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)
“My father is a fucking fraud.”
The words come out harder than I intend, but I don’t pull them back.
“He’s a terrible-ass person, Emily. And you need to find a way to tell your mom she deserves better. Before she forgets what that even looks like.”
She stares at me, stunned. Then drops the card. It hits the floor with a sharp, soft sound.
“I’m not trying to ruin your retreat,” I add, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’ve distracted you enough already. I’ll crash here for a bit and head out. Unless … you want me to leave now?”
She shakes her head. Quiet.
I sink deeper into the cushions, exhausted but wired. “Pretend I’m not here,” I say. “I won’t bother you.”
She lingers, like she wants to say something else. Instead, she walks to the window and lowers herself into the desk chair. She clicks her pen and stares at the blank page in front of her.
I watch her for a moment—how the candlelight paints gold across her cheeks, how the hem of her shirt barely brushes the tops of her thighs—and then I close my eyes.
When I wake up, the lights are low and Emily is curled against my lap, her book resting against her stomach. My thigh is her pillow. One of her hands is tangled in the fabric of my hoodie.
For a second, I don’t move. I just watch her.
She’s barefoot. Quiet. Still wearing that shirt.
She looks like she belongs here.
She looks like home.
I run my fingers gently through her hair, and her eyes flutter open.
“Thanks for letting me crash,” I murmur. “I think I’m capable of driving now.”
“What made you incapable?”
“Lingering effects from an old car accident,” I say. “I was lucky to come out alive, but the effects still find me a few times a year… usually when I’m exhausted or sleeping.”
Her gaze softens.
“Did you mean what you said? About my mom staying away from Aidan? Or was that just the… episode talking?”
“Both.” I lean in and kiss her forehead, brushing her hair back. “We’ll talk when you’re home.”
She watches me for a beat, then glances toward the clock.
“It’s only midnight,” she says softly. “You should stay.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she leans in and kisses me.
Slow. Lingering. Her lips barely move at first, just press and stay there. Like she’s holding me in place. Like she knows I need this more than I’ll ever say.
Her hand curls at the back of my neck, and the kiss deepens.
My hands move instinctively—sliding up her thighs, settling at her waist—but I stop myself before I take it any further. Not tonight. Not like this.
She pulls back just enough to whisper, “Please.”
And that one word—just that—undoes whatever defense I had left.
I let her guide me toward the bed, her fingers still wrapped in my shirt. The mattress dips beneath us and we fall together, limbs tangling like we’ve done this a hundred times.
She presses her face to my chest and sighs. I breathe her in and pull her closer.
We don’t speak.
We don’t need to.
We just stay like that until sunrise—twisted in sheets, hearts pressed together, bodies clinging to something neither of us will dare define.
When the sky turns pale blue, I slip out of bed, careful not to wake her.
Not because I want to leave.
But because if I stay another second, I’ll never go home.
PART 4
It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.
Bullshit.
Your worst enemy doesn’t deserve to know what a broken heart feels like…
19
EMILY
The house I left is not the house I came back to.
Downstairs is now a maze of editors, PR staff, and Aidan’s podcast team. There's a full espresso bar on the marble island and two different assistants sorting through lighting equipment in the living room.
Someone asked me if I could step out of frame when I was walking out of the bathroom.
Apparently, this is a normal thing whenever Aidan is gearing up to release a new book and plan a countrywide book tour.
Not the slightest bit interested in asking questions about it, I toss my luggage into my room and shut the door. Then I slip into Cole’s room and undress before plopping onto his bed.
The sheets still smell like him. Musk, mint, something darker.
I scroll through his texts again, hoping he’ll show up soon like he said.
Cole
Running late. Don’t wait up.
Ugh…
I slip out of his bed and grab my clothes, barely getting my shorts on before I pull the door open—and nearly collide with Taylor in the hallway.
She jumps, blinking. “Why were you coming out of Cole’s room?”
I smooth my shirt like it matters. “Uh… just looking at his art.”
Her brows lift. “You went inside? He never lets anyone in there.”
“Well, he wasn’t there, so I didn’t really ask.” I start to move, but she plants herself in front of me like a puppy who thinks we’re still playing.