Page 20

Evie

Wild is waiting by the car.

I stop with the imposing mansion at my back and Wild in front. He waits with his legs crossed at the ankles. I realize he's waited a lot for me throughout my life. He's a constant, always there when I need him. And what do I do? Bad mouth his choices to Parker.

I barely keep my balance as I go to Wild. When I reach him, he does that thing where he studies my face with a soft expression. My emotions are everywhere, and I need that ice cream right now.

He reaches a hand toward my cheek, but I'm on a hair trigger, milliseconds away from exploding into ugly tears. I pull back, my hair flying around my face.

"Okay?" he asks.

I nod.

He sits and taps his trouser-clad thigh. "Steady, let me take off your shoes."

It's then I see the slip-ons on the ground. He bought me shoes and a spectacular dress, and slip-ons? I start shaking so fast my head spins. "Your trousers, you don't have to--"

"Come on."

So, biting my lips to hold back the surge of emotions, I balance my foot on his thigh and my hands on his shoulders. He pauses with his hands by his side, admiring my sandals. They are gorgeous.

“ Beautiful,” he says in a low growl that further destroys my composure.

I take a deep inhale and exhale.

He takes off the sandals. One after the other, at an unhurried pace.

I breathe a sigh as I slide my feet into the slip-ons. "I could kiss your feet right now."

He snickers and straightens to his feet.

We drive to my favorite ice cream parlor. It's childish, colorful, and exaggerated in the way only a proper ice cream parlor should be. There's a drawing of a giant ice cream at the front. Cute umbrellas and chairs complete the picture.

Wild leaves to take a call, and I skip to the counter to place our orders.

The ice cream is beautiful. "But not as much as my shoes," I tell Wild.

He fiddles with his phone. "What's the relationship between shoes and ice cream?"

I don't have to think hard. "Me?"

"Right." He takes the tiny spoon.

Seeing his big, basketball-span hands gripping the spoon holds my attention. Wild is strong. Really, really strong. He swings his tools easily, wielding all that power while working on my fence, porch, garden, and cabinets.

All he's ever done is use his power to protect me.

I should reach for my chant. I don't. Because a lot of us might be fake right now, but we're still us. With my ice cream melting in my mouth, I smile at him. It's more than okay to appreciate the goodness—both human and creamy—in front of me.

Wild's mouth twists in distaste. He's not a fan of ice cream. "You're that happy?"

"Very."

I polish off the ice cream, but Wild makes me wait. He wants to drop something off with Rhys, who's passing by.

"I think I'm ice cream drunk," I tell Wild as a truck rolls up to the ice cream parlor.

Rhys gives me a nod. In his jeans and boots, he looks every inch the rancher.

After talking with Wild, Rhys comes over. He's wide across the shoulders but some inches shorter than pro basketballer Wild.

"How was your date?" he asks.

"Date? No, no, no. We're not dating—"

His right eyebrow flies up, and he glances at Wild, who looks at me like I need my head checked.

Oh. I'm ice cream drunk, and I've ruined our game. "We're, uhm, dating. The date was nice. We got dressed, had dinner, ice cream, and—"

My goodness. I'm rambling into a bottomless pit.

Rhys chuckles. I glance at Wild, who looks like he's holding back a laugh.

Oh . Rhys already knows we're faking it. Right .

Wild

Sports are unpredictable, and I can't believe the die-hard fans who gamble. I've heard of fans staking their salaries, houses, and even their entire future on the outcome of a game.

But for all its uncertainties, there are moments—splits of a second and less—that are so sure you can confidently put anything on the line. It's the milliseconds after you release a ball. The timeless seconds the ball hangs in the air before swishing through the net.

Watching Evie's adorable fumble with Rhys tonight changed something for me.

The admission doesn't sit well, and I don't know what to do with it.

Or if I should do anything with it.

I don't do commitment.

Evie's allergic to unpredictability.

Throughout the night, I play with the reasons for and against the ‘something that changed for me ’ .

By morning, I have no answers, but that 'something?' It's still there.