Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
17A
EMILY
Cool winds whistle through the trees as I join the other writers around a fire.
There are thirteen of us, and there must be some unwritten code about a writer’s uniform because we're all wearing variations of plaid shirts and jeans. Only one girl is wearing heels to complete the look; the rest of us have opted for beige loafers or tennis shoes.
The lead instructor stands near the fire pit, clutching a thermos and going over the orientation.
“This year’s theme is focusing on yourself in isolation,” she says, gesturing toward our cabins. “All the amenities—the waterfront, the canoes, the meditation deck—are open 24/7. Free writing happens early mornings and evenings, and we’ll meet here every afternoon for prompts and craft discussion. Please be respectful of the quiet hours and the curfew, which is strictly midnight.”
“Now, let’s go around and get to know each other.” She smiles. “Let’s start with your first name, favorite book, and the name of the person you’re killing off in your current work-in-progress.”
We laugh, and she points to the girl in heels to start.
My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket once she utters her name.
Cole.
I hit ignore.
He calls again.
I serve him another ignore.
Cole
I’m home now.
We need to talk.
Where are you?
I stare at his words and scroll up to where he’d earlier ignored all of mine. As much as I want to talk to him, he doesn’t get to pick and choose when he talks to me.
Placing my phone on silent, I tuck it back into my pocket.
Hours after the social hour, I return to my room and hit the lights.
Then I freeze.
Cole is sitting on my bed, elbows on his knees, his reflection in the mirror before I even see his face. When I step in, he lifts his eyes to mine, sharp and unreadable.
“You weren’t going to tell me where you were?” he asks.
“I’ll only be here a week.” I cross my arms. “I figured you’d still be ignoring me by then.”
“I’m not ignoring you.” He rises slowly, towering, but controlled. “I’m processing things.”
“And what makes you think I’m not?”
“You seemed to be quite thrilled about our parents’ marriage from what I recall.”
“Because I stood around listening to how your dad proposed?” I scoff. “That’s not being ‘thrilled.’ That’s being fucking polite. Then again, from the way you’ve been acting, you clearly know nothing about that.”
“There’s a dictionary on the bookshelf behind you,” he says. “I think the word you meant to say instead of ‘polite’ is ‘fake.’ Maybe you should look that up.”
“Get out.” My voice cracks. “I didn’t ask you to come here, and visitors aren’t allowed.”
“I need to talk to you.” He moves closer, and as he nears, the pain in his eyes is clearer. “I hate that it has to be here, but you’ve left me no choice.”
“I’m glad I’m here, because I refuse to let you stay.” I drop my arms. “I’m also glad that I got to see the truest part of you this early. Makes it real damn clear that whatever the hell I feel for you is dead-ass wrong, because you're a fucking runner.”
“A what?”
“A. Fucking. Runner.” I spit the words. “You run away and leave me hanging when I need you. And I needed you, Cole. So fuck off and go back where you came from.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.” I reach behind me, hand fumbling for the doorknob.
He reaches past me and clicks the lock shut.
And then his hand just hovers there, pressed against the door, while we both breathe hard.
“I hated every second of being away from you,” he says, voice low, frayed. “I couldn’t paint. I couldn’t sleep. I thought leaving would make it easier. It didn’t. So if you need to hit me, scream at me—do it. But I’m not leaving you alone.”
“You already did,” I whisper.
He leans in. “Then let me prove I won’t.”
I expect the kiss to come fast, but it doesn’t. He just looks at me. And that pause—his restraint—sets my whole body on fire.
I grab his collar and kiss him first.
He groans against my mouth, catching me off guard as I push him back, flipping the power between us. I guide him to the edge of the desk, facing the mirror.
I can see us in the mirror, the truth of this pressed between glass and shadow.
His hands tighten on my hips, but he lets me take over. I shove his jacket off his shoulders, then roll my hips against him slowly, deliberately.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” I murmur.
“Tell me you still feel that way once I’m done with you,” he breathes.
He spins me around, kissing me harder, and lifts me onto the desk. The mirror reflects everything—my flushed skin, his mouth trailing down. He slides my shirt over my head, unclasps my bra, and runs his tongue along my collarbone, then lower.