Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
I get another set of soulful eyes on me, velvet-soft brown ones this time.
A small whimper tears loose.
Wilder’s voice comes out hoarse. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Carissa. I never meant to hurt you. But I did, though. And I get that.” He slides his hand down his pants, curses when he misses the front pocket, tries again, misses again, curses again, then finally gets a finger in. With some work, he wedges in another and then, miracle of miracles, he exhumes a folded piece of paper. “I couldn’t let this be the last thing you remembered.”
My heart doesn’t just clench. After all these years of telling myself that this man can’t be mine in any world and under any circumstances, it’s more than waves of longing. It’s sheer frustration at the world for having me fall in love with the exact wrong man, who is so damn right, all at the wrong time. Always, always the wrong time. Loving from a distance, in secret, is such a hard thing to do.
You’d think my heart would grow a thick skin after the first while, but it hasn’t. Sadly, no reptilian scale shield for me.
“If you wanted to apologize, you could have just called.” I have to resort to protection methods like making myself appear completely indifferent.
It’s the only way I’m going to get through this.
I’d set myself against never seeing Wilder again except for the way the rest of the world sees him. On stage. From a distance. In the periphery. When his songs come on the radio faster than I can change the station. Or when he pops up on my social media feeds the odd time I go on there, just because he’s so thoroughly implanted in my algorithm that I can’t dig him out.
He’s like a weed in my life.
Okay, he’s more like a surprise plant that pops up with surprising medicinal benefits and shockingly gorgeous flowers. Just with deep, deep roots.
Damn it.
It’s been almost long enough that I got my brain on board with my heartsick, aching, mopey body, but now it’s immediately back online in full brain mode, braining away, and I. Am. Spiraling.
“I couldn’t have,” he reasons.
He’s right. This isn’t the kind of thing you call about. If he had, I wouldn’t have answered. I would rather have thrown my phone off a cliff. Or just changed my number like a rational, logical person.
I make a croaking sound that has Woof Woof Dog tilting his head before he scampers off into the living room at the sound of something crashing. We don’t keep many breakable things around here anymore, mostly because they’ve all been destroyed by the furry feline menaces, so it’s probably one of the TV remotes.
“Do you want something to drink?” It’s a benign question, plus, it’s hot out. “Water? Iced tea? Iced coffee?”
He nods, leaving it up to me to awkwardly lead the way to the kitchen. It’s just down the hall and around the corner.
I’ve been to Wilder’s house. It’s not the kind of place most celebrities would own, but it is lovely. It’s mid-century with sloped ceilings, original kitchens, and a big pit sunk into the floor in the living room area for entertaining—I think? He also has an impressive studio, but that’s the only part of the house that’s been touched. The rest is just well-preserved.
This place?
It’s a bit of everything. It’s an older split-level house, and my mom and I have slowly been hiring contractors to renovate, but slow is the keyword. She doesn’t like people in the house when one of us isn’t here, and given that she works just about every day, there’s zero work being done here when I’m away. The house is functional, just outdated. But it has a brand new kitchen and bathrooms, because those were must-haves. The yard is also spectacular as my mom blows off steam by gardening.
Wilder’s house is also a gazillion square feet, but I refuse to be anything but proud of our country-style kitchen. It’s small, but not that small. We went with sage green custom cabinets with glass inserts, copper ceiling tiles, a matching copper sink, and butcherblock countertops. We picked light oak hardwood flooring. We wanted to add character to the house, even if it’s not a castle or brick, stone, or stucco like so much of the architecture here.
It feels incredibly crowded with Wilder in here. He stops on the other side of the island, while I pretty much race directly to the coffee maker and get a pot brewing.
My hands are shaking, so I spill grounds all over the counter.
I can feel his eyes burning into my back.
I spill water all over the place too, and nearly drop the glasses straight out of the cupboard.
Then I fumble with the cream and milk from the fridge.