Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
She presses her palms to her eyes, shoulders shaking just once. “It’s suffocating.”
I nod slowly, letting the quiet settle thicker between us. The room feels smaller now. The space between us is hotter. More fragile.
“None of that matters to me,” she whispers suddenly, dropping her hands and looking at me. “Not when I’m with you. Not your job. Not my name. Not what anyone thinks. I don’t care.”
For some reason, one I can’t even understand, I believe her.
I lean closer. My movements are slow. I’m careful not to scare her off.
She doesn’t pull away.
“You shouldn’t care,” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I’m glad you do.”
She tilts her head, leaning forward until her lips are only inches from mine. “I do,” her voice trembles. “More than I should.”
I kiss her. Because there’s nothing else left to do. Because if I don’t, I’ll lose my mind. Because she looks at me like I’m worth saving, and I’m selfish enough to want the lie.
The kiss starts quietly. Her lips part against mine, and I wrap my arms around her and pull her close to my body.
The kiss builds fast.
Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt.
Mine slip into her hair, tugging her closer until I’m not sure where she ends, and I begin.
The library disappears. The books. The names. The rules.
All gone.
Until it’s just her. And me. And a kiss that tastes like the beginning of something we’re not ready to name, but already can’t stop.
13
Victoria
All day, I imagine where the note will be.
Lorenzo has been leaving me notes every day since the roof.
When I finally head back to my room, after a day in the sun, I find it.
The note is folded and sitting on my desk. Each time I get a note from him, a tiny stone accompanies it. I don’t understand the rocks, but I keep each one regardless.
Now at dinner, I stare at my mother’s vacant smile, and I almost laugh.
But I don’t. I just smile into my wine water goblet, like I’m hiding something scandalous. Because I am.
Under the table, I unfold it, heart already racing.
Boathouse. Midnight.
No greeting. No name.
And it thrills me.
Sneaking out of the house has become a strange kind of art. I love it.
Love the feeling when I tiptoe through the house and out the door.
It feels illicit. Addictive. Romantic in a way none of my books ever prepared me for.
And tonight, after dinner, when I slip out the back door with socks on, and a hoodie pulled tight over my nightgown, I feel . . . alive.
The night air wraps around me like a robe, and my socks grow damp from the wet grass. I hurry toward the old boathouse. The house lights vanish behind me, swallowed by trees and distance.
With every step I take, I leave my world behind. The expectations. The suffocation. The girl I’m supposed to be.
Out here, I get to be someone else. Someone reckless. Someone his.
The boathouse is quiet. The black ocean glimmers in the distance.
He’s already there. Of course he is.
Leaning against a beam, he has his hands in his pockets and his hair a mess. He is already wearing that smug little smile that drives me insane.
“You’re late.” He pushes off the beam with one lazy step, his voice dripping with amused accusation.
“You’re early,” I counter, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind me with a soft thud.
“You say that every time,” he drawls, trailing his gaze down my hoodie, my bare legs, the hem of my nightgown peeking out, and then at my wet socks.
At his stare, I lean down and peel them off, placing them down on the floor beside the door.
“Then maybe stop being so damn punctual,” I shoot back, standing before brushing a strand of hair out of my face.
“I like being here before you,” he admits with a shrug, pacing a slow arc toward me. “Gives me time to pace.”
“How charming,” I tease, lifting an eyebrow.
“I do my best.” He crosses the space between us until he’s standing in front of me. He reaches his hand out and pulls lightly at the drawstring of my hoodie. “It’s not easy being this neurotic.”
The corner of my mouth lifts because seeing him nervous feels wickedly intoxicating. It means I’m not the only one undone.
He continues to stand in front of me, and I wait for him to do something. Maybe kiss me? He doesn’t, though, and it feels intentional. Like he’s giving me time to run if I want to.
Which I don’t.
The air between us crackles like a struck match.
“You wore the hoodie.” His eyes drop, and they turn dark and satisfied.
“It’s your hoodie,” I remind him, twisting the fabric between my fingers.
He smirks, low and hungry. “It’s better on you.”
I roll my eyes even though heat curls low in my stomach. “Talk about a line.”