Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 81787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
I glanced over at Constance Roe, doing her best to get Sebastian’s attention. He appeared bored as he sat on a stool, watching two girls make out while drinking from his cup. His gazed shifted to me, and he smirked. I just shook my head and laughed at him. The guy was so not boyfriend material.
I continued to scan the room. The same crowd, same girls trying to stand out—it was starting to get boring. It had been fun at first, but the whole scene was getting old.
Everyone seemed to be so focused on standing out that they didn’t notice others. Perhaps that was why I noticed them first. Wilder, Thatcher, and King stepped into the area, seeming to take up all of the room with their presence. The voices quieted as other people began to notice them. It seemed the three of them had the power to snap people out of their self-absorbed world. I wondered if it was because of Thatcher’s reputation, King’s arrogant gleam in his eye, or the hotness that was Wilder.
The first two didn’t interest me. It was Wilder I watched as his eyes roamed over the room, looking neither interested nor amused at the different things going on around him. When his gaze landed on me, it stopped. He tilted his head slightly to the side, then said something to one or both of the guys beside him—since his eyes never left mine, I couldn’t be sure. He began to move in my direction then. The closer he got, the more nervous I seemed to grow. I tried not to admire the way his body moved or the effortless way he made a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket look incredible. This was Wells’s cousin. Lusting over Wilder was wrong. I needed to be slapped.
“Oakley, right?” His smooth, deep voice barely held a Southern accent. It was there, but faint. That was strange for anyone in Georgia, but especially this corner of the state.
“Yes,” I replied with a smile.
His eyes glanced over the rest of the room before coming back to me. “Where is Wells?” he asked.
“Gone to get some of his dad’s bourbon with Storm,” I told him, figuring it wasn’t a secret.
Wilder frowned. “And he left you alone.” He flickered his gaze over toward Sebastian, then back at me. “With all this?”
I laughed quietly and nodded. This was a typical weekend with Wells. If the party wasn’t here, it was at someone else’s house. I’d grown accustomed to him getting sidetracked with Storm or Sebastian. Part of the boredom I was feeling. However, Wilder was making things much more exciting.
“Why wouldn’t he?” I asked him as he continued to stare down at me.
Wilder shrugged. “It’s inconsiderate.”
That was … nice. Okay, it was sexy, the way he’d said it. But he was older. Older guys thought about things like that. They weren’t trying to sneak off and get their dad’s bourbon. I was sixteen, and Wilder was, like, twenty-five or something. I wasn’t exactly sure.
“It’s a party,” I replied.
Wilder was still frowning when he moved and took the seat beside me that Wells had occupied earlier. He smelled of leather and mint. I wanted to lean in and bury my nose in his side to inhale. Why was that scent so enticing?
“What would you rather be doing tonight?” he asked me, turning his head to meet my gaze.
I blinked and tried not to be overwhelmed by his nearness, but it was difficult. He was so much larger than Wells. My body was not listening to my head. It was tingling and aching to move closer to his side.
“Painting,” I blurted out.
His eyebrows rose. “You like to paint?”
I nodded, then dropped my eyes to my lap. “Yes. When I can. It’s my escape.”
The fact that Wells didn’t even know that I liked to paint wasn’t lost on me. But the topic never came up. He had never asked.
“What do you paint?” Wilder asked. He sounded as if he was interested. Like he wanted to know.
When I lifted my eyes back to meet his, there was a strange feeling in my chest I didn’t recognize. I tried not to dwell on it. “Mostly nature. Landscapes.”
A small tilt of his lips whispered at a smile. “I wish I could see some of your work,” he told me.
My heart did a funny little flutter, and I realized I was smiling up at him. No one—not my dad, definitely not my stepsister or stepmother—had ever cared to see my paintings. They were something I did and kept tucked away in a closet in my room. My stepmother called it a waste of time and pointed out that I could be using my time to help others—the way her daughter, Sylvia, did. Yet this man I barely knew was interested. I could see it there in his eyes—he truly was curious.