Beauty in the Ashes

“Were you a philosopher in another life?” I questioned, fighting the desire to fall asleep.

He chuckled—the sound deep and husky, entirely masculine. “You never know.”

After picking up my prescription Memphis took me home. He helped me inside and then didn’t leave. Why wasn’t I surprised?

“You can go now,” I told him, searching through a drawer for pajamas.

“I’m not going anywhere.” He plopped down on my couch, put his feet up on my coffee table, and proceeded to turn on my TV.

I was going to throat punch him if he didn’t get the hell out of my place.

“Leave.” I said the word through clenched teeth. I glared at him with every ounce of hatred and annoyance I had left in my body.

“No.” He grinned and dimples popped out on both of

his cheeks. How had I not noticed them before? “Get changed, sweetie,” he waggled his brows, laughing under his breath. “It’s going to be a long day and night and the next day and the one after that.”

My mouth fell open. “What the hell?” I gasped, my voice sounding scratchy—kind of like what a demented cat would sound like if it tried to talk. Right on cue, Brutus jumped up on my bed, meowing that he wanted to sleep. Thank God Daphne had taken care of him while I was…indisposed. “You can’t just,” I floundered for what to say next, “move in here.”

“I can,” he changed the channel, “and I will.”

“Ugh!” I groaned, the sound causing my throat to hurt even more.

I was too tired to argue, and seconds away from losing my voice. Memphis could stay if he wanted. Whatever. I didn’t care. I totally did, but he didn’t need to know that.

I changed into pajamas in the bathroom. I tried not to think about what had taken place in there, but it was impossible.

Without looking at Memphis, so he didn’t see my tears, I climbed into bed. I was asleep before my head even hit the pillow.

When I woke up hours later, Memphis was gone.

I felt joyous and did a little fist pump. I really didn’t feel like dealing with him. He was nice enough—too nice for me—but I wanted to be alone. Wallowing must be done alone and right now I had a date with the quart of ice cream hiding in my freezer.

I didn’t bother with a bowl. I squirted chocolate syrup straight into the half-eaten container of ice cream, added sprinkles, whipped cream, and a cherry for good measure. Oh, yeah. It was perfect.

I sat down on the couch and took my first spoonful.

I moaned in pleasure, my tongue snaking out to wipe my upper lip free of whipped cream.

“You know I never knew someone could make eating ice cream sexy.”

I screamed and fell off the couch—and there went my ice cream.

“Memphis!” I cried, my voice cracking. I picked up the container of ice cream and found that it was unharmed from the fall. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I wasn’t leaving,” he replied, sitting down several bags on the counter. “I went to the grocery store and Chick-fil-a.”

“Why’d you go there?”

“To get you food.” He looked at me like I was dumb. “You need things that are soft to eat. And since canned soup sucks and I can’t make any homemade, I picked you up some from Chick-fil-a, hence the stop there.”

“Why are you being nice to me?” I gasped, overcome with an emotion I didn’t recognize. Let’s face it, I’d been pretty shitty to Memphis. Most guys would’ve moved on by now, deeming me a lost cause.

He ceased removing items from the bag and turned his head slightly to study me. His brows furrowed together and his lips formed a thin line. “That’s what friends are for and I’m your friend.”

I swallowed thickly. “I don’t have a lot of friends.”

“Well, then I count myself lucky to be such,” he bowed slightly, smiling for my benefit.