Chapter Seven
ALED
Pinned against the crumbling brick wall, Aled wondered absently if the “passionately forceful” SEAL intended to kiss him. Wyatt hadn’t moved. In fact, he’d swayed even further forward until their noses almost touched.
Do I want to be kissed?
I do.
How… inconvenient.
Why am I always attracted to men so far out of my league?
“You all right, ducky?” An older woman walked past, batting Wyatt on the back, though her attention was focused on Aled. “Is this beast harassing you?”
Aled couldn’t help a quiet huff of laughter. “No, he’s not bothering me.”
“Are you certain? My daughter’s with the police. I can have her here in a second.” She continued to glare at the massive SEAL with an air of apparent disapproval. “You keep yourself out of trouble.”
Wyatt snapped a crisp salute at her and smiled broadly, making Aled a bit weak in the knees at the sudden brightness from the usually stern and stoic military man. “Yes, ma’am.”
“None of that.” She swatted the six-foot-six SEAL on the arm and continued on her way. “Keep your nose out of trouble.”
“Just my nose?” Wyatt stepped away from Aled, arms folded across his chest while he stared impassively at him as though considering something serious. “How long is your hiatus from your university?”
“Until I’m ready.” Aled knew that eventually, his professors would push him to return and finish up his masters. He couldn’t prolong his sabbatical forever. “Sooner rather than later.”
“So, no immediate deadlines or exams?”
“None—why?” Aled narrowed his eyes with a sudden sense of apprehension. “The answer is no to whatever plan you’ve thought up.”
Wyatt caught him by the forearm. “What’s one plant thing you’ve always wanted to see? What’s your botany wet dream?”
“My botany wet dream?” Aled had no idea how to process the visions that conjured in his mind. “Can I quote you in my thesis?”
“Sure. I’m serious. What’s one green thing guaranteed to give you a semi?” Wyatt continued to guide Aled down the walk back toward his flat. He appeared content to ignore the spluttering beside him. “You can’t tell me there are no exotic species of flower you’ve always wanted to see.”
“I can think of a few. You still haven’t said why.” Aled barely ventured beyond the shop around the corner. He couldn’t imagine going anywhere faraway. “Not sure I want to tell you.”
Some days, Aled didn’t get out of bed—couldn’t. All the mirrors in his flat had been turned or covered, anything to keep him from having to see all of the scars, most of which would never entirely fade. He struggled at times to shower, not wanting to see the marks.
After six months, Aled had given up on the therapist visits. She told him the same things, over and over. None of it ever connected with him. His late-night conversations with Wyatt and occasionally with Hamish helped more than she did.
What does she know about torture, anyway?
In his clearer-headed moments, Aled could admit that his own issues, and not the doctor, blocked the healing process. Olivia, his therapist, had served in the military. After losing both of her legs in an explosion, she’d returned home, gotten a degree, and begun her work with victims of trauma.
She wasn’t the problem.
He was.
His friends in the botany department at Cardiff University tried to help. He’d pushed them all away. Trust issues had blossomed for him almost immediately after his return to Wales; he couldn’t help watching everyone with sceptical eyes.
Mr Positive had blossomed into Mr Negative. Olivia had offered several suggestions for returning to himself. Aled hadn’t thought any of it would actually bring back his former zest for life.
It might, though.
“Well?” Wyatt brought him out of his thoughts.
“The Welwitschia mirabilis.” Aled had always wanted to see the rare plant in the Namib Desert. “It’s native to areas of Namibia all the way to Angola.”
“You want to go where and see what?” Wyatt followed him across the den in his flat. “Namibia?”
“You asked.”
“Your wet dream is a whatchamacallit in the middle of a desert?” Wyatt perched carefully on the arm of the sofa, his long legs stretched out across the carpeted floor. “Takes all kinds. Think you can pack in an hour?”
Don’t think about wet dreams.
Don’t think about Wyatt having one.
Don’t think about him naked.
“No.” Aled didn’t know if he wanted to refuse to go or merely ask for more time to prepare. If he had time, he would likely think himself into not going. “Are you serious?”
“Always.” Wyatt nudged Aled with his boot. “Well?”
“Yes.” He shook his head for a second, surprised at the word coming out of his own mouth. He took a slow breath and realised refusing to go would take him backwards in his recovery. His dream of making a life in botany research couldn’t come to fruition from the inside of his cramped flat. “Yes, let’s do it. How are we going to do it? Not sure you can fly to Namibia on a whim.”
He had most definitely lost his mind. Over the months, the increased contact with the American had come with a slowly building attraction—and attachment to the man. Travelling with the SEAL would likely only serve to make it worse.
“Let me worry about the details. You pack.” Wyatt stood up and took Aled gently by the shoulders to direct him toward the hall. “Go on.”
I’m going to Namibia.
I’m going back to university.
I am going to be okay.
I will.
Stop thinking about wet dreams.