Page 57 of Wilder Love

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Crossing over the Seine, I lit a cigarette on the bridge and stared at the gothic spires of Notre Dame through a film of smoke. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket and I fished it out, checking the screen before answering. Dylan.

I knew what he was going to say before the words were out of his mouth. I’d made him promise to tell me if and when it ever happened. I could feel it in my bones. Like a sixth sense. This was it.

“He’s back.” My brother confirmed what I’d already known.

And just like that, I knew what I needed to do next.

25

Remy

Four Months Later

“You’re trending,” Bastian said, scrolling through the social media updates on his cell. My own phone was turned off. Bastian was reading out a few choice comments for my entertainment. “Twenty-five-year-old supermodel Remy St. Clair is taking a break from modeling, citing mental health issues…”

Tuning him out, I stood back to survey the clothes hanging in my walk-in closet. I had more pressing issues at the moment. Namely, what should I pack for my trip to Costa del Rey?

“I’m scared,” I admitted, turning around to look at Bastian who was lounging on my bed. He tossed his phone on the bedside table and lit a cigarette, leaning his back against my midnight blue velvet headboard to smoke it. I shoved his booted feet off my Egyptian cotton sheets and flopped down next to him. He handed me the cigarette and I took a drag, staring up at the jewel-toned crystals dripping from the chandelier, ribbons of smoke curling up to the ceiling.

“You should be scared.”

I sighed loudly and took another drag before I handed the cigarette back to him. “I quit smoking.”

“I won’t tell Dr. Fran. I’d hate to ruin that exotic holiday you’ve funded.”

I snorted. My therapist was a miracle worker and deserved every penny I’ve paid her over the years.

Bastian wandered over to the open window to smoke, and sat on the window ledge, looking out at the rooftops of Tribeca as the sun set over them. “Normally, I like it best when you’re your tragically beautiful self. It makes you a better muse. But in this case, I’ll make an exception and bolster your spirits,” he said, in his East London accent. I couldn’t count how many times I’d heard that Bastian Cox’s voice made women’s ovaries explode. He didn’t discriminate though. He liked dick as much as pussy. “You’re not the same girl I met seven years ago. You can handle this. Go you.” He punctuated his monotone speech with a half-hearted victory punch in the air before his arm flopped back to his side.

I rolled my eyes. “That was pathetic. Don’t give up the day job. You’d make a lousy motivational speaker.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I’m British. We don’t do all the yahoo, heehaw, you go girl rah rah bullshit.”

“You’re all doom and gloom.”

“That’s why we get along so well. You speak my language.” He flicked his cigarette butt out the window, the bastard. “Let’s get pissed, eat our weight in junk food, and watch reality TV shows.”

I snort-laughed. “The glamorous life of a rock star and a supermodel.”

“Ex-supermodel. No more leafy greens and Artesian well water for you. Burgers and chips?” he asked, scrolling through his phone. When Bastian was home, it was easier to order in. Everywhere he went he got mobbed. The pitfalls of looking like a young Johnny Depp and being one of the biggest rock stars on the planet. But I was able to see past all that. From the first time we had met, I’d recognized a kindred spirit. Bastian and I were so alike, really, so damn vulnerable underneath it all.

“What the hell. I’ll live dangerously.”

After Bastian put in our order, he strolled over to my dresser, emptied my lingerie drawer into the suitcase at the foot of my bed, tossed in every bikini I owned and zipped up my bag. “There. Packed and ready to go. Tell Shane, ‘You’re welcome’. And tell Dylan I’m still pining for him.”

With that, he waltzed out of my bedroom and left me laughing. “You’re an idiot,” I yelled as he let loose on a drum kit in the living room. Bastian wasn’t even a drummer. He was a guitarist.

“I love you too,” he said, driving his point home with a crash of the cymbals that reverberated off the walls of the loft.

My humor faded when I thought about Shane. Like I hadn’t been thinking about him for seven long years.

Every. Single. Day.

I turned on my phone, ignored the social media updates, and texted my brother a reminder about tomorrow’s flight details. His response was immediate.

Dylan:Got it the first time, Remy. I told you I’d be there. Chill.

Chill.Right. Easy for him to say.