Page 53 of First Verse

CHAPTEREIGHTEEN

evangeline

Iwake in the morning to sparkling sunlight. The bed is empty, the space where Wilder slept cold. Before the thought that he left fully forms, I smell freshly brewed coffee and hear a soft melody being plucked on my acoustic guitar. A familiar melody: “Waves.”It sounds different, though—lighter and more hopeful.

He’s here. He stayed.

After our talk, we were both so wiped we stumbled to bed and passed out. I remember little of the following hours, save for the pervasive warmth of his body wrapped around mine and a feeling of deep contentment.

The need to see him infuses my limbs with energy. Scrambling out of bed, I dart into the bathroom to pee and brush my teeth, then yank on yesterday’s leggings and force myself to walk at a reasonable pace into the living room.

Wilder looks up from the guitar in his lap, his fingers flattening against the strings. My stomach flutters as his gaze caresses me, a small smile deepening one dimple.

“You’re so beautiful.”

The sincerity in his voice makes my face warm. A deliriously happy smile spreads across my face.

“Good morning to you, too.”

Rising to his feet, he sets my guitar back on its stand. “Come here.”

Despite willingly obeying the command, he meets me halfway. Warm palms cup my face.

“Good morning,” he whispers before giving me a kiss so sweet and tender that I sigh. “I ordered bagels. Do you still like bagels?”

I don’t normally eat breakfast right when I wake up, but I’m so touched by the gesture that I nod eagerly. He releases me to stride into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder, “Everything with cream cheese?”

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

I follow and pour myself a cup of coffee, watching him askance as I do. He cuts a bagel and pops it in the toaster, then braces his hands on the counter and stares at the glowing grates like his focus will speed time. His fingers tap rhythmically on the tile, making the tendons on his tattooed forearms pulse. A wavy chunk of dark hair obscures one eye.

The longer I watch him—the longer he stares at the toaster, ignoring my focus—the more surreal this all becomes. Despite last night’s emotional closeness and the euphoria of mere seconds ago, I’m once again engulfed by the disquieting feeling of not really knowing him.

Can you know someone’s soul—their deepest, truest self—without knowing anything about their actual life? He thinks so. He believes he knows me. But do I knowhim?

I thought I knew him once. I thought the bond we shared was unbreakable, and it wasn’t.

Who are you, Wilder?

Unable to stomach the silence or my spinning thoughts any longer, I clear my throat. “Did you sleep okay?”

His gaze snaps from the toaster to me. The stark relief in his eyes tells me this is as surreal for him as it is for me, which in turn calms my erratic pulse.

His lips curve. “I finally know why you always talked about missing your mattress. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks.”

I laugh. “I’m glad.”

His smile fades from his face but stays in his eyes. When he continues staring at me, I shift on my feet.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

The toaster pops, burnt bagel slices leaping. We both jump, then share a short, awkward laugh. With a little plastic knife, Wilder slathers cream cheese on each side. I bite my tongue when he uses far more than I normally like, then snort at the thought.

He gives me a questioning look.

“Sorry, I just—” I wave aimlessly, struggling to keep nervous laughter at bay. “You’re making me a bagel. It’s weird, right? This is weird.”

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