Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
A story that, for one incredible instance, became ours.
A story he let me in on.
Just a flash of the first page.
Before the book slammed shut.
But I’m not satisfied with that. I refuse for that to be it. I want to read so much more.
—8—
Diego
There’s this huge tree in the backyard.
One of its branches keeps tapping the roof when the wind’s all over the place.
But that’s not why I can’t sleep a fucking wink.
The tree is just easier to blame than Wyatt Callahan’s mouth.
His lips.
Which have been torturing me with every breath I draw in while lying flat on this unforgiveable goddamned bed.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, jaw tight, fingers tightened into fists over my chest like I’m holding myself down.
I can still feel him.
Not just his mouth. His hands, too. One on my face, as gentle as an orchid petal, like I didn’t just creep onto his porch like a kiss-stealing monster in the night.
I didn’t have the balls to kiss him.
He came the rest of the way.
Kissed me first.
This is his fault, really. I would’ve backed away. Chickened out right then without knowing what his kisses tasted like. Felt like.
Without dreaming of them right now.
Wanting so much more.
Where else would his hands have gone, had I let him?
Did Wyatt want me before that moment on the porch? Has he been holding back? Or did I give him the idea of wanting me when I pinned him to the wall?
I want to go back over there right now.
Nail him to the wall again.
And do so much more to that man than rip his clothes off.
I shove my palms into my eyes until stars burst behind them. No, I scold myself. Stop it. That’s how it starts. You taste one thing. Then you want it all. Then you’re peeping out your window seeing if he’s awake every hour. Staring at a cursed orchid like it’s him haunting your dining room. Standing at the sink where a freshly-cleaned plate he gave you still waits to be returned to its owner.
The plate sits there on the kitchen counter, staring at me like unfinished business every time I pass it.
It’s just a fucking plate.
Not a debt. Not a message. Not an excuse to see him again.
Not a chance to accidentally kiss him again.
And to have my hands on him.
His hands on me.
Like my hands are right now, sneaking under the sheets.
Taking a handful of me.
Feeling it harden.
Biting my lip. Grunting. Panting.
Diego … he moans in my ear, from far away.
Suddenly I’m out of bed, sheets kicked off. I’m heading down the hall to the back door because this house is too full of thoughts.
The second I’m outside, I can breathe again.
Middle of the night.
Precious, tasty oxygen.
I drop my ass right beneath the oak tree that keeps tapping on the roof, seated next to a pair of tiny solar-powered lights my tía and tío stuck into the ground to light up the backyard at night. It isn’t much light, but it keeps me from knowing whether I’m sitting on a fresh mound of grass or an anthill, so there’s that.
I lean my head back against the bark and watch the branches high above me sway from one side to the other, all of their leaves crunching up together and spreading apart like a weird accordion with no music, hiding the stars one second, then letting them out the next.
That’s when I hear the humming.
No. Talking.
Muffled talking. Nearby.
After a second, I get up and follow the sound to the fence.
It’s Wyatt.
I’ve never seen his backyard. There’s a kind of greenhouse thing attached to the side of his back patio full of potted plants, vines growing this way and that, spurts of color here and there. He’s got fairy lights strung up everywhere, from the back door to a nearby tree, wrapped around a tall stick, draped across some stone birdbath, and tracing the edge of the greenhouse.
I see Wyatt inside it. His phone to his ear. Talking to someone at whatever-it-is-o’clock, hours before sunrise. He’s quiet enough, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in all of Spruce who can hear him right now.
“I know, I know.” His arms are folded. He’s pacing inside the greenhouse, now and then bending slightly to peer at one of the plants. “I never learn, right? You always seem to know when …” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Rubs his eyes. “… when to say no. And I never say no.” He laughs. Even from all the way over here, I can hear a strained, fake-ass laugh. “Yep. You know better. I’m sure lucky to have a … a big sis like you.”
Hmm.
Didn’t know he had a sister.
“No, no, don’t call him.” He stops pacing. “Connie. I’m serious. Why? Because—Connie.”
I frown.
Don’t call who?
“Because threatening a customer of mine with litigation you are in no way licensed to provide is—Connie, I know, but—” Wyatt throws his eyes up to the ceiling like he’s praying for strength. “I know you’re trying to help. Yes, I’m grateful. No, I didn’t mean to sound like—Yes, you know how to get things done. Always do.”