Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60482 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 302(@200wpm)___ 242(@250wpm)___ 202(@300wpm)
"Mischief," he drawls, voice deeper than I remember, rougher around the edges. "Well, I’ll be damned.”
The sound of my nickname in his mouth makes my stomach hollow out. Years of silence, and he thinks he can just show up with that lazy smile? I want to scream at him, demand to know why he left without a word, why he never called, why he fucking threw me away. Instead, I'm rooted to the spot, betrayed by my own body's reaction.
He's transformed from the lanky boy I knew into something else entirely. His shoulders stretch the worn fabric of his black t-shirt, and faded jeans hang low on narrow hips. Tattoos I don't recognize snake up his forearms and disappear beneath his sleeves. His dirty blonde hair is shorter on the sides now, longer a and messy on top, and those storm-gray eyes still see too much. The boyish softness is gone, replaced by sharp angles and a day's worth of stubble that makes him look dangerous.
I've watched his shows, seen him on billboards, but the screen flattened him, made him safe. In person, he takes up too much space, steals too much oxygen. The scent of him—cologne and something woodsy—hits me, and memories flood back with such force I nearly stagger. I remember the midnight rides on his bike, his arms around me as he taught me to throw a proper punch, the way he used to look at me like I was something precious.
Until he became famous, a rockstar, someone too good for the likes of me.
I hate how my body remembers him. Hate how, despite everything, something deep in my chest unfurls at the sight of him.
"Cat got your tongue?" He grins, dimple appearing in his left cheek, and I remember pressing my thumb to that exact spot once, wondering what it would be like to kiss him there.
I should slam the door in his face. I should tell him to go to hell.
Instead, I stand frozen, caught between the girl I was and the woman I've become, while Travis Phoenix walks back into my life like he never left it.
God damn it.
I don’t think I am ready for this.
“SORRY, DO I KNOW YOU?”
It’s meant to come out as sarcasm, but instead, it comes out as if I am snapping. Maybe I am. I don’t know how I feel in this moment, my mind is going a million miles an hour. My pulse hammers in my ears as he tilts his head. Great—now he’s laughing at me.
“Baby, you wound me,” he slaps a hand over his chest and pushes off the pole, immediately making me step back, as if getting too close might be dangerous.
Lord knows it probably is.
“Why are you here, Travis?” My words come out clipped and I try to keep it together, to act like I don’t care, but I do. I care so much it fucking burns.
He leans in, one eyebrow arching, grey eyes flickering with amusement and something darker. “Last time I checked, I lived around these parts.”
“Since when? Last time I checked, you up and left, not telling anyone where you were going and now you’re acting like you should just be welcomed back.”
“You’re full of fire, Mischief.”
I ignore him. “Why are you here?”
“Business,” he murmurs, then changes the subject. “You’re lookin’ mighty fine, Mischief. Never could picture you all grown up, but I’m certainly not disappointed.”
My stomach twists. I force a growl and turn away, heart spiking. Two minutes and he’s already burrowed under my skin.
“Are you going to invite me in, or is there a secret password?”
I meet his challenge with my best glare.
He laughs again, lips curving wickedly. “Come now, don’t be angry at me.”
I don’t get to answer, because the moment is cut short. “Travis!” Chief’s booming shout cuts through the tense silence. He comes down the stairs with a grin so wide it hurts. I mumble, half-protest, half-relief, and back up the steps.
He loves Travis like he is his own son.
Jaq appears behind him, and I immediately frown. She hasn’t even bothered to get dressed properly, and she is grinning at Travis like he is meant to see her and fall to his knees. She is wearing my father’s shirt and by the look of it, nothing else. Her makeup is smudged, mascara coating her cheeks, and I don’t dare think about why.
“Ew,” I mutter.
Travis and Chief swivel to stare at me, as if they’re unsure if I actually just said that out loud.
I did.
I’m in a bad fucking mood.
“Sorry, dad, but shame on you,” I add, voice cold.
Then I turn and walk away.
Nobody says anything, and I am glad because I’m at breaking point and if they push me, I might just lose it. I slip into my room, slam the door, and lean against it, trying to hush the frantic pounding in my chest. I convinced myself I’d never see him again—then here he is, as careless and magnetic as ever. He covers everything with humor, and it fucking hurts me because he is acting like my pain doesn’t matter.