The Multitude, стр. 30
That little tidbit sent a tingle down his spine. “Sometimes I dream in Latin,” he said.
She stopped pacing. “You and I weren’t thrown together by accident, were we? Not many people dream in tongues.”
Brewster swallowed. As creepy strange as the world had gotten lately, it hadn’t redefined itself until that moment. Carla stood as living proof his Latin dreams didn’t have a logical foundation. Yes, as a child, he might have overheard his language-professor dad spouting some Latin when preparing lesson plans, but she hadn’t been there.
His head swam. He shifted up to the edge of the bed to clear his vision.
She came down beside him, gripped his hand, squeezed tight.
“Weirded out?” The shakiness of his voice certainly betrayed his own anxiety.
“I have been for a long time. But now I’ve got this…vulnerability. What happens when I get swept away again? What if I forget we ever met?” Her voice cracked. “Or you forget me?”
“No way.”
She touched his nose with a fingertip, smiled, and got back in bed, this time facing him, not the wall. “You bring to mind a line from Anne of Green Gables. Ever read it?”
He eased down beside her. “I’m not sure a guy should admit that.”
“We’re kindred spirits,” she said.
He gazed into her steady eyes, basking in the warmest glow he’d ever experienced.
“Tell me what happened last night, from your perspective,” she said.
“You raced for the door like Cinderella and disappeared, but instead of a shoe, you left your card behind.”
“That’s when I woke up.”
“I looked for Rag Thyme today,” he said.
“It’s fourteen hours east of here by car…and a year ago.” Carla rolled. “Spoon with me some more.”
They’d both had too much wine. A complete loss of inhibition lurked only one wayward touch away. He shifted closer but took care to put his hand somewhere relatively safe—on her arm. And he stayed on topic. “Let’s compare notes about our dreams.”
“Tell me your life story, instead,” she whispered.
“Which one?”
“The one where Latin isn’t spoken.”
“I’m a wannabe with a big mortgage.” In the darkness of the room, in a world gone so wacky that possible embarrassment was the least of his fears, he manned up and told her everything. Bad career choices, failing finance companies, struggling Russian truckers, unpublished novels, and his theory that life was like a running game in football, requiring its players to keep pounding away, pounding away, until finally, by the third or fourth quarter, holes would open.
She took his hand. “You’re a brave man.”
“Nah. Just some random clown who dreams in Latin. What about you? What’s your story?”
She went quiet for a long moment. “I’ve been falling through cosmic wormholes lately. My soul keeps drifting away from my body.”
The fear in her voice shook him as much as the haunting imagery. He scrunched closer and paced his breathing with hers to form an alliance against shared anxiety.
“I like your touch,” she said.
“Same here.” Their remarkably easy bond triggered his fear of bad luck, and his mind raced to memories of the failed relationships he’d glossed over while telling Carla about himself. He’d always suffered the effects of too much ambition, only rarely allowing himself to feel content. For the ambitious, anything other than purpose and accomplishment was a distraction. As a result, he’d been labeled too serious or humorless or—worst of all—boring by the various girlfriends who’d had enough of him sooner or later.
Beth Holiday, the most recent of his flings, was a high school English teacher who had enough starry-eyed cheerfulness in her own disposition to carry the both of them for six great months but not quite enough to keep her from bolting to Denver when an opportunity to teach creative writing at a private college presented itself. She left with kind words and sage advice, telling him to find someone who needed a hero. He’d kill two birds with one stone that way. The woman would fulfill his romantic needs while simultaneously satisfying his inner need to save someone.
He hadn’t followed Beth’s advice, choosing instead to go it alone after she dumped him. Playing the role of somebody’s hero would have required long-term commitment and plenty of energy, but his job at Crestview Finance sapped everything he had.
Now, though, he lay beside a woman who needed a champion and offered an elixir of beauty, creativity, humor, and intelligence in return. In comparison, his career came across as a cold-hearted, passionless bitch of a mistress. The time had come to put a good relationship ahead of a lousy job. “Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.
“I’m seeing you.” Carla’s soft answer came with no small hint of pleasure. She intertwined her fingers with his.
“I have to warn you, I’ve been called selfish and boring and a workaholic and—”
“I’m seeing you,” she insisted, “for as long as you’ll have me.”
Brewster squeezed the hand of a damsel in distress who thought she lived eight hundred miles and a dozen months away. “And I’m seeing you, for as long as you’ll put up with me.”
Carla wasn’t eccentric or a little off or downright crazy anymore. Brewster cast his lot with heaven-sent. He couldn’t freeze time at this moment of contentment forever. Sooner or later, whatever forces had swept her away a night ago might do so again. But he took comfort from the notion any wormholes hovering nearby had already proven to be benevolent. They’d brought her to his home twice so far, and they surely wouldn’t end a game unfinished. Otherwise, the first two visits would have been pointless.
If Carla wanted to see him for as long as he’d have her, the wormholes would be there at the ready.
The gentle hum of arousal crept over him. He sensed heat in Carla as well, but a hero would want her to feel protected, not craved. So he controlled his urges and surrendered to the sandman, ready to drift away whenever and wherever, as