Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Then he gives me that smile.
That different one that doesn’t make sense.
Twinkle in his eyes.
Squishing me into submission.
“Good for them,” is all I can say, and doesn’t satisfy me at all, doesn’t make this ache go away, doesn’t change a damned thing as I head inside and shut the door on whatever else he says to me, if anything at all.
It’s midnight and I’m still awake.
1 AM, still awake.
I’m out of bed pacing the front of the house, glaring through the window at the faint light in the kitchen next door every time I pass by.
Then I stop.
I can’t take it anymore.
Don’t know what moves my limbs when I’m out on the porch. Then crunching over the grass in the dark. Then standing on his front porch, about to knock, the wood beneath my feet creaking.
Then my fist drops.
What am I doing? What am I thinking?
This was a mistake.
I turn to go, take the first step off the porch.
Then his voice comes. “Diego?”
I stop, turn.
His eyes are on me. Wide. No sparkle in them. Nothing.
Just fear.
And a bunch of loose roses in one hand.
Knife in the other.
Of course he’s afraid. Why wouldn’t he be? What the fuck was I thinking, creeping up to his house because I can’t sleep? Because he won’t let go of my mind? He’s just doing his own thing. And I’m exhausted and coming over here to blame him for it.
“Sorry,” I grunt through gritted teeth, then turn away.
And I almost make it all the way off that porch when he says, “You can stay, Diego.”
And traps me.
I can stay?
How dare he tell me I can stay.
“If you need to talk,” he goes on, “or just need a friend. Are … Are you okay? Can’t sleep?”
And then he says I need a friend.
Asks me if I can’t sleep.
“Me neither,” he admits, speaking so softly, it aches to hear it. “Had a last minute change on an order. Thought I’d get it all done before I go in tomorrow. If something’s sitting on my mind, I can’t sleep at all. Until it’s settled, I mean.”
“Why’re you doing this?”
The question slips right out of me.
Can’t contain myself a second longer.
“Doing what?” he asks.
I glare at him over my shoulder.
That shuts him up. And brings back all my resolve. You know exactly what you’re doing.
I come back over the porch.
He backs away.
Drops his knife.
And the roses.
I walk right over the leafy, thorny things until his back slams against the brick wall of his house, knocking his breath out.
“Why are you doing this to me?” I growl.
He stares into my eyes. There’s no porch light on, just a glow from the kitchen light inside lining the side of his face.
My hand is slapped to the brick by his head.
I’m drawing closer.
“Why … are you doing this to me …?” I repeat.
“Doing … what?” he breathes.
And fuck, what his little whimper of a voice does to me.
He knows already. Everything.
I’d almost laugh, on the verge of losing my mind, how Wyatt is either truly this innocent, or knows exactly how he’s been toying with me these past few days, playing with me all this time.
“You’re somethin’ else, Wyatt, y’know that? Somethin’ else.” I come even closer. Goddamn that voice of his. Those eyes that keep trapping me. “And I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”
My eyes drop to his lips.
Goddamn those lips, most of all.
“Diego …” he whimpers, like some reckless part of him might have been asking for this all along.
It’s not good neighborliness.
Not another friendly face to fake nice to.
He’s playing with fire for the first time in his life, daring it to answer back.
I catch sight of a thorn caught in his hair.
I smirk, pluck it out, hold it in front of his eyes. “You always this careless with things that can hurt you?”
“I … I don’t know what you …” He chokes. Swallows. Gathers breath. “… want.”
“Yes, you do.”
I drop the thorn and go right in for his lips.
Then stop.
An inch separating our faces.
All of my anger vanishes.
Like my face just bashed into a force field.
I hold my breath. I hold every muscle in my body. I hold time itself, eyes locked to his, as I wonder what the fuck I’ve done.
I realize I can’t do it.
I can’t kiss him.
Big bad me, this whole time, didn’t have the balls to complete the move. To reach his lips. 99% of the journey, just to fail on that final percent.
Then his hand gently comes up to my face.
Caresses my cheek.
I flinch, but stay put.
“Diego,” he says—this time with certainty.
And then it’s Wyatt who comes the rest of the way, touching my lips with his own.
Then I give in a little, pressing my mouth forward. Opening it.
He opens his.
Breath and soft lips. Wyatt’s lips. Opening and closing on each other. Gently. Carefully.