside it—from L.A. to Michigan. She pulled her convertible into a parking spot that miraculously opened up the instant she needed it.

  “Of course, I will,” she said with a winning smile. “Just show me the way.”

  Chapter Three

  Drew cursed himself for h
is basic inability to stay away from Becca. It seemed ingrained in his very DNA to be near her. It was like there was some external force compelling him back to her desk over and over.

  Even though he’d sworn to not spare her another thought, he seemed to gravitate toward the reception area far more regularly than he actually needed to. On at least three occasions, he’d found himself walking the corridor that lead to her desk only to wake from his trance-like state and realize that he was supposed to be in a completely different section of the hospital.

  Then, when she’d left to meet Cathy in the cafeteria for lunch, he hadn’t been able to resist following the pair. He just needed to know her mind. Had she moved on already? Did she feel any sorrow over what they’d shared and lost? He’d tried to make himself as invisible as possible as he selected a table just a few seats away from the two girls, all the while wishing he could somehow develop the ability to hide in plain sight, as if such nonsense actually existed.

  As it turned out, the spot he selected was perfect for listening to their conversation and better still, was hidden by a bush that had been brought into the space with the intention of brightening up the dim cafeteria. Now, it had become a secret hiding place where he could spy on the two women, much like the hours he’d spent in middle school secreted around corners to catch a sliver of unguarded interaction between Becca and her friends. He could feel in every part of him that the particular conversation he witnessed this time was far more important than anything he had overhead back then. More than anything, he wanted to know what Becca had to say for herself. He hoped he might finally hear the truth from her own lips, even though he really didn’t want to hear her say the “L” word in conjunction with that fucker’s name.

  He heard one of the chairs at his table scrape across the floor, as if someone was planning on sitting with him, so he turned to warn whomever it was that he wasn’t in the mood for company. Big, puppy-dog eyes, belonging to one of the new interns, met the scowl firmly planted on Drew’s face. Drew had been introduced to the kid just a couple of days earlier, but couldn’t remember his name. Simon? Steven? It was definitely something beginning with an S. Drew nodded away from the table. He hoped that between the gesture and his unwelcoming expression the intern would get the hint that Drew wanted to be alone.

  Luckily, the intern seemed to understand and backed away with his hands in the air. Drew figured he’d have to hunt the young man down eventually and apologize, but it wouldn’t be anytime soon. Not when Drew was possibly on the verge of discovering something big or at least hoped he was.

  “So are you going to spill the beans willingly or am I going to have to come to your place tonight, ply you with wine, and force it out of you?” Cathy asked Becca after a few moments spent catching up on their days, which had been interspersed with long, awkward pauses.

  Drew listened more intently to ensure he didn't miss a single word of Becca's reply.

  Becca’s gaze dropped to the table in front of her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Drew’s breath caught in his throat at the sound of Becca’s voice. It was so carefree, so sweet and lilting, the way it always had been when she’d spoken to him before. The last time he’d heard it—was that really only last night?—it wasn’t lilting or sweet. It was broken and rough, and she was saying she was sorry to him while surrounded on all sides by someone else’s face.

  Not sorry enough, he thought to himself as he crossed his arms and furrowed his brow.

  He turned back to stare at the side of Becca’s head through the foliage. Just as he’d observed earlier, she didn’t seem to be suffering any post-break-up blues. He had his suspicions on exactly why that might be the case, but needed to hear it from her mouth before he’d believe she’d stoop so low so soon.

  “Don’t know what I’m talking about?” Cathy repeated, disbelief clear in her tone. “You’re walking around like the cat that got the canary while Drew looks like said canary after the cat batted it around the house for a few days.”

  Drew glanced down at his outfit, slightly insulted by Cathy’s assessment. Sure, he hadn’t taken quite as much care with his appearance before leaving the house as he usually did, but he didn’t look that bad.

  Or do I, he wondered as he took in his rumpled shirt and crinkled pants. He ran his fingers over the stubble that marred his chin.

  Maybe there’s a little truth in her statement, he thought. But if she knew what I’d been through, she’d understand.

  Dismissing Cathy’s statement as hyperbole, he moved a few plant leaves out of the way to get an even better look at Becca’s profile. She looked guilty, or maybe he was just imagining the way that emotion might sit upon her face.

