Page 51 of Made for Wilde
“It’s the only way.” I stand. “I need to get ready for class.”
Sarah catches my wrist.
“Charlotte, wait. Tell me one thing. Was it worth it? Even knowing how it would end?”
I think about Koda’s hands on my skin. The way he looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. How safe I felt wrapped in his arms.
“Yes,” I whisper. “It was worth every second.”
Sarah smiles.
“Then maybe this isn’t the end of the story after all.”
I don’t answer. I can’t let myself hope for something that can never happen.
Instead, I head to my bedroom. I sit down on my bed and I close my eyes and let myself remember one last time—his hands, his mouth, the weight of his body over mine.
Then I take a deep breath and force it all into a box in the corner of my mind, locking it tight.
It’s over. We’re over before we even began.
And I just have to learn to live with that.
ELEVEN
KODA
I slammy truck door hard enough to rattle the windows.
The parking lot at Worthington Sports is half-empty this early, but my boots still find every patch of leftover ice, crunching through the morning silence.
It’s been less than two hours since I dropped Charlotte off, since I watched her walk away with her shoulders squared like she was marching to her own execution. I’m already fighting the urge to drive back to her apartment and beg her to forget everything we agreed on.
I slam my access card against the reader, yanking the door open before the light even turns green.
Inside, the gym smells like bleach and sweat and ambition.
Morning crowd is the usual mix—professionals getting in their cardio before work, trainers setting up for the day, a few fighters already working the bags in the back corner.
I keep my head down, beelining for the staff locker room, but it’s like someone flipped a switch. Suddenly, everyone’s noticing me, comments flying from all directions.
“Damn, Wilde, the mountain man finally discovered scissors!”
“Somebody call GQ, we’ve got a transformation story!”
I run a hand through my hair self-consciously.
Charlotte’s handiwork is still there, the careful layers falling just right. I can almost feel her fingers against my scalp, the way she’d bitten her lip in concentration while she cut, how proud she’d looked when she finished.
The memory makes my stomach clench.
Mike, one of the newer trainers, whistles as I pass.
“Hot date this weekend? You look like you actually slept in a bed instead of under a bridge.”
“Fuck off,” I growl, but there’s no real heat behind it.
I make it to the staff hallway before Dana appears, coffee mug in hand, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear. Her eyes widen when she sees me and her mouth drops open mid-sentence.
