Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)
“No, I’m okay, honey. Thank you again,” she says, holding up the Styrofoam cup.
As I walk out of the stall, she calls, “Hazel . . .” I look back and she glances down before meeting my eyes deliberately. “Be careful. I don’t know Wyatt, but I know what he comes from. It’s not about whether you’re enough to change him like Avery did Winston. It’s about . . .” She licks her lips, thinking. “Just be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I hate that one man hurt her bad enough to sour her on them all, but touched at her care, I dip my chin, placing a hand on my heart. “I will be, Aunt Etta. I promise.”
She nods once, accepting my words. “Good, because if he hurts you, I’ll kill him. And then I’ll go to jail. It’ll be a whole messy thing.” She waves a hand around like there’s mess all over the freshly cleaned stall. “And who’d take care of Nala then?”
“They’d never catch you anyway,” I tease, but I understand what she’s telling me.
Lester and I head back home. I know his sleep habits like the back of my hand, and he needs at least ten hours a night of sleep and darkness. So after changing out his paper and his water, I pet the feathers on top of his head, making little calming sounds until Lester steps onto his perch in his cage. “Bedtime, Lester.”
“Bawk!” Lester agrees. I give him a smile and slowly close the blinds on his cage, drawing them around and doing the Velcro so he can relax in the darkness.
I retreat to the doorway and click the light. “Good night, Lester.”
“Lester sleepy bird!” He begins making fake snoring sounds that do sound vaguely like Gran sleeping in the living room recliner she used to love. It’s long gone now, but I can still see her laid out on it like it was her favorite place to be.
I retreat to my room and start my own night routine, showering and scrubbing my face with Noxzema before using cocoa butter to prevent wrinkles. After that I lie in bed, but instead of a Netflix show or two, my thoughts return to tonight . . . and Wyatt.
What was it about him that set me on edge so readily? I mean, yeah, he’s hotter than a jalapeño-flavored lollipop, but that’s usually not enough to catch my attention the way he did. But there’s no denying it—I wanted him. I’m just smart enough to not let that happen. At least not in real life.
There’s no harm in fantasies, I tell myself with a sly smile in the dark. They’re what makes life interesting . . . or tolerable.
I take a deep breath, feeling my chest scrape along the weight of the blankets on top of me. My nipples perk up, remembering how close Wyatt was and how good he smelled. I clench my hands, trying to fight it, but heat is already pooling down low in my belly.
Aunt Etta’s voice echoes in my head: Be careful with a Ford. I heard it tonight, I’ve heard it before, and the whole town knows it. The Fords are power here in Cold Springs. But power can run your toaster . . . or stop your heart.
“No,” I chide myself, “Hazel Ann Sullivan, you are not jilling off to some guy who was possibly sharking you at pool, and definitely lied by omission by not telling you his last name. Which is fucking Ford.”
Saying his name aloud is enough to mostly dash my fantasies. With a growl, I flip over to my side, curling in on myself and willing my body to fall asleep. Now.
Chapter 5
WYATT
Why did I agree to put up with this?
It’s a good question. I have a perfectly good black suit that fits like a glove and is completely appropriate for a garden wedding. I’ve worn it maybe a dozen times since I got it, all for formal occasions.
But for some reason beyond my comprehension, “appropriate” isn’t good enough, and Mom says I need a dove-gray suit to fit the theme of the wedding. I’m annoyed but doing my best to hide it.
“Quit fidgeting and be still,” the woman kneeling in front of me hisses, and I look down at the seamstress. I’m pretty sure her last job was sewing suits for funerals, the way she handles adjustments.
“I’m trying,” I growl.
She glares up at me from behind half glasses that are perched low on her nose, and dryly orders, “Try. Harder.”
I clear my throat and straighten my spine.
“That’a boy, Wyatt. Let the poor woman work, for fuck’s sake,” Wren says with a vacant smile as she carelessly flips through the same magazine she’s been looking at for thirty minutes. But I’m quite certain she isn’t reading the articles about upcoming car prototypes and synthetic oil brand comparisons.