Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132498 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 662(@200wpm)___ 530(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
When she’s happy, it feels like a rebellion. One I’m desperate to partake in.
This whole thing feels like a secret.
The air shifts. Thickens. I rise from the bench, and she follows. Slowly, almost nervously. Walks toward me. One step. Another.
Her breath catches when we end up inches apart. I can smell spearmint on her lips. I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat. Her fingers twitch at her side—like she’s fighting the urge to touch me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispers, voice trembling.
“Like what?” I lean down without thinking, drawn like a magnet, despite knowing I shouldn’t.
“Like I’m . . . something,” she breathes, eyes flicking to my mouth. “Like this matters.”
“It does.” The words slip out of me before I can stop them.
Raw. Unfiltered. Stupid.
Her breath stumbles. She leans in.
Just enough that her nose brushes mine.
Just enough that if either of us moves an inch, it's happening.
Her lips part. My heart does something violent. And then, she freezes.
She pulls back fast like she burned her fingers on the moment. Clutches the book to her chest, like a shield. As if that will save either of us.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispers, stepping away, eyes shining with something I don’t dare name. “I shouldn’t.”
It breaks something in me. Quietly, efficiently.
I force a smirk, armor sliding back into place. “Relax, princess. I wasn’t going to kiss you.”
She flinches, most likely from my comment and what I just called her. Or maybe she knows I’m lying.
“You don’t have to pretend.” Her fingers tremble around the book’s spine. “Not with me.”
She sees me.
All of me.
No matter how hard I try.
And that . . . that destroys me more than the retreat.
I look away, jaw clenching.
Words slip out before I can cage them.
“You’re the only thing in this damn house that feels real.”
Her lips part. Her eyes soften. Too much. Too close. I want to swallow the words back down.
“Forget it,” I shove a hand through my hair.
“Lorenzo . . .” she whispers, stepping forward again.
I lift a hand between us. Not touching her, just holding distance. “Don’t.”
“Why not?” she breathes.
Because if you touch me, I’ll never let you go. Because if you ask one more time, I’ll ruin everything. Because you’re leaving, and I’m not good enough for you.
I give her the safe version. The lie she can live with.
“Because your world doesn’t have room for someone like me,” I rasp, swallowing hard. “And because I can’t afford to want something I can’t keep.”
Her breath trembles. She nods, barely. Pain flickers across her face like she’s trying to hide it.
She backs away slowly, steps soft, careful. Deliberate. She slips out the boathouse door, sunlight wrapping around her.
When she’s gone, the quiet caves in around me. I let my guard fall, punching the wall.
I would’ve kissed her. Should have . . .
Fuck the consequences.
9
Victoria
It happens in passing. The way most dangerous things do.
A hallway. A breath. A brush of fingers.
One second, I’m walking through the east wing with a book in one hand and an iced tea in the other, pretending I’m not already bored enough to consider flinging myself out a window, and the next, he’s there.
Moving through the corridor as if he belongs, even though we both know he doesn’t. Toolbox in hand, smelling faintly of cedar, sweat, and something else. Something warm and masculine. It should be criminal how good he always smells.
We pass each other like strangers. Except we’re not. Not anymore.
Our hands touch. Just barely.
His fingers graze the back of mine like a secret being slipped under a door. Like a signature he shouldn’t be leaving on me at all.
My breath stutters, and my heart races at a clip that can’t be healthy.
It’s not thumping in my chest because I’m surprised, but because I’m not. Because some traitorous part of me has been waiting for something to happen. Anything. Even this. It’s not a lot, but at this moment, when I’m so desperate to be with him, this is enough.
I look up. He’s already looking at me.
Eyes dark.
Intent. Like he’s reading the thoughts I pretend I don’t have.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to.
His lips move in silent words. “Meet me later.”
The iced tea nearly slips from my hand.
I nod, but barely. But he sees it. He sees everything.
He keeps walking. And so do I. Even though my pulse stays with him.
Hours later, I can’t stop thinking about him. I wish he were here with me right now.
He’s not, of course, and I swear because of that, the house feels heavier.
There are too many voices. Too much pretending.
My father talks about business like it’s a war strategy, and people are pawns he can afford to sacrifice. My mother smiles through casualties, as if she’s practicing for the next charity gala.
I eat half a peach. Taste nothing.
“I have a headache.” I touch my temple. No one acknowledges me. Perfect.