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)
After a second, he smiles. “Good thing you do, ‘cause …”
He performs a magic trick. Suddenly he’s got a second one.
He takes a step toward me.
I stumble back and hit the doorframe with a comical bang.
When my body realizes I’m not being attacked, but that Wyatt is gently placing something on my lapel—a pink flower to match his own—I relax at once, becoming lost in his sweet eyes.
Wyatt’s eyes, focused on the flower, fixing it to my jacket.
So close I could kiss him again.
What is it about doorways and front porches and how fucking close they bring us?
“We’re matching,” he says, like a funny observation.
Then looks at my eyes again.
I’m probably breathing funny.
He lets go of the flower, but stays close. “Ready?”
Something inside me is jumping around like a sugared-up boy on a playground. Chasing another boy. Screaming. Carefree. Is this what we were like as kids? Carefree? Jumping around? … Happy?
—13—
Wyatt
There are exactly two kinds of people who attend the Annual Spruce Ball Fundraiser for the Arts.
The ones who arrive fashionably late.
And the ones who arrive an hour early because they secretly hope no one else is there yet.
Maybe there’s a third kind this year.
Us: the kind who have no idea what the hell they’re doing.
The McPherson estate sits at the edge of Spruce like a queen on a grassy throne. The house itself is huge, but the backyard is what everyone’s coming for tonight. The pavilion glows beneath strings of lights stretched between old oak trees. Music already drifts across the lawn. Round tables are spread out from the stage, filling up one by one. Glasses clink as chatter and laughter rise like smoke from all the clusters and cliques of guests formed around us. Someone’s laughter rings out loud enough that I know exactly who it is. (Nadine Strong, in case you were wondering.)
I have no idea how Diego is gonna handle meeting so many people here. I might’ve intentionally understated to him precisely how many attend this event, including people from out of town. Fairview. Brookfield. Houston. Even as far north as Dallas. I heard some might be coming in from Dreamwood, too.
The long-ass stretch of driveway was already so crowded and we parked so far away, half the journey was walking to the house.
Diego’s right by my side.
Like the shoulder of his jacket and mine fused together.
I don’t think he’s the type to admit he’s nervous or out of his element, but I can see it in his eyes.
Well, whenever I look at them, that is. Which isn’t much.
(On account of how significantly more likely I am to crash into walls when gazing at them.)
We file into a long, chatty line formed at the bar. I treat us to a couple drinks. It’s anyone’s guess what I even got. Then we drift away and linger somewhere in the back of the pavilion.
Yes, he’s still glued to my side.
No, we haven’t said a word since arriving.
Actually, I think I might’ve asked him what he wanted at the bar. I’m not sure what he said back. Now we both have drinks in hand, and I don’t even know if either of us got what we wanted.
Then I frown.
Why am I the nervous one?
This is my home. These are the people I know and love. Why am I acting like I’m just as out of my element as Diego? Shouldn’t I take the lead here and show him around, introduce him to people, and get this ice on our faces broken?
I take a breath, then glance at Diego. “You okay?”
You’d think I threw a fist into his ribcage, the way he flinches and nearly spills his drink. “Huh? What?”
“It’s a lot more people this year.”
He doesn’t quite look at me, just leaning in slightly to hear me over the noise and the music. Even out here in the open, it’s loud. He doesn’t quite respond, at least not with words, just giving a stiff adjustment of his neck (does that count as a nod?) and taking the first sip of his drink. His eyes scrunch up. “The fuck is this?”
No idea, I almost say, but instead push on: “It’s probably more crowded because of the concert last month.”
He leans in again. “What?”
“The concert … Back here. There was a—” I give up that topic, too. “Your aunt and uncle had a lot of friends. Wanna meet some? Mrs. Strong is right over there, and she’s—”
“Nah, it’s alright,” he says back.
I’m not surprised he isn’t in the mood to meet people.
I am surprised how oddly polite his response sounded.
It’s already crowded, but more people keep arriving, flooding in like ants, filling every empty spot of grass around the pavilion and within its central area where the round tables face the stage.
“I’ll give you a few pointers,” I start anyway. “If Mrs. Tucker comes at you, just let it happen.”