Read Online Almost Matched (Almost Bad Boys) by A.O. Peart - Free Book Online Page B

drawn in such primal way to anyone else before.  
    “Sleep well,” he whispers in my hair. He smells faintly of something sensual—sweet and smoky cologne with leather-like undertones. The fragrance is amazing, and I think it is just like Colin—complex and mysterious.  
    “You too.” I step out of his embrace, trying to look anywhere but at him. Because if I do, I won’t be able to stop myself from kissing him. And my brand new rule says: not until date number four. Well, that’s about sex, but I suspect if we kiss, we will end up naked in bed right away.  
    I walk to the apartment building door, enter the code on a small keypad on the wall, and get inside. The hallway is dimly lit, and I welcome the lack of brightness. My eyes feel tired, and I decide to go to bed right away. I climb two flights of stairs as always, since I never bother with the elevator.  
    Soon after I slide under the covers. I sigh loudly when my cheek rests on the cool fabric of my pillow. I turn the side lamp off and close my eyes. And then my cell phone rings.  
    “Gaaaah!” I growl. “What now?” I consider not answering. Whoever it is, could wait till morning. It was a stupid idea to leave the phone on—and on my bedside table.  
    But I reach out and pick the damn thing up. I don’t recognize the number displayed on the screen. “Hallo?” I croak.  
    “Natalie.” It’s Colin!  
    I’m fully awake in a split second.  
    “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” he asks, apologetically.  
    “No,” I stifle a yawn. “It’s okay.”
    “Just wanted to wish you a goodnight.” There it is—that velvety-soft voice with a bit of gruff edges.  
    “That’s sweet. Thank you.” I manage to keep my own voice steady. It wants to quiver, matching my pounding heart.  
    “I’ll call you tomorrow. Goodnight, beautiful Natalie.”
    “Goodnight,” I choke out. I can’t remember any guy calling me beautiful. Hot, cute, sexy, but not beautiful. Ever. Holy smoke!
     

 

     
    SEVEN
    The person who is searching for his own happiness should pull out the dart that he has stuck in himself, the arrow-head of grieving, of desiring, of despair.
    Pali Tripitaka
     
    Two days after drinks at The Motto Bar and Grill, which technically was our first date, we are at the Seattle Art Museum to see a brand new photography exhibition. The black-and-white images of the ‘everyday people’ fascinate me. There is something familiar and natural in the way many of them are captured. Colin and I only take photos with our cell phones, but I’m itching to buy a real camera and take a class or two.  
    “Look at this one.” Colin grabs my hand and pulls me toward a wall with six photographs displayed in two rows. He points to one of them.  
    The picture depicts a little girl. She’s maybe eight; nine the most. Her eyes are huge; dark—as if her pupils took over the irises. Her round face is smudged with dirt, and her black hair hangs limp and loose around her narrow shoulders. She’s clad in what seems to be a dress, only that dress is more like a tattered scrap that hardly covers her small body. The girl is squatting down by a little boy, who’s curled around a dirty puppy. The boy’s grin is contagious, and despite the obvious poverty these children live in, he seems very happy. I smile at the scene in front of me, but something tugs at my heart.  
    “They are so little,” I hear my own voice coming out in just above the whisper. “And so sickly looking. They must be hungry and maybe even cold.”
    In my peripheral vision I see Colin nod, his eyes on the photograph. I turn my head to look at him. His eyes are opened wide, and his lips are parted. He’s staring the little girl, and I wonder what’s going through his mind. He seems so far away.  
    I touch his arm, “Colin?”
    He turns to me and smiles, and I swear, that smile is… desolate.  
    “What is it?”
    “Hmm?” he murmurs absentmindedly.  
    “You seemed very absorbed,