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“That’s a plus,” I agreed. I pushed past him, taking my journal with me, only to find that he had cleared out the glass-littered bedspread, propped up the bent bed leg, and put the room to rights. “Thanks for fixing the bed.”
“I called the front desk. The clerk was more than willing to let me vacuum up the mess myself. Unfortunately, the party upstairs seems to be a stag night for the manager’s cousin. So the noise levels won’t be lowering anytime soon. Also, the clerk mentioned something about beggars can’t be choosers? Do you know what that means?”
“No.” I shook my head, shrugging. “The noise is OK, actually. It reminds me of when I lived in Detroit, above this noodle shop and karaoke bar. Awesome mai fun. Baaaad impersonations of Britney Spears.”
I slid into the bed and tried not to think about the relative cleanliness of the sheets. Collin settled into his chair and propped his feet on the bed.
“How did you know about the light fixture?”
He pursed his lips as he turned the page of his book. “It’s not important.”
“Right,” I muttered. Unreasonably irritated by this response, I rolled away from him and pulled the blankets up to my chin. “Good night, Collin.”
I closed my eyes, letting the weight of exhaustion drag me into soft, dark near-unconsciousness.
“I see glimpses.”
My eyes snapped open at the sound of his voice. I propped myself up on my elbows, blinking at him. “I’m sorry?”
“I see glimpses of the future. That’s what I meant earlier by ‘it worked.’ It’s been days since it’s worked properly. I finally got a quick impression, and it was you, getting pelted with broken glass from the broken fixture. I believe it was because you were finally still, not able to make plans or decisions.”
“One, that’s kind of a dickish thing to say. And two, thank you for saving me from a face full of broken glass.”
“You’re very welcome. I quite like your face. I would like it to remain intact.”
Lord help me, I actually blushed and struggled for something to say. All I could come up with was, “So you’re psychic?”
“Only vaguely, but over time, I’ve seen the signs of events and can interpret a larger picture. After a while, all of the possible scenarios seem repetitive.”
“And that’s how you knew to throw the coffee out the window earlier?”
He grinned. “No, you were eyeing that cup and my face in a way that could only mean injury for me.”
I sat up, facing him. “Is that why you try so hard to control your environment?”
“Every choice, every change in plans, every shift in direction is a chance for different outcomes. I see them all. If I allow too many of those variables, the effect is disorienting and overwhelming.”
“That’s why you try so hard to avoid contact with people? To avoid being overwhelmed?” I guessed. “And what does that have to do with your anti-fast-food-wrapper obsession?”
“Well, frankly, I find the idea of leaving week-old food wrappers in your car to be pointless and disgusting,” he told me. “But there are other issues. The more cluttered an environment, the more likely it is that an accident will occur. If there are too many potential outcomes in a situation, it can become disorienting for me.”
“But if you can see an accident coming, how did you end up in a plane crash?”
“I didn’t see it coming,” he said. “I’d flown a handful of times without problems. I didn’t see anything going awry when we boarded. And then, an hour into the flight, the pilot was offered a piece of candy. It was an impulsive gesture from a copilot who normally didn’t like to share. The candy had nuts in it, which caused a violent allergic reaction in the pilot—”>His nostrils flared as he inched closer, a purring noise rumbling from his chest and through my own. His lips traced a cool path down my jugular, and my eyes rolled up, just catching sight of a huge black spider scuttling under the bed. Acute arachnophobia snapped me out of my hormone-fueled daze.
“What the hell?” I yelped, just as the glass globe from the light fixture dropped and shattered against the bed, right where my head had rested just a minute before. Collin threw his arm over my head as glass tinkled down against his shoulders, the carpet around our heads.
“It worked!” he exclaimed, grinning down at me. It was like the moon breaking through storm clouds, white and brilliant and welcome. His eyes slid down my skin to assess any damage.
“Yes, throwing me to the ground was a very effective method of getting me out of bed.”
“No, the light, I saw it—” He seemed so relieved that a tacky light fixture had nearly crashed into my head. “I saw it.”
My brow furrowed. “I’m … glad?”
He grinned down at me, and suddenly, I was acutely aware of the fact that he was sprawled between my unclad thighs. The silky fabric of his suit chafed pleasantly against my skin as his legs tangled with mine. He leaned in close, the faintest stirring of air against my lips.
He leaned down, brushing his lips across mine tentatively, then pulling my lip into his mouth.
