Page 37 of Wild Card
But the moment slips away when West slides a slice of cake in front of me. “Dude. You havegotto try this. Our Tabby Cat outdid herself.”
Gwen shoots me a small quirk of her lips and a second silent toast, then she turns away to chat with Skylar.
I watch her as I hold the glass to my lips but put it back down without drinking. I know alcohol consumption before this procedure isn’t recommended. But I didn’t want to ruin everyone’s fun. Then I regretfully turn my attention to West and the cake.
It’s delicious.
But not delicious enough to steal my wandering thoughts away from the woman seated across from me.
As is fairly typical for me, the large group atmosphere becomes more irritating than fun. The music plus the chatter makes it loud, and being the center of attention is pretty much my worst nightmare.
There’s a reason I keep to myself. There’s a reason I built on a private piece of property. And it’s because I like my peace. I enjoy my time alone. In fact, I don’t even usually feel all that lonely. It’s doing me no favors in the dating department—there’s a large part of me that’s avoiding that scene altogether. Especially considering what happened the last time I felt a spark of connection with a woman.
Still, there’s something about coming home from a long stretch away working a fire and finding space and silence. I’ll sit out on my balcony and decompress. The birds, the lake, the swish of the breeze through the trees—that’s how I rejuvenate.
Not by surrounding myself with friends.
No, I do this for them. They need this. They wanted this, and as much as I love to see everyone together, my social battery drains rather quickly.
It might also have something to do with the fact that everyone else is drinking while I’ve officially hit the point in the night where I need to fast before surgery.
I’ve retreated to the kitchen for some breathing room, and everyone else is huddled in the living room playing an old game of Operation that West dug out of his crawl space “special for this party.” The buzzer is going off a hell of a lot more than it has any right to, which is resulting in a chorus of laughter each time.
It makes me smile even though no one is here to see it.
Seeking some quiet, I slip from the house during one of those more raucous moments. Spring is in the air, and the nights are growing warmer. Still, it’s spring in the mountains, and I rub my hands roughly over my arms for the friction.
West has a stunning property. A sweeping stretch of land near the lake, just outside of town. His old farmhouse sits back in the trees—not along the shore, like mine. But I know that just down a narrow, winding path, it opens up to a panoramic lake view.
Drawn by the sound of the water lapping at the shore, I shove my fists into my jean pockets and head toward the lake. Dense pines line my path as I pass a small guesthouse on my way. Warm, dim light filters from inside, and I peek in through the window, wondering why it would be lit up at all. The space looks tidy but unused, not lived.
Except for the small, gray mouse in the corner. It’s nibbling on a piece of cheese that looks suspiciously similar to the Manchego on the ornate cheese board Tabby laid out earlier. My brows furrow, but I decide it’s not my issue. I can mention the mouse to West later.
I continue toward the lake, the inky ripples highlighted by the bright moon. I haven’t let myself think much about the fact that surgeries go awry sometimes, but taking the last steps down the short drop to the shore, it hits me I might never see this view again.
The sand shifts beneath my boots as I approach the shoreline. Rocking backward and forward, I suck in a sharp breath, the first inkling of anxiety twisting in my gut. Entirely unwelcome.
“Fuck.” My heartbeat picks up momentum in my chest. “You picked a hell of a time to get cold feet, old boy,” I mutter, chastising myself for doing this now.
As I shake my head into the night’s darkness, a soft rustle comes from my right. If she wasn’t wearing a bright-white blouse, she might be harder to spot.
But she is.
Gwen tiptoes toward the trees, clearly trying to creep away silently. And failing.
I sigh and turn to watch her. All it takes is one peek back over her shoulder for her to drop the ruse and face me with crossed arms.
It does nothing but prop her tits up, the moonlight bouncing off them in the most alluring way.
God, I might never see those again either. What a fucking shame.
“Don’t give me that look, Rousseau. I was here first. Can’t use that weaponized sigh on a girl who was just trying to give you some privacy.”
At least she misread the look I was giving her. Small victories.
“It’s fine,” I grumble, letting my eyes trail down her body. Because why the fuck not? I could die tomorrow. Might as well look my fill.
A wide, ornate western belt cinches her waist, highlighting the feminine curve of her hips and thick thighs—hugged by jeans that flare out into a wide-legged shape.
