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The pieces of the puzzle are slotting into place. He hasn’t said as much, but the losses his grandad and father experienced aren’t his only motive for closing himself off from the potential of getting hurt. It’s his own hurt too. Gramps lost his wife, but Becker lost his nana. Becker’s dad lost his wife, but Becker lost his mum. And then Becker lost his dad, too. He’s had his own fair share of losses. Too many for a man in his early thirties. And his security blanket, his self-preservation, is to cut off all feeling altogether. ‘So you have a dog,’ I mumble mindlessly, trying to gather my scattered thoughts.
He huffs a sarcastic puff of pissed-off laughter. ‘Yeah, and even his loyalty stands for shit.’ He gives me a filthy look, which I choose to ignore, given the delicacy of the conversation.
‘And your gramps?’ I say gingerly, looking for that tiny nugget that will seal the deal, slot everything into place.
‘He’ll die, break my heart, and then there will be no one else to leave me.’
Not even me? ‘You’ll be lonely,’ I whisper.
He rolls on to his side and gives me a forced smile. I can see crystal clear there is too much pain following Becker Hunt around. ‘I’ll be safe from heartbreak, princess.’
Safe from heartbreak. Because his heart is locked away with his other treasures. This is his haven, but it’s also his fortress.
He really is all for damage control.
I feel like I’ve hit the jackpot, except I don’t feel fulfilled for having my suspicions confirmed. I feel crushed, because clarity has just smashed me in the face. He’ll never love me because he won’t allow himself to. He’s broken my heart without even realising, and barely even trying. He thinks he’s not a commitment type, but he’s wrong. He’s committed to finding that lost treasure with nothing holding him back. Like a family. Like a woman. Like love. No risk of getting caught up in an emotional or moral battle with himself. It’s just him. Becker and his obsession with finding what three generations of his family failed to find. He wants to avoid the crippling guilt that so obviously weighs his grandfather down.
I’m devastated, but I give him an understanding nod, roll over and close my eyes. But I don’t go to sleep. I lie awake for hours wondering if I have the strength and gumption to do this to myself. His words contradict themselves. But his heart never will. Have I made a terrible, terrible mistake?Chapter 26I mustn’t fall in love with him.
I mustn’t fall in love with him.
I must not fall in love with him.
I can smell him.
I can feel him.
I blink sleepily, feeling suffocated and disorientated. I’m on my back and he’s spread all over me, trapping me beneath him. One of my hands is stuck to his arse, my other arm sprawled above my head, and my chin is resting on his shoulder. He’s breathing deeply, his tattoo rising and rolling as he releases each breath. My eyes roam, trying to decipher what I’m looking at, and my finger gently rests lightly on his skin, tracing the path of a thick grey line curving around one of his shoulder blades. He flinches, and his breathing pattern changes.
‘What is this?’ I ask quietly, ghosting my fingertip across his skin.
‘A tattoo,’ he answers seriously, his voice gritty from sleep.
My finger pauses again, and I nudge him, feeling him smiling against my neck. ‘Of what?’
‘The world.’
I frown and tilt my head, trying to focus better. It’s no good. The only times I’ve seen it he was too far away, and this morning he’s too close. Intrigue gets the better of me, and I’m soon wriggling to free myself. I need a closer look.
Reluctantly, Becker rolls off me, on to his back, and gives me tired eyes. ‘I want to see,’ I tell him, pulling at his shoulder. ‘Turn over.’
He hesitates for a few moments, but does what he’s told, lazily rolling on to his front. I notice he’s tense when I straddle him and park myself on his perfect butt, his back muscles bunching as he brings his hands up and rests his cheek on the top of them.
The world.
My ability to breathe steadily deserts me.
A map of the world. I’ve seen it before.
My mouth drops open, my eyes darting across the expanse of his skin, absorbing it all. And there’s a lot to absorb. Fine lines run into thick lines, curved lines are joined by straight lines, the edges of countries shaded deeper. My finger hovers over the details, tracing the millions of outlines without touching them, like I could smudge them and ruin it if I touch it. The detail isn’t only in the physical drawing of the map. It’s also in the wealth of information incorporated – a compass on his right shoulder, a grid shadowing his whole back over the map displays time zones, longitude, and latitude. Every country is labelled, every sea named, each continent titled. Every single piece of geographical information is noted somewhere on Becker’s back, like a personal reference. Yet I know without question that he will know everything here without having to look it up. On his back or on the hidden map. Every intricate detail has been applied in various shades of grey, making it almost three-dimensional, and his skin beneath could be mistaken for aged paper, making the map appear antique. Just like the real thing. It’s breathtaking. I could look at it for hours.
