Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Please, don’t fucking say no.
“But maybe I have to try.”
“That night,” Ryker says, “you told me that if anything happened to her, you’d burn the whole fucking world to the ground. Well, something happened, and I don’t see any flames, James.”
I stare at my brother for a moment. “Are you saying I should have tried harder?”
“That night? No. There was nothing you could do that night. But now? I don’t see why you wouldn’t fight for what you want. For what you love and need in your life. Lena loves you, Gideon.”
Willow nods, and then takes a deep breath. “Okay, I think I have a plan. The only downside is that you can’t rush to the airport right now.”
“When can I rush to the airport?” I ask her.
“In ten days.”
“Fuck that.” I pace back and forth, ready to pull my hair out.
“It’s a really good plan,” she insists. “And if you need convincing, let me show you something.”
She disappears down a hallway and then returns to the room, carrying another framed piece of art.
It’s the mountains at sunrise.
Fuck, my Rebel is so fucking talented.
“She sent this to me as a gift,” Willow says. “The rest of her work is going on exhibit in ten days.”
My eyes snap up to hers. “Where?”
“In DC. She’s getting a whole exhibit, Gid. But I want you to look at this a little closer.”
I take it from her and stare at the colors. The oranges and pinks, how perfectly she captured the mountains with snowy peaks.
There’s no denying that this is the view from my back deck.
As my eyes skim down, I see that she signed it L. James.
James.
You could always use a pseudonym, you know . . .
My gaze whips back up to Willow, and she smiles smugly.
“Tell me about this plan.”
Later that night, I crawl into bed, still missing the warmth of my woman, but feeling hope for the first time in so long, I’m scared to trust it.
Scared to believe that this could work.
That she will want me back.
She’s using my name as her pseudonym.
Out of all the names in this world, she chose mine. And if she wants my name, I’ll give it to her for good.
For real.
I pull my cell out of the drawer of my bedside table and power it on, and then watch in shock as hundreds of texts start coming in.
Hundreds.
From a DC number, and when I page up to the beginning, my heart stumbles.
Unknown number: God, I miss you.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Settling into the bed, I change the contact information to “Rebel,” and then start to read every single message from my girl.
Chapter Thirty
Gideon
Every single day, my Rebel sends me texts. They haven’t stopped. I also haven’t replied.
I want to tell her everything that I have to say in person. I want to hold her and bury myself in her, my nose in her neck, and never let her go as I explain in precise detail how fucking badly I’ve missed her.
I’m a shell of a man without her.
But I’m on my way to her. With every mile this plane takes toward DC, my anxiety lessens. I’ll see her tonight.
I only have to endure a few more hours without her.
And then, I’m never letting her go again. I’ve also been in contact with the president, and I’ve made it clear that I’ll do whatever I need to do to make sure that Lena is mine. Even if that means I have to leave the ranch and move back to DC to be with her.
Because this life doesn’t work without her in it.
Settling into my seat in first class, I open the phone and page back to the beginning to read all her messages to me. I’ve read them a hundred times at least, and could likely recite them from memory, but it calms me to read her words.
Just as I get to the end, a new one comes in.
Rebel: I wish you were here.
I’m coming, baby.
I’m coming.
Chapter Thirty-One
Lena
My texts started being delivered sometime after the night of my birthday. My heart flew into my throat when I opened the text thread and saw that little word delivered at the bottom of the page. And every day since, I’ve been on pins and needles, waiting for him to reply. Or to call me.
Anything.
But he’s been silent.
So I’ve continued as normal, sending messages and talking to him, sharing my thoughts and feelings, and every day, they’re delivered.
Why isn’t he responding?
“You must be excited,” Mom says as she sips her coffee. “You’re hardly speaking. I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. I know this showing is going to be a huge success. I wish you’d let us scream about it. I wish you’d use your name.”
I shake my head and set my phone down, then turn my attention to my mother.
It’s the morning of the show, and we’re having breakfast together. Mom and Dad won’t come tonight because it would be a security nightmare, and I’m honestly okay with that.