Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99399 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 497(@200wpm)___ 398(@250wpm)___ 331(@300wpm)
His hand came up to hold me back, his entire palm landing in the center of my chest, warm and strong. Gentle. There was no pressure on it. No actual push to keep me away.
I instinctively brought my own hand up to cover it and hold it there. A touch I’d never been able to steal before now.
It was precious and so incredibly perfect.
“I thought maybe,” he said, hesitantly. “I thought maybe you meant… me when you asked back then.”
“I did!” I cried. “Of course I did. And we both knew it. And you fucking ran away. You fucking left me and started your big, exciting dream life. While I…” My voice broke, and for some reason, reality came crashing down. “While I was stuck in mine.”
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? It wasn’t Trace’s fault. How could it be? He wasn’t required to love me. To want me. To be with me like that.
He wasn’t—couldn’t be—the reason I was adrift in this purgatory space between my foundation job and the dream job I could never claim in the light without ruining what made it a dream.
Reality began to crowd in. Even if he were attracted to me, even if he’d looked at me some kind of way once or twice, he had the right to reject those feelings. To not act on them.
I couldn’t force him to want me the way I wanted him.
“Never mind,” I said, pulling on my fake smile and self-deprecating shrug like an old coat.
Reassurance that everything was fine. I was fine. And so very sorry for disrupting.
“Wolfe,” Trace said carefully. “Hold on. Wait.”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, patting my pants pockets and recognizing the shape of the key fob in one and my phone in the other. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Wolfe.” This time, it dropped lower—slower, steadier. A commanding note struck clean and sure, like a bass line coming in after too much treble. The kind of voice I sometimes imagined in my dirtiest fantasies. I closed my eyes and inhaled sharply, letting it resonate through my chest, through bone and breath.
I didn’t want to disrupt the melody mid-measure, so I let it play out.
“Come here,” his voice was softer now. A diminuendo pulling me toward the coda.
Except it wasn’t the coda. There was too much song left to play out. And suddenly, I didn’t want to hear it.
“Can’t,” I explained, stepping toward the door. “Please don’t say the words. Again.”
I wanted to keep pretending. To keep believing one day he could be mine. Even though I knew the truth already. I’d seen the expression on his face.
As soon as my hand hit the doorknob, Trace’s body moved up behind mine. “You don’t want this,” he warned softly. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
I sucked in a breath and tried my hardest to be brave. To be an adult. To prove to him he was wrong about me. About age. About all of it.
And then I turned around and faced him, desperation impossible to hide as my voice croaked. “I have wanted to kiss you since I was thirteen years old. There has never been a day since then that I haven’t fallen asleep to thoughts of you. This… this feeling I have—”
“It’s a crush!” His eyes widened with panic now that my words were making it real between us. Giving it breath and life and permanence. “That’s all. You’ll get over it, Wolfe. It’ll go away.”
My laugh was bitter and sharp-edged. “Will it? After all these years? Mm. Great. I’ll just keep waiting, then.”
I moved to turn around, but Trace stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. The heat from his fingers seared through my shirt. His eyes were the slightest bit glassy, and his nose and cheeks were pink. I vaguely remembered his sunrise photo from yesterday. He’d been in the snowy backcountry.
Alone? With Patrick? Because the kiss they’d shared a few hours ago surely hadn’t looked like a breakup kiss. But then again, what the fuck did I know? I’d never had a breakup because I’d never had a real relationship. Only hookups that didn’t last as long as a Band-Aid.
Time hung soft and heavy between us. Full and strange. My eyes did what they probably always did when we were together—they fell to his lips.
Trace’s mouth opened slightly as if he was going to say something more. But then he only murmured a curse before stepping into me and pressing his lips against mine.
I was so shocked, I sucked in a breath and nearly choked, but then my brain kicked into gear, and I realized Trace was kissing me.
Trace Bishop was kissing me.
I reached up and grabbed his head to keep him from changing his mind. And then I kissed the fuck out of him right back. It was hot and feral, with teeth and tongue. Sucked-in breaths and muffled whimpers from both of us. The kiss was fucking everything. Every single goddamned dream I’d had and fantasy I could have even imagined. Every word I’d scribbled in my journal or note penciled into a score.