Page 11 of Made for Wilde
Then Mom died, and everything changed.
Koda came to the funeral. I remember him in that black suit that looked wrong on his powerful frame, his face carved from stone as he stood beside Dad at the graveside. He hugged me afterward, and I breathed in his scent of leather and something uniquely him, wishing I could stay in the safety of his arms forever.
But his career was taking off. Title shots and big fights in Vegas and Atlantic City. The visits became phone calls, then holiday cards, then nothing at all.
“Charlotte?” Dad’s voice snaps me back to reality. “You okay? You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing a bright smile. “Just surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know you two were still in touch.”
“We talk every few months. Check in on each other.” He takes another sip of whiskey. “He’s been living up in the mountains since he retired. Bought a cabin outside town.”
“That’s great. Iknow how close you two were.”
“I should probably warn you that Koda’s a bit different than you might remember,” Dad continues. “He’s been through some rough times. All that mess with...”
He frowns and he trails off.
“With...” I prompt, waiting for him to finish.
Dad waves his hand dismissively.
“Never mind. It’s not important. Just be patient with him. He’s not much for small talk these days.”
For a second, I consider pressing him for details about what he left unsaid. But then I decide against it. Whatever happened with Koda, Dad clearly doesn’t want to get into it right now. And honestly, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it.
I reach for a clean glass from the rack and start polishing it with more attention than it needs, focusing on making the surface gleam under the bar lights.
Then I hear the front door chime, and my entire body goes rigid.
I don’t need to look up to know it’s him. My hands shake as I continue polishing the same glass for the third time.
“Palmer, you son of a bitch!”
That voice. It’s deeper than I remember, but unmistakably his.
I finally lift my eyes, and my breath catches in my throat.
Koda Wilde stands in the doorway like he owns the place, and somehow, he’s even more devastating than my teenage fantasies could have imagined.
He’s taller than I remember—at least six-three—with shoulders that strain against his worn flannel jacket. His dark hair is longer now, pulled back in a messy man bun that shows off the sharp angles of his jaw. There are new lines around his eyes and silver threading through his hair at the temples, but somehow that just makes him more attractive.
My dad stands and the two men embrace in one of those back-slapping hugs that men do. Watching them together, it’s obvious how much they’ve missed each other. Twenty-five years of friendship doesn’t just disappear, even when life pulls you in different directions.
“Look at you,” Dad says, stepping back to assess his best friend. “You look good, man. Mountain life’s treating you well.”
Koda chuckles, but there’s something guarded in his expression. “Can’t complain.”
His gaze sweeps the bar, taking in the polished wood and modern fixtures, and I realize with growing panic that he hasn’t noticed me yet. I’m partially hidden behind the beer taps, and the lighting back here is dim.
I could stay hidden. Let Dad make the introductions when Koda’s sitting down, when I’ve had a moment to compose myself.
Instead, I step forward like an idiot.
“Hi, Koda.”
Koda’s head turns toward my voice.
The moment our eyes meet, something electric passes between us.
