Page 44 of Almost Home
Word about Wilder’s business had spread, and I had no doubt his brothers, my friends, and Julian had a great deal to do with that. What it did mean, though, was that Wilder and I hadn’t had another moment of downtime. We’d been going in opposite directions, and while I recognized that was probably for the best, I also missed having him around.
I missed that taut energy that rippled between us when we spoke, or stood still, or…anything.It’d always been like that with us, but lately, it felt weightier.
For a second after the meeting and my laugh attack, I’d been certain he was going to kiss me. We were inches apart. If he’d moved any closer, or if I’d lifted my chin just a bit…whew.I’d gotten overheated just thinking about my pounding heart and the way my cheeks had flamed before I broke the moment and hid away at my desk.
Since then? Nothing.
So by the end of the week, after Wilder had left to do one thing or another and said he’d see me Monday, I packed up my lunchbox, thermos, and all my tangled feelings, and headed home. With three hours before I’d need to meet my friends, I knew I’d go insane if I sat around. I couldn’t go wander through the bookstore, because I’d just want to spend money, and if I really was wrapping up my time here, I’d need to be saving for a move. Just thinking about that had me restless.
Thus, the run. I started off at a light jog, easing my way through the neighborhood and waving to a few high schoolers who lived near my apartment building and had been in my long-term sub class in the fall. No anonymity for teachers in a small town, that was for sure.
Ten minutes in, I made it to the path that stretched along the south side of town and then wound back behind work, the mill buildings, and out into the fields that flanked the little cozy cabins for rent by The Silverton Inn. If I had a little more energy, I might’ve tried to go farther into the mountains on this warm and bright spring afternoon. Buttery light lit the sky in baby yellows and blues. The trees had taken their cue from the crocuses and dared to bud, ignoring the perpetual threat of another spring storm in favor of working toward their spring blooms.
I rounded the corner into a long stretch and decided to push a little harder than I had to this point. A sprint out to the farthest cabin, then I’d turn back and go hard until I reached the neighborhood and could use that time to cool down. After turning around, I hauled myself forward, arms pumping and chest heaving with the effort. It’d been too long since I’d pushed like this.
And then came the twinge. I’d worked for years to master this knee injury, but I’d never fully overcome it. Times like this, when I got too excited and wanted to show myself what I could do without properly building up, it came back to haunt me.
I reluctantly slowed all the way to a walk as the pain clawed at my knee. Sometimes, I could stretch and walk it out enough to finish at a light jog. My breathing calmed and I decided to stretch a little. I bent into a runner’s stretch, then switched to a side lunge.
A brush at my sleeve made me jump and let out a small yelp. When I glanced up from my bent position, I saw Wilder.
Wilder.
My brain stuttered and slid to a stop. Wilder had touched me. Wilder had found me. Neither of these events were particularly surprising. More like I hadn’t expected him, had been in my own world and he…
He was magnificent.
Maybe I should’ve been more circumspect, but I rose to my feet and pulled one earbud out, unable to remember how to make the music stop. He stood with hands on his hips, that severe face eyeing me with an expression I couldn’t decipher, especially since his dark hat had been pulled low over his eyes.
Oh, and did I mention he wore sneakers with ankle socks, running shorts, and nothing else except that hat?Yeah.
Not to be the most cliché woman on earth or anything, but the man was a work of art. For all his war-hardened roughness, he’d seemed so business-like and focused the last few weeks. But this was more like the Wilder I remembered—no, not shirtless, though I had plenty of fond memories to that effect. It was him, out in nature, cheeks flushed from exertion and skin glowing a golden color like it drank in the mountain air.
His chest and abs were etched in vivid detail—almost brutal in their reality. Those of a man who’d honed his body into a weapon and had then used it. His arms were sleeved in tattoos. I’d seen glimpses at his wrists, but he’d worn long sleeves most of the times I’d seen him until now. Natural scenes, mountain silhouettes, and trees twisted up the length of his forearms and biceps, each vignette a book I desperately wanted to read. A long scar over one pectoral had my fingers itching to trace it, to ask what’d happened, to press myself against him.
Okay, whoa there, girl.
“What’d you say?” I managed.
His eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”
“Me? Okay? Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
The amount of disorientation shading my words should’ve been embarrassing, but more than anything, it felt accurate. I’d always been attracted to him—since I’d known what such a feeling meant. But this was absurd.
“You were bent over in the middle of the path.”
If any blood existed elsewhere in my body, it all flooded to my cheeks. “Right. Yeah. I have a little knee-twinge thing that happens sometimes. I was trying to work that out.”
“Need any help with it? Want me to take a look?”
His hands were resting on the sharp cuts of muscle that curved from his side and followed his hip then sloped down—Down.
A raging, horrible envy for those hands hit me.
“Sarah? Are you dehydrated?”
My eyes shot to his. “What? No. I’m fine. I should’ve eaten something before I left, I think, but I’m going out with friends tonight and I—you know what? Speaking of that, I’m going to get going. I’ll see you Monday, right?”
