Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
I snort, then, almost against my will, think of Talon’s hands, his jawline, the way he could fix me with those eyes and make me want to tear his shirt off and his heart out in the same breath.
I type: He’s hot. But toxic.
Simone sends a string of laughing emojis, followed by: Sweetie, hot and toxic is basically my entire track record!
I go back to the book. By now, I’m in the chapters I skimmed last time. Here, Talon (or his stand-in) describes the aftermath of betrayal with such bleak honesty it almost feels like a dare. “I thought letting her go would be easier,” the hero writes. “But every page I tried to fill with someone else turned to poison in my hands. I kept waiting for the loneliness to wear off, but it only grew teeth.”
I freeze, finger hovering over the passage. For a second I can’t breathe. He’s writing about his loss. About how much he misses me.
I finish the chapter, then check my phone again.
Simone: I just bombed another quiz. I’m going to have to become a Twitch streamer to pay rent. Or marry the first person who agrees to combine bank accounts.
I type back: You’re smart, Sim. You just need to study more. Also, was this the class with the hot professor?
She replies: Omg yes he’s gorgeous, Kat. And single. And young too, not insanely old and cranky like most of the profs at Century.
I giggle, then close the phone and get back to work. The book isn’t going to read itself.
For the next two hours, I’m deep in the story, flipping back and forth, cross-referencing scenes with my own memories. The more I read, the more I see how Talon tried to write himself out of the corner he painted us into. The sex scenes are filthy and intense—God, some are so steamy I have to put the book down—but the scenes that make my heart flip are the moments where he admits he’s afraid. “I never learned to stay. Only to let them go, but this one hurt so much I wanted her to stay.”
I read that three times, then dog-ear the page.
By midnight, I’m tired and sticky with crumbs, but the margins are alive with color. I don’t have any answers, but I have a theory: Maybe Talon wanted to be taught. Maybe the whole point was to make me see him, not as a fantasy, but as a guy who needs help expressing himself. He’s scared too, and is telling me through his story.
I check my phone again.
Simone: I’m up if you want to talk. Or if you want to come over and eat my emergency mac and cheese.
I hesitate, then type: I think I know what I’m going to do. But first I have to test him.
Simone: Yassss queen. Scorch him.
I smile, then, almost on impulse, open my messages and type a draft to Talon.
Do you want to meet? Botanical Gardens, Saturday at noon. Public place, neutral ground. Should be peaceful.
I hover over send for a long time, heart thudding in my ears.
I read the text again. I try to imagine how he’ll respond. If he’ll bring another contract, another apology, another version of himself. Or if, maybe, he’ll just show up as the man who wrote those last pages, the man who might be scared but who can’t lie anymore.
I press send.
The text bubbles away, and I toss the phone onto the coffee table, where it bounces once and lands next to the highlighter. I close the book, tuck it under my arm, and pad to the window to stare out at the street. The sky is low, full of clouds and maybe more rain, but there’s a weird, electric sense of promise in the air.
For the first time, I’m not waiting for someone else to write the ending.
I’m going to do it myself.
That weekend, I arrive at the Botanical Gardens early, legs jelly and stomach full of bees. I need time to scope the territory, to make sure it’s safe, to convince myself I’m not walking into my own demise. The front gates are busy—lots of strollers, retired couples, a bachelorette group already tipsy at 11:30 a.m. I breathe easier. Safety in numbers.
The koi pond is my target. It’s the most public spot, ringed by benches and usually swarmed with shrieking kids. I pick a bench near the water’s edge, where the sun paints rainbows on the surface and the biggest koi laze just beneath, plump and content. I plant myself there, clutching my messenger bag, the battered Angel’s Share inside like a talisman or a warning.
Talon arrives and there seems to be a hush because even in civilian clothes my alpha male can’t help but make an entrance. He’s huge and masculine in dark jeans and a pale blue button-down—no leather, no intimidation factor, unless you count the way he fills out the shoulders. His dark hair is roguishly ruffled, and his eyes gleam clear blue, slicing through the crowd until they lock on me.