Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Hugo burst out laughing as the elevator doors opened, revealing a surgeon and two nurses from the day shift. He waved her in. “You didn’t.”
“Did so.”
“Don’t lie.”
“Fine, I said he should ask you.” Bronte nudged her hip against his and whispered, “There is one other thing.”
“Great,” he whispered back. “Should I sit down again?”
“Only if you have a problem with shirtless Irish boys.”
Hugo swallowed, then tried to laugh it off. “I’d be a shitty nurse if I couldn’t handle being around half naked men. That daily flash of ass is the price of trendy hospital gowns. Shirtless should be a breeze.”
One of the nurses behind him snorted.
“Well this half naked man came in with an interesting tattoo on his shirtless chest.”
“He doesn’t have any—” Realizing he’d given too much away, Hugo glared down at her. “Tattoos don’t bother me either.”
The elevator doors opened and Bronte walked backwards down the hall in front of him. “Spira, spera.”
Hugo almost tripped over his own feet. “The tattoo? You just want to me to see him before I go home.”
“It surprised me too, but it’s right there on his skin for anyone to see. That’s why I caught you before you could leave. Most men don’t go around permanently marking themselves over something that was only a miscommunication or a mistake. Not unless they’re drunks or crazy. Is he one of those? Is that why you won’t give me details?”
“He’s not a drunk.” But the jury was still out on crazy.
He hadn’t spoken to Solomon in months, and they hadn’t been together in over a year. Technically, they never really were. Not the way he’d wanted them to be.
Remember all those mixed messages. How you felt at the end.
It was impossible to forget. It was the only thing that kept him from giving in when his body grew weak from wanting the loyal, magnetic, emotionally stunted man.
Spira, spera.
Loosely, the words meant, “While I breathe, I hope.”
It was from one of his favorite books by Victor Hugo, the author his father had named him after. But Chief Finn hadn’t been familiar with The Hunchback of Notre-Dame when they’d first started spending time together.
What clue was he supposed to get from that? That Solomon had read his namesake’s full works since then and he just happened to like those words and the meaning behind it enough to get it tattooed on his skin? Had Hugo mentioned it once in passing?
He must have, but it didn’t matter. He couldn’t let it matter.
Solomon had made big moves before. Thoreau had been one of the last. Hugo was grateful his younger brother had found his calling, was close to getting his degree and was already a partner in a business he loved. It was Thor’s talent that made him successful, but Hugo understood it wouldn’t have happened the way it had without Solomon’s recommendation to his cousin, Seamus.
When he’d tried to thank him, he’d been offered his job back. Again. Solomon couldn’t help it, he knew, and he hadn’t understood why things couldn’t be put back to the way they’d been before. He’d wanted to keep working together, seeing each other every day and having the occasional clandestine meeting when they could no longer resist each other.
To Hugo it sounded like torture.
He knew his worth. But he’d wanted Solomon so much it took him a while to see that he was accepting less than what he needed, with no guarantee that things would ever change and every reason to believe they wouldn’t.
In more ways and for more reasons than one, leaving was the right decision. He loved what he did now. It felt right. His only regret had just shown up with a broken arm, charming his sister and apparently sporting more hair and a new tattoo.
Spira, spera. While I breathe…
Bronte pointed to a closed curtain in warning before sliding it back to reveal the man himself. Solomon was sitting on the narrow hospital bed, bare-chested and frowning in confusion at the cast that stopped just below his elbow.
His sister was right. That Viking look worked on him.
You were right too. You should have gone home.
Jesus, he was fine. Dark blond hair fell in messy waves to his shoulders, the shadow of stubble on his jaw giving him a dangerous air. Nothing at all like the uptight, by the book fashion he’d been sporting for as long as Hugo had known him.
He could never claim to be a pretty boy like his three youngest brothers. No quarterback dreamboat like his cousin, Owen, and not stylishly suave like Stephen the statesman. He was a Finn, there was no mistaking that, but no one would ever call Solomon beautiful.
He was all man. Words like hard, lanky, rugged and chiseled fit him to perfection. In a uniform, he could intimidate and inspire. Shirtless, he could steal a man’s breath. There was nothing soft about him.