Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
It makes no fucking sense but I feel it, deep in my bones. This sort of rightness when she’s near. There’s no stress or worry about all the fucked-up things in my life. It’s just her and me. She makes me feel normal. Better.
Worth something.
When I’m with her, my mind doesn’t race with a million thoughts I can’t even make out. There is no pressure or fear. Only calm that settles like fresh mountain air, allowing me to just…breathe.
She is my air.
I swallow, my legs restless, my pulse an unsteady rhythm in my veins as I stare at the entrance to the parking lot in front of her building like a fucking creep. My fingers twitch at my sides, the urge to move clawing at me.
She’s probably laughing at something he said right now.
That laugh. Her laugh.
The soft one she does when something actually gets to her, when she’s in it instead of just being polite. I hear it in my head, clear as day.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that only makes it worse.
Because now I see it, the way she tilts her head when intrigued. The way her eyes shine a brighter baby blue when something surprises her, when she’s caught up in a moment and doesn’t even realize how fucking beautiful she looks. The way she bites her lip, trying not to let her little smile break free ’cause then you’d know she’s feeling what you are and she’s not sure you want that—that airy, almost flirty sensation.
And Prescott.
Leaning in.
Saying something low and effortless, something smart and charming that makes her tilt her head toward him.
That makes her reach out and nudge him just for an excuse to feel him under her fingertips.
That makes her look at him the way she looks at me.
A sharp, burning pressure builds behind my ribs, pressing into my lungs, making it impossible to fucking breathe.
She wouldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
But what if she is?
No, she’s not like that.
But what if I’m the one who’s been wrong this whole time and there’s nothing stopping her?
What if, right now, she’s not thinking about me at all?
What if this is the start of something real, something more, and I’m just standing here, letting it happen?
The thought rips through me, hot and sharp, a flash of white-hot panic I can’t ignore following.
It’s not a date. Not really. Right?
She said yes, though. That has to mean something.
But it’s a fundraiser. Work stuff. Sort of.
Isn’t it?
But she looked like a fucking angel in her dress. A sexy, little angel.
Shit. It’s a fucking date.
But she baked for us before she left. For me. If going out tonight meant something, why would she do that? She would have just made cookies or something.
No, she made strawberry shortcake. Shortcake! She had to be trying to tell me something.
Trying to wake me the fuck up?
Oooor I’m just reading way too much into…everything and nothing is different. Nothing at all has changed.
So why does it feel like everything changed the second the door closed behind her, and I just watched it happen?
This…this can’t be just another mistake of mine.
It can’t be just another thing I look back on and regret.
This is her.
Paige.
My Paige.
My pulse pounds in my ears, my chest tightening so much, it feels like something inside me is about to snap.
I scrub my hands over my face, but it doesn’t erase the images burning into my brain.
Prescott reaching for her hand. Paige letting him. Maybe even liking it.
No.
No, no, no.
Why didn’t I say something? She looked at me, didn’t she? Like she wanted to make sure it was okay with me? Not for permission but out of respect because she feels this too?
She baked for me, and I just let her go, watched her walk right out the door. Sure, I didn’t know she baked until after she left but still. That had to mean something. It had to. But maybe it didn’t.
I’m full-on pacing now, wearing down the grass along the side of her building like a stalker. I tug on the ends of my hair, telling myself to chill.
But it’s nearly nine thirty, and he said she’d be back by eight, so where the fuck are they?
An image flashes before my eyes—him leading her into some fancy downtown condo—and literal vomit rises in my throat.
Shit.
Oh god.
Oh fuck.
I freeze in place, cold, hard determination flowing through me and allowing me to think clearly for the first time in the last few hours.
No.
Not oh fuck.
Oh fuck no.
Yanking my phone out, I damn near jog across the yard, hitting Call on Cameron’s name.
She answers on the first ring. “Hey, Chaser, how’d it go?”
“Give me the address, Cam.”
“The what?” I hear some shuffling around. “Chase, where are you?”
“I know you have her location like I know Brady has mine. Give me the address. Please.”
“I’m putting you on speaker to look but you’re freaking me out. What’s wrong? Did she text for an escape?”