Page 61 of Book Boyfriends
“Goodbye, Davis,” I whisper. Wentworth nuzzles his cool nose against my calf, offering comfort I don’t deserve.
Wiping my eyes, Wentworth and I head to my carriage house. The pained expression covering Davis’s face haunts me. The story about his dad making promises to him, to be a family, radiates an ache in my chest. How often had younger Davis, and even adult Davis, been tugged along by someone who couldn’t be with him? I can’t do that to him, although I already have.
Unleashing Wentworth, I hang the leash on the hook by the door and lean against the wall. Queasiness sloshes in my stomach, reminding me that I should have listened to myself. I should have thought of Davis and not just about being with him.
“But I want to be with him,” I mumble, my gaze dragging to the laptop I discarded on the coffee table.
In the past, writing provided refuge for moments like this. When things were too overwhelming, I could escape into my words. I could write an ending where everything works out. Everyone is happy, even me. But those words aren’t there.
“I’m so messy.” Pushing away from the door, I head toward my room but then stop.
The laptop’s siren song pulls me back to it. Not to write, though. To research. To find a way to fix this. To help everyone I’ve hurt since I’d made that stupid wish.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DO YOU KNOW ANY WITCHES?
The alarm on my cell phone jolts me awake. Six a.m. is too early after only two hours of sleep. Research had claimed the hours I should have spent slumbering. I’d looked into theories and legends, taking me down various rabbit holes that all led to one constant universal truth: wishes have consequences, both intended and unintended.
The unintended stack up. Ripping my three book boyfriends from the only lives they know. Doc’s accident. The hurt on Davis’s face last night. Even if I believe that the first two aren’texactlymy fault, the last one is. I led him on. I hurt him. There’s no other way of looking at it.
“What have you done, Georgia?” I sigh over a sharp twinge in my chest.
Wentworth rises from the end of the bed and lumbers to me. He cuddles into me, and I lean into his squishy body. For just a moment, I lose myself in the comfort of his silken coat.
Scooting out of bed, I brush my teeth and take Wentworth out for a short walk before feeding him. The single text from Hope this morning saysDon’t even think of NOT coming over for breakfast, which means I won’t spend the morning wallowing, hate-spiraling, or following thatRedditthread aboutthe theory on fountains before I head to SPN. Instead, I shower and get ready. Tossing my hair into a messy bun, I tug on black pants, a jewel tone blouse, a blazer, and slip some gold hoops into my earlobes. It’s my go-to ‘I appear put together, but I’m not’ look.
“You’re a mess, but at least you’re a hot mess,” I offer a half-hearted smile and swipe pink lipstick on.
A forceful knock on my front door startles me. It can’t be Hope, because I’d just texted herthe teapot emoji. It’s our sign to put the kettle on because I will be spilling the tea, so she knows I’m on my way.
“What if it’s Davis?” Longing flutters in my chest.
I haven’t heard from him since he walked away last night. Although that’s to be expected when five minutes after I use him as a scratching post, I tell him I can’t see him.
It’s almost too much to hope. That somewhere between his goodbye last night and this morning’s sunrise, that he… I’m not sure what, but I spin on my heels and run toward the door anyway, an excited Wentworth trotting behind me.
I fling open the front door, and my expression falls. Even Wentworth huffs a disappointed breath and turns back to claim his bed in the corner.
Lord James, a rakish smile anchoring his face, stands on the small porch outside my front door. A charcoal suit hugs his defined physique, and a single red rose, which looks suspiciously like the ones from Mr. Rios’s yard down the street, is in his hand.
“My lady,” he drawls, offering a small bow.
“Lord James.” Disappointment ripples through me.
“Are you displeased to see me?”
“Yes… No… I mean, no, I am. I’m just…” I gnaw on my bottom lip. “I’m surprised. Our date isn’t until Sunday night.”
Jackson’sJust Writedating schedule has me going on a date with each man and making a decision by Tuesday. That leavesenough time to prepare the lucky bachelor to attend the wedding with me. While a date for the wedding may be Jackson’s goal for me, mine is to be done with this. By Tuesday, I will either get all three of these men back to their stories or I’ll choose one of them. The internet research that kept me up most of the night didn’t offer a lot of hope, but I have a potential resolution.
“I took advantage of an empty townhouse to steal over to your abode.”
Head tilted, I raise one eyebrow. “You’re under strict orders not to leave the townhouse nor see me outside of our official date unless with the group.”
“What kind of hero would I be if I listened to someone else, rather than my heart?” He reaches out, handing me the flower, his buttery timbre is flirtatious.
“One who listens.” Smirking, I take the flower.
