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)
I square my shoulders. “What does it matter to you?”
His eyes darken. “Because I know what fuckin’ men think when they see women dressed like that.”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m not your problem.”
I turn to walk away, but he stops me, yet again. “I still fuckin’ care about what happens to you.”
I meet his stare, unblinking. “Well, you don’t need to. I’ve grown up. I’ve changed. Years of living and learning made me more than that love-sick girl you once knew.”
He steps back, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle jumping. “Where are you going?”
“None of your business. Have a good night, Travis.”
I turn on my heel and leave. He watches me go, every unsaid word hanging thick between us. Then I’m gone, the night swallowing me as I step into a world where I write my own rules.
For once.
“VI, I STILL CAN’T BELIEVE he is actually at your house,” Reagan says, her voice a mixture of awe and exasperation as we stroll beneath the dim glow of the street lamps. The sidewalk is slick from an earlier rain, and the distant thrum of late-night traffic hums in the background.
I roll my eyes, pushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “Are you honestly still hung up on this?” I ask. I shiver as a wave of wind washes over me, making me realize just how little I am wearing.
She shakes her head, fanning herself lightly. “I can’t get over it. It’s hilarious that you just think of him as a guy you know, but to the rest of the world, he’s Travis Phoenix. The Travis Phoenix. It’s insane.”
“Well, he was never that to me. I knew him before he became all rockstar famous.”
“True. I guess you two are like some kind of soulmate drama mix...” She trails off, searching for the right phrase to finish her already insulting sentence.
“We are not soulmates, Reagan,” I cut in, a dry laugh escaping me. “One kiss when I was seventeen. End of story.”
“But it’s so much more than that,” she insists, her eyes alight. “You were inseparable back then. You told me everything—how you laughed together until three in the morning, how you fell asleep on his shoulder during movies, how he was always there for you and he made you feel safe...”
Her romantic version of events makes my chest tighten. I drop my gaze to the pavement. “That was teenage nostalgia. He left, I moved on. No hidden storybook romance here.”
“Okay, okay,” she says, holding up both hands in surrender. “But tonight—can we just pick up a couple of drinks, lose ourselves on the dance floor, and maybe make out with strangers because I have not made out with a stranger in quite some time and I think I could use the distraction.”
A mischievous grin tugs at my lips. “You read my mind.”
We push open the door of Franklin’s Bar and are immediately swallowed by warm light and pulsing music. The scent of sweat and spilled beer mingles in the air. Towering shelves of liquor bottles sparkle behind the bar. We each order a pale ale, clinking our bottles in a quiet toast, and then find a small booth near the corner.
Three drinks in and Reagan is already pulling me toward the dance floor, led by a lean blond guy whose smile could power a small town. I think that’s what they call the all-American boyish grin. He knows he’s good-looking and has been eyeing Reagan off since she came in.
I manage to convince her I need another drink, before slipping to the bar, finding myself a stool and smiling at Reagan who is wiggling her hips on the dance floor. That’s when I see him approaching—dark hair slicked back, eyes as black as obsidian, lips curved into a half-smile. He slides onto the stool beside me, exuding a quiet confidence.
“Can I buy you another drink?” he asks, voice low and smooth, like velvet over steel.
I hesitate, but the intrigue in his gaze wins me over. “Sure,” I say, finishing my beer and nodding at the bartender.
Moments later, he’s leaning close so I can hear him over the music. “I’m Josh.”
“Violet,” I reply, surprising myself at how soft the introduction sounds. The name falls between us, warm and unguarded.
He offers a dimpled smile. “Nice to meet you, Violet.” He gestures toward the dance floor. “Care to dance?”
I glance at my now full beer, then at his earnest expression, and stand. I keep the beer close, I’ve heard of the spiking that can happen in these parts. We move into the crowd, bodies swaying in time to the beat. There’s nothing invasive about his touch—just a respectful guiding hand at my waist, a steady rhythm that matches my heartbeat. For a while, it’s easy to forget everything else; Travis’s unexpected visit, Reagan’s excited chatter, the weight of nostalgia settled in my chest.