Page 12 of Chasing Wildflowers
The hunger in his gaze wasn’t soft or tender. It was dangerous, a predator’s interest. I felt it coil around me, heavy and suffocating, leaving me torn between the instinct to run and the pull to stay right where I was.
I haven’t felt this strong an attraction since Byron. This is different. He scratches at something beneath my skin. Something I can’t control.
I shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter what he scratches beneath my skin. I don’t do relationships. Not after the hell Byron put me through.
We met during my junior year of college. It started like a meet-cute from a cheesy rom-com. I ran into him at a coffee shop, literally, spilling my caramel iced latte all over both of us. He laughed it off and bought me a new latte. By the time I finished it, he’d charmed my number out of me.
He was older, successful, and handsome. Everything I thought I wanted…until he showed me the monster beneath the charming smile he wore.
My hand wraps tighter around my mug, the warmth sinking into my palms. I exhale slowly, shaking away the ghosts of my past.
My phone lights up, snagging my attention, the memory blowing away like smoke.
Kam.
“I hate tequila,” I groan into the phone.
Kam laughs, light and teasing. “It was your idea.”
“How do you sound so chipper?” I mutter, sinking back into my chair, the worn cushions molding around me.
“Because I got a new shipment of dark romance at the store,” she purrs, knowing how to bait me.
That perks me up despite the pounding in my skull. Being Kam’s best friend means I get first pick atBetween the Pages, her gorgeous little bookstore. After I help unpack the boxes, of course.
“I also got fantasy romance,” she adds a moment later.
I sigh dramatically, already scrambling to the bathroom. “Give me an hour.”
The second I step intoBetween the Pages, the familiar scent of old books and lavender wraps around me, grounding me instantly. Mahogany shelves line deep-blue walls, the fourth wall a giant picture window letting in sunlight that dances across the sleek black-and-gold marble counter. The place hums with warmth and quiet magic, like stepping out of reality and into another world.
Reading became my escape after my Dad passed away. It started with the typical young adult fantasy but evolved once I got to college and discovered romance books, specifically the smutty ones. I was instantly hooked. Reading everything I could get my hands on. Until I met Byron.
According to him, fantasizing about fictional men was the same as cheating. But the long history of porn websites I found on his computer? Totally fine.
I stopped reading. Just like I stopped doing a lot of things that made me happy.
The first thing I did after leaving my old life? Bought myself a new copy of my favorite romance novel.2Now every year, on the anniversary of when I escaped, I buy myself a new copy.
“Iced matcha latte with oat milk and cold foam,” I announce, sliding her drink across the counter.
“You’re an angel,” she moans after the first sip, her fingers wrapped around the plastic like it’s her lifeline to existence.
I dig into one of the boxes, grabbing a book off the top. The cover is smooth under my fingertips, the colors bright and enticing.
Reading the blurb aloud, I grin.“Haunted by her sister’s death, a newly licensed psychologist is pulled into a web of deception, desire, and danger—where the man who sees through her may be hiding the darkest secret of all.”3
Kam leans forward, arms braced on the counter, eyes glittering. “Sounds amazing, doesn’t it?”
She hands me another one, the cover is a stunning mix of greens and golds.4“This one is a fantasy, about ayoung girl discovering a whole fairy realm in her grandmother's backyard. She turns out to be one half of a prophecy to destroy the evil in their kingdom.”
“Say less.” I set the books aside to buy before I leave.
Her chuckle rings out, bright and airy, as she hefts a box, carrying it toward the back wall. “Do you think Jameson will come in during your shift tonight?”
I roll my eyes, following with another box, our footsteps scuffing faintly against the floor. “You couldn’t even wait, could you?”
“Nope,” she says, emphasizing the P as she sets the box on the floor beside a circular table dedicated to indie authors.
