Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34995 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 175(@200wpm)___ 140(@250wpm)___ 117(@300wpm)
One. Two. Three.
"Thea."
I freeze.
He's leaning against the building. Hands in his pockets. Snow dusting his shoulders. And his expression—
The mask is gone.
"Santino." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "What are you doing here?"
"Walk you home?"
"I'm fine—"
"Walk you home." Not a question this time. A statement.
I should say no. Should tell him I need space, that I'm being professional, that this is exactly what I shouldn't do.
But there's something different in his voice. Something raw. The mockery is gone. The professional polish is gone. There's just this—this heat in his eyes that makes my pulse jump.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
We walk.
Silently.
Snow falling around us in fat, lazy flakes that catch in my hair and melt on my cheeks. My breath comes out in white clouds. Him matching my pace exactly—step for step, like we're synchronized—and I notice this even though I'm trying not to notice anything about him.
One streetlight. Two. Three.
The silence is heavy. Not comfortable. Not the kind of quiet that comes when two people are at ease. This is the kind of silence that feels like a living thing between us. Breathing. Waiting.
Four streetlights. Five.
"Who was he?" His voice breaks the silence, and it's rougher than usual. Strained.
"Who?"
"The man. At the café. Who was he?"
"Warren?" I glance at him, but he's looking straight ahead, his jaw tight. "He runs the GED program at the community center. I helped with his classes last year."
"You were laughing."
“He was telling me about—”
"And you touched his arm."
I stop walking. "What?"
He stops too. Turns to face me. And his expression—
The mask is gone again. Completely gone. And what's underneath is something dark and barely controlled. His hands are in his pockets, but I can see them clenched into fists, can see the tension in his shoulders, can see the way his chest rises and falls with each breath
like he's been running.
"You touched his arm," he says again, and his voice has gone very quiet. Very controlled. Like he's holding something back with effort. "You were relaxed with him. Easy. You laughed at his jokes. You leaned forward when he talked. And you’ve never been like that with me.”
"That's different—"
"How?" The word comes out sharp. "How is it different?"
"Because Warren is just—he's just Warren. He's safe—”
“While I’m not?”
I look at him helplessly. “Do you really not know the answer to that?”
We stand there in the falling snow. Five feet between us. Maybe four. I'm counting without meaning to, and I hate that I'm counting, hate that even now my brain is measuring the distance.
Three feet.
He took a step closer without me realizing it.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been serving you all this time—”
“You know what I mean. And I want to know why. I thought we had an understanding.”
“I...”
“But something changed, and you stopped believing in me again.”
Did I?
“What changed, Thea? Did someone talk to you?”
All I can do is shake my head. I just know I won’t be able to repeat Kimberly’s words without breaking down, and I...I don’t want to look even more pathetic in his eyes than I already am.
"Thea." He's close enough now that I can see the snowflakes catching in his hair, melting on his shoulders. Close enough that I can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. "Tell me what happened.”
"Nothing happened."
"Do not lie to me."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His hand lifts, and for a second I think he's going to reach for me, but he just runs it through his hair instead. Frustrated. "Something changed. One moment we were dancing, and you were—you were there. With me. And then after, you retreated. You went back to being invisible. And I want to know why."
“Kimberly.”
His jaw tightens. "Didn’t I tell you not to believe anything she says?”
“It’s just...”
“She’s more honest than I am, is that?”
When he puts it that way, I suddenly feel rather silly.
"You saw what she wanted you to see." He takes that last step. No space between us now. "All she cares about is hurting you.”
And she succeeded in doing that, I realize now, because of my own insecurities.
“Stop letting her cause trouble between us.” His hand lifts again, and this time he does reach for me. His fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up so I have to look at him. "Stop letting her forget how precious you are—”
“But what if she’s right?” The words burst out before I can stop them. "Look at me, Santino. Look at what I am. A waitress with coffee stains and bald tires and a studio apartment that's barely bigger than a closet. And you—you're—"
"I am tired," he says quietly, and his thumb brushes my cheekbone once. Twice. "Of being what people expect. Of being the driver. The champion. The name on the trophy. The man who dates women who know which fork to use and how to smile for cameras and how to look perfect at galas." His other hand finds my waist, pulls me closer. "I came to Jackson Hole to stop being that person. And you—" His voice drops lower. "You made me feel like just Santino. Like I could be something other than fast. Something other than empty."