  “Clearly something happened last night with Dr. Sex God,” Cathy continued. “So spill, missy.”

  “It’s a long story,” Becca said, her voice dropping so low Drew almost couldn’t hear her.

  He held his breath and leaned in closer.

  “It’s just . . . last night . . .” She trailed off with a sad sigh and looked in Drew’s direction.

  To avoid detection, Drew let go of the foliage, letting it fall back into place as a screen between them. He refused to avert his eyes or stop listening though.

  Cathy leaned closer, practically tipping over the table in her haste to get within whispering distance of Becca. Not that it mattered because when she continued, she hadn’t dropped any of the volume out of her voice and Drew could still hear her just fine. Although, maybe that was because he was trying so hard to ensure he didn’t miss a single word of their conversation. “Don’t tell me he’s having issues downstairs?”

  Drew’s hands formed into fists despite his aching joints. He was sorely tempted to march over to the table and inform Cathy that he certainly had no problems downstairs. He’d even prove it to her if he had to.

  Becca shook her head before taking a sip of her lemonade. The way her lips caressed the bottle stirred reactions in Drew that he rightfully shouldn’t have had any longer. Knowing he'd have to work hard to convince his traitorous body not to find her attractive, he tried to will away the stirrings. The hurt that echoed through him should have been enough to keep his cock at rest, yet it wasn’t. After simply watching her take a sip of her drink, he was already pitching a tent in his pants. It was ridiculous the hold she had over him.

  If she’d uttered a single word to indicate she wanted him back, he would have been back at her side in a heartbeat. He would have given Cathy a personal demonstration that his cock wasn’t the issue. No, it was that other cock who fucked everything up between Drew and Becca.

  “We—we broke up.” For the first time, Becca showed some outward sign that she was even remotely upset that things had ended. It was only a slight downward tug of her lip, but Drew felt a rush of vindication that maybe she wasn’t as happy as she had looked at first.

  Cathy gasped. “No! Why?”

  Becca lowered her gaze to the bottle as she picked at the label. “Evan.”

  The word was like a bucket of ice water dumped down his spine. The two-syllable explanation for their break-up was too much for Drew to bear, a stark reminder of why she would never ask him to take her back. He pushed away from his table. The sound of his chair scraping roughly against the floor called attention from all of the tables nearby and at least ten sets of eyes gazed in his direction.

  Why am I even here? This is pathetic.

  He scowled at them all before turning to leave, meeting Becca’s gaze as he did. She looked aghast that he’d been nearby when she’d been moments away from gushing about that dick.

  “Drew, wait!”

  Even as he heard her call out to him again, he stalked away.

  Amity stared at the empty space that her brother had occupied just a second earlier.

  Ass, she thought to herself. He hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye before disappearing. He’d just dumped his big mistake on her to fix and then left. Sure, it was an intriguing assignment, b
ut that didn’t mean he couldn’t have at least employed some basic manners and said goodbye.

  She looked at the hospital building across the street, trying to work out the best way to handle the situation she’d just been given. Michael inferred she should be covert, and that she should employ diplomacy and tact. The tone in his voice while he’d detailed the mistakes he and his lackeys had made left no doubt that he wanted her to be particularly discreet on this case.

  Clearly, he doesn’t know me at all, she thought as she chuckled to herself.

  She checked her face in the mirror, ensuring she was still happy with her current appearance. She decided her eyes needed to be a slightly darker shade of blue and her pink lips a shade or two lighter. When she took another glance, she smiled. It was so much easier just changing her appearance by small degrees rather than wasting all her energy applying and removing make-up each day like so many human women running around on Earth had to.

  Deciding that her L.A. chic dress would probably look a little out of place in the small city hospital, she conjured herself into a new tank—precisely matching the color of her lips—and a pair of super skinny J Brand jeans. There was no point in completely denying who she was and not wearing something designer after all. For a moment, she debated on what would be the best shoe, but decided she just needed a new pair of Jimmys. They were her favorite after all and were damn near perfect with the exception of Heaven-induced breakages.

  Once she was satisfied that she had her showstopper looks firmly cemented in place, she climbed from her car. She didn’t bother putting up the roof or locking the door. If someone stole it, it would only give her more reason to get a new one. Between the three-inch scratch that she’d erased from the rear quarter panel and the fact that she wasn’t quite sold on the color anymore, it was probably time for another anyway.