Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
I don’t resist.
I can’t.
He doesn’t let go of my waist until he has the passenger door open. His hand brushes my thigh as I climb in, and the contact sparks through me like a match head.
I sink into the seat, breathing hard, the night pressing in around me like wet fabric.
The car is cool, dim, and quiet.
He blasts the A/C and presses a chilled bottle of water to my neck. I shiver, then sigh. My head is spinning, and I can feel the outline of his fingers still pressed into my skin.
Everything slows.
And then everything goes dark.
When I wake up, my throat is dry and my stomach is heavy. I shift under the blankets, blinking hard against the light.
I’m in my bed.
My head pounds softly, but the worst of the spin is gone.
“I would ask you to help me into pajama pants,” I mumble, voice rough. “But that guy took my panties.”
Cole’s across the room, quiet.
He walks to my dresser and pulls out a T-shirt and clean underwear. Doesn’t say a word. Just sets them gently beside me on the bed.
“Here.”
I change slowly, each movement careful. I can still feel the heat of the beach in my skin. The noise of the crowd echoes faintly in my ears. But everything feels muted now. Sharpened.
He tugs the blanket over me once I’m dressed, his hands careful, almost reverent.
I watch him. The way his jaw shifts. The way he avoids my eyes.
“Why did you step in?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He doesn’t answer.
“Were you jealous?”
Nothing.
“I need pajama pants,” I say softly, curling deeper into the bed.
He stands. Moves to the door.
At the threshold, he looks back, eyes unreadable in the dark.
“Sober up, Emily.”
He pauses.
“Oh—and I was jealous.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
And I stare at the ceiling, my heart still thudding in a rhythm that has nothing to do with weed, or sugar, or alcohol.
11
EMILY
Iwake to a headache blooming behind my eyes, the kind that feels stitched into my skull.
The room is too bright, and everything tastes like stale sugar and regret.
My mom is sitting on the edge of my bed, brushing hair away from my face.
“Hey, sweetie,” she whispers. “You okay?”
I try to nod, but even that takes effort.
“Taylor said you had a little too much to drink. That’s my girl, getting her tolerance started early.” She lifts a glass of water to my lips. “Sip slowly.”
I do. The water is cold and blissfully clean. It cuts through the fuzz in my head like a knife.
“Cole set up everything on the nightstand,” she adds. “He got you into bed, gave you Tylenol, made you drink a bottle of water first. I think he even swapped out the ice packs.”
I blink. “Wait—he... took care of me?”
“Well, I was already asleep,” she says, amused. “And Cole’s good under pressure. He didn’t say much. Just showed up, scooped you into his arms, and disappeared upstairs.”
Her words sink in slowly, like syrup through cotton.
“Anyway,” she continues, “you should know your night wasn’t a total disaster. You looked amazing.” She beams. “I wish I had gone to more parties before I got pregnant. College would’ve been wild.”
I close my eyes and beg my body to fall asleep long enough to dodge this rerun of the sixteen-and-pregnant monologue I’ve heard a dozen times.
When I open them next, she’s gone.
The sun has already started its descent when I drag myself to the shower.
The hot water helps. So does the clean air.
I dress slowly—jeans, a soft T-shirt—and head downstairs in search of food or a pulse of life.
The house is too quiet. Every room feels like it’s holding its breath.
As I wander down the hall, I catch the scent of old cologne and something sterile—leather, maybe.
Aidan’s office door is slightly ajar.
I shouldn’t, but I push it open anyway.
The first thing I notice is how perfect everything is. Not in a tidy or lived-in way—more like someone staged it for a press shoot. The books are alphabetized. The magazines lined up like soldiers. A single pen rests on a leather blotter like it’s afraid to be used.
And the photos...
They’re everywhere. Aidan shaking hands with senators. At press events. Flanked by celebrities, athletes, CEOs.
But Cole?
Two photos.
Both decades old.
One shows Aidan holding a toddler on a beach—probably for a Christmas card. The other’s so tightly cropped, Cole’s face is half lost in the frame.
I move closer.
I’ve heard Aidan’s podcast before. Years ago, I used to cling to it like gospel. Back when we were far more destitute and bouncing between the worst motels, I’d play episodes to fall asleep. His voice felt like stability. His advice—stories about fatherhood, forgiveness, healing—felt like something I could believe in.
Until it started to hurt.
Because whatever version of fatherhood he was selling? I’d never have it.
So I stopped listening.
But now, even after just a few days in this house, I’m starting to wonder if he ever had it either.