One Chance, Fancy (Bear Bottom Guardians MC 5)

His brown hair framed his beautiful face, and I wanted to brush a few strands of it off his forehead and away from his eyes.

He stayed silent for so long, allowing me to inspect his face, that at first, I wasn’t sure if he was paying attention to me.

But finally his eyes flicked to mine—our gazes connecting for a few long seconds—and I knew he was more than aware of my inspection of him.

“So what is this disease you have?” I questioned.

I mean, I vaguely recollected hearing the word before, but the meaning of the statement didn’t immediately come forth.

“It’s a mild form of autism,” he said, his eyes skittering to mine before immediately falling away.

I had a feeling that he physically couldn’t make himself hold my gaze.

Was that part of his problem?

Suddenly I wanted to google it in front of him just to find out what it was.

“Just do it.”

I blinked. “Just do what?”

“Google it,” he answered. “It’s easier than explaining to someone what’s wrong with me.”

I pulled out my smashed-up phone and did just that, clicking on the first article that I saw.

“When you meet someone with Asperger’s you might notice two things,” I started reading aloud but quickly trailed off as my eyes flew across the page.

Basically, the article started off with saying that Asperger’s wasn’t a death sentence. It was a diagnosis that pretty much explained that people with that condition had trouble mostly with social skills. On top of that, they could become obsessed with things.

I looked back up at him to see his brows furrowed and his hands clenched.

His mouth was moving fast, and I could hear him counting if I focused hard enough.

“Why are you counting?” I questioned.

“My psychologist said that when I want to do something I probably shouldn’t do, I should find a way to distract myself.” He paused in his counting. “Did you finish the article?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, and my curiosity got the best of me. “Why do you want to distract yourself?”

His shoulders seemed to slump. “Did you know that a hummingbird’s wings beat from seven hundred twenty times to five thousand four hundred times a minute depending on their species?”

I tilted my head. “No. What are the ones that come down here?”

“There are fifteen different breeds that come down here,” he answered. “Did you know that hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward?”

My mouth fell open. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “That hummingbird on your wrist is a ruby-throated male. The females are green backed with white, black and gray tail feathers.”

I looked down at my wrist and examined the tattoo. “I liked this one in particular and happened to get a picture of it. One morning I got up and he was dead on my back porch. I was really sad.”

“Hummingbirds only live three to five years,” he said. “Maybe he’d outlived his lifespan.”

I smiled at his attempt to protect me. “I’m fairly sure it hit the glass door really hard,” I admitted. “We’d opened the blinds and I had hung up a really pretty flower right above the door. I’m fairly sure it was my fault that he died.”

“Possibly,” he answered. “They’re attracted to red.”

I leaned back and crossed my arms over my chest.

“Thanks, Sherlock,” I muttered.

He frowned. “Who’s Sherlock?”

I remembered reading in the article that people with Asperger’s had trouble understanding jokes and sarcasm.

“I was teasing you,” I said.

“Oh.” He frowned. “Why?”

“Because you were supposed to make me feel better about killing the bird, not tell me that it probably was my fault,” I admitted.

He opened his mouth and then closed it. “Shit.”

I giggled.

“How do you know so much about hummingbirds?” I questioned.

He reached out and touched my wrist. Once. Twice. Three times.

On the third, he pulled away, and actually looked like he was relieved to have done it.

“I like birds,” he admitted. “They’re entertaining to watch.”

I grinned. “All right then, tell me why you like birds so much.”

And so he did. He talked about it for a good, long ten minutes before he frowned and stopped in the middle of a sentence.

“Hawks have really keen eyesight for…what?” I pushed.

He frowned. “I didn’t mean to go on and on about it.”

I waved it away. “If I had a problem with what we were talking about, I would’ve said something.”

He seemed to think about that for a long moment, and then nodded once.

“I’m going to join the Army,” he randomly said.

I blinked. After what he’d just disclosed to me, how the hell did he think he could handle being in the Army?

Honestly, I didn’t see a way that he was going to accomplish that.

“Ummm,” I hesitated. “Excuse my bluntness, but how the hell do you think you’re going to accomplish that? From what I understand, people with Asperger’s thrive on routine. I’m fairly sure there’s no routine at all in basic training.”