Page 37 of Wilder at Heart
Fuck.
She thinks I’m a tart, basically. A loose cannon. A total liability. She’s made some lame attempts at hiding the judgement on her face whenever myCharmeddebacle comes up. I bet I’m precisely the kind of guy her mum warned her tostay away from. And I’d bet even more that all her interactions with me so far have reinforced her mum’s warnings. That she sees me as dangerous.
Because God forbid she could have some consensual, casual sex with someone who knows how to use his dick and actually enjoy herself before she bunks up with Jonathan in snoozeville for the rest of her life.
She seems to be locked in some lame, celibate prison of her own making. But yesterday, when I wandered into her room to check the thermostat was turned down low enough for the air con to kick in if needed, I saw something interesting. Next to her pile of self-help books (think Oprah, Michelle Obama, Brené Brown, and a few others whose names I didn’t recognise) was a smaller pile of historical romances. The title on the top one?
Grosvenor. A Marriage of Convenience.
Now, I know enough to be aware that the TV adaptation of these books, the very same that Elle and Josh are starring in, is steamy as fuck. It’s been all over the press. If my little Nora is all over these, it suggests she’s not totally dead below the waist. There’s a pulse down there somewhere.
I just wonder if she’ll let anyone else take care of it for her. Maybe my good deed for the summer is teaching Miss Wilder to live up to her name a little more.
CHAPTER 15
Nora
Iwhisk eggs for breakfast in a perspex bowl while peering at the spreadsheet that houses the budget for Miles and Saoirse’s wedding. I want to refresh my memory on every line item of that budget, so I know what we can reallocate if they come up with any additional requests when we’re touring Sorrel Farm today.
I’ve seen this happen time and time again. The provisional budget goes out the window when couples get on site and their imaginations go wild. Not that I can see that being a problem here: I suspect Miles will sign off on anything Saoirse wants. Lucky girl.
I’m not envious that she’s marrying someone with money. I’d just like to know how it feels to have someone stare at you like you’re the axis around which their entire world revolves. The answer to all their prayers.
Like the way I’m sure Theo stares at himself in the mirror.
Speak of the devil.
He strides into the kitchen. Dressed, thankfully, and staring down at his phone. His hair’s still damp and combed carefully off his face. He’s in a perfectly pressed, sky blue linen shirt and cream chinos. He should be in some 1950s movie, drivingaround Lake Como on a Vespa. This guy could definitely model if it all went wrong for him in… whatever the hell industries he operates in.
‘Fucking Wordle,’ he mutters.
I snigger. ‘How many lines have you done?’
‘Three down. And I’ve only got a green and two yellows.’
I stay diplomatically silent.
‘Do you do it?’ he asks.
‘Every morning, as soon as I wake up. I’m obsessed.’
‘How’d you get on today?’ He drags the question out reluctantly.
I press my lips together apologetically before answering him.
‘Got it in three. Sorry.’ Not sorry.
‘Fuck’s sake. Nice work, though.’ He locks his phone and chucks it down on the counter. ‘It’s frying my brain. I’ll come back to it later.’
I throw him a bone. ‘It was a tough one today.’
I stiffen as he walks around the island and comes up behind me, too close for comfort.
‘Whatya doin’?’
‘I’m making scrambled eggs.’ I turn on the hob and heat the pan I found in the drawer below.
‘Nice. But what’s this?’
