Page 24 of Wilder's Promise
"Productive anxiety," I say with a half-smile. "My therapist would be proud."
"You have a therapist?"
"Had. In high school, after everything fell apart with my parents." I pull mugs from a cabinet. "She taught me to channel anxiety into action. When you can't control the big things, control the small ones."
"Smart woman." He steps into the kitchen, reaching past me to get the sugar. "Most people in our world just drink until they can't feel anything."
"Like my father?"
Wilder shakes his head, leaning against the counter. "Your father's never been a big drinker, actually. His addictions run more toward riding and fighting."
"That sounds about right." I pour coffee into the mugs, adding three heaping spoons of sugar to mine.
Wilder raises an eyebrow at my sugar consumption.
"What?" I challenge. "I need to stay awake all night if necessary."
"No judgment." He reaches for his mug, stepping closer to me. Too close. "Just noted."
I suddenly find it hard to breathe with him standing so near. He's dangerously attractive in a way that has nothing to do with his leather cut or his road name.
It's something more primal. The confident way he moves, the intensity in his eyes when he looks at me, the quiet strength in his hands.
This is the man who saved me today. Who took a knife protecting me. Who could have died because I'm Jackson Kane's daughter.
But I barely know him. Beyond the fragments he's shared— his sister, his parents' abandonment, his reasons for joining the MC—who is Rex Torres, really? Is the kindness, the concern, theprotectiveness all genuine, or is it a facade? A mask worn to earn my trust because my father ordered him to keep me safe?
My head throbs with unanswered questions, doubts spiraling through my mind like smoke.
"You're overthinking again," Wilder whispers, watching me with those perceptive eyes. "You don't need to. Everything's going to be fine."
I blink, caught off guard by his accuracy. "I'm not thinking about it."
"No?" He takes a sip of his coffee. "Then what are you thinking about?"
I'm not sure I should answer honestly. It's not the right moment. He's probably worried sick about his brothers, focused on protecting me and Evelyn. How can I hijack the situation and make it about myself? About these confusing feelings I can't seem to control?
"Nothing," I lie, staring into my coffee. "It's nothing."
He steps even closer, now just inches away from me. "You can be honest with me, Emma. Whatever it is, it stays between us."
His proximity is overwhelming. I can smell his scent—leather, pine and something manly, musky. I need space, air, distance to think clearly. I shove past him abruptly, walking to the nearest wall and staring at it like an idiot.
"Did I say something wrong?" he asks, confusion evident in his voice.
I mumble something, too low to hear.
"What was that? I didn't catch it."
I turn to face him, gathering my courage. "I asked if you think I'm pretty."
I watch him swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Yes," he says after a beat. "Of course. But why does that matter right now?"
"I was just curious." I wrap my arms around myself. "Men usually think I'm too much. Too curvy, too closed off, too intense."
He chuckles, the sound warming something inside me. "You're perfect."
His eyes widen slightly, as if surprised by his own admission. He covers his mouth briefly, then puts his mug down with care.
