Page 13 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

MOM

I didn’t get to see you before you left! Send pics!

[IMG] [IMG] [IMG]

MOM

OOOHHH! You look like a STAR! Have tons of FUN! :-)

“ F un” doesn’t begin to describe whatever dimension of hell I’ve currently slipped into.

We’ve been at Beach Fest for nearly two hours, and it already feels like a fever dream.

Everything glows—the bonfire, the sand, the tangled bodies swaying in rhythm.

Smoke threads through the air like perfume, and string lights zigzag above our heads, pulsing in time with the bass-heavy music.

The ocean hums in the distance, just beyond the reach of the fire.

If it weren’t for the girls I came with, I might actually be enjoying this.

We’re tucked inside one of the private tents near the back, surrounded by coolers of beer, trays of weed brownies, and enough gossip to fill a blog.

Taylor and her friends have cycled through every name in their social circle twice.

Their laughter is too sharp, too fast, and the air inside is thick with sugar, sunscreen, and someone’s spilled tequila.

I glance toward the bonfire, wondering if I can slip away without Taylor noticing. I’m halfway through planning my exit when one of the Ashleys gasps.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “Is that Michael Hanson?”

“Wait, don’t look yet—okay, now.”

I follow their gaze.

He’s tall, golden-brown, with dark curls and a white T-shirt clinging to his chest like it’s been custom-tailored. He’s carrying two beers and walking like he owns every set of eyes on the beach—including mine.

“Hey, Taylor,” he says, smooth as silk. Then he looks at me. “Who’s your friend?”

Before she can answer, he extends one of the beers. “Want to get out of here for a bit?”

Yes. Desperately.

“Sure,” I say, grabbing the drink and a few brownies from the tray. “Let’s go.”

We walk down the beach, weaving past couples half-lost in each other. I eat the first brownie before we even reach the fire pits. The second one lingers on my tongue longer—warm and soft, with a bitter aftertaste that sticks to the back of my throat.

By the time we hit the third, I’m starting to float. My limbs feel slow, like they’re moving through water. The sugar’s hitting, and so is the weed. My skin buzzes, and my vision softens at the edges.

Michael leads me to a tent strung with Edison bulbs, half-filled with casually beautiful guys who nod at me like I’m another accessory to the night.

“You’re staying with the Dawsons?” one of them asks.

“Technically.”

“Cole’s around here somewhere. He doesn’t really do parties.”

They say his name like it means nothing. Like he’s just another local ghost.

Michael leads me back into the sand as the music shifts—deeper now, slower. A low pulse that sinks into your chest and drags your hips into motion whether you want to move or not.

“Dance with me,” he says, already pulling me closer.

“I’m not really a dancer.”

“Dancing’s just like sex,” he murmurs, voice at my ear. “Find the rhythm. Let go.”

I know I should slow down.

I don’t.

I’m too warm, too dizzy. His hands are already at my waist, guiding me in slow circles. My body moves before I can argue with it.

And then—I see him.

Cole.

He’s just beyond the fire, his body pressed against a girl I’ve never seen.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, her mouth finds the hollow of his throat.

He’s got one hand locked around her waist, the other gliding over the curve of her back as they move in time with the beat.

It’s intimate. Possessive. Addictive to watch.

Something tightens in my chest.

Because I want it to be me.

I want to be the one he’s pulling close like that, the one whose dress is riding up as he presses in harder, slower. I want his hands on my body. I want his mouth on my neck. I want whatever that girl is getting, and I want it so badly I almost forget how to breathe.

Michael spins me, pulling me closer.

When I turn back around—Cole is staring at me.

His expression is unreadable, but his eyes are locked on mine. Like he sees every thought I’m trying not to have. Like he knows.

Michael's hand slides down, trailing beneath the hem of my dress—and then, with a quick tug, he yanks my panties off.

My body jolts.

Before I can say anything, he stuffs them into his pocket and leans in.

“I’ll keep these,” he whispers, breath hot against my ear. “For later.”

The words make my skin crawl. My body tries to step back, but my limbs aren’t listening.

And then the air shifts.

Heat radiates to my left. I look up?—

—and see Cole.

His jaw is set, his eyes dark, but it’s the way he moves that catches me. Deliberate. Controlled. Like every step is holding back something he could unleash in a second if he wanted to.

He cuts through the crowd like it isn’t even there. Straight toward me.

Michael notices too late.

“Emily?” Cole’s voice is low, tight, quiet—but dangerous.

Michael straightens. “We were just dancing.”

“She’s done dancing.”

“She can speak for herself.”

Cole’s eyes don’t leave mine. “Emily?”

I open my mouth to answer, but everything tilts. The lights blur. My balance slips for half a second, and suddenly I can’t tell if I’m standing on sand or cloud.

Cole sees it.

He steps in, wrapping one arm around my waist, steadying me with a grip that’s all muscle and heat. The scent of him—soap, salt, something darker—cuts through the fog in my head.

He holds me close and starts walking me away from the fire.

I don’t resist.

I can’t.

He doesn’t let go of my waist until he has the passenger door open. His hand brushes my thigh as I climb in, and the contact sparks through me like a match head.

I sink into the seat, breathing hard, the night pressing in around me like wet fabric.

The car is cool, dim, and quiet.

He blasts the A/C and presses a chilled bottle of water to my neck. I shiver, then sigh. My head is spinning, and I can feel the outline of his fingers still pressed into my skin.

Everything slows.

And then everything goes dark.

When I wake up, my throat is dry and my stomach is heavy. I shift under the blankets, blinking hard against the light.

I’m in my bed.

My head pounds softly, but the worst of the spin is gone.

“I would ask you to help me into pajama pants,” I mumble, voice rough. “But that guy took my panties.”

Cole’s across the room, quiet.

He walks to my dresser and pulls out a T-shirt and clean underwear. Doesn’t say a word. Just sets them gently beside me on the bed.

“Here.”

I change slowly, each movement careful. I can still feel the heat of the beach in my skin. The noise of the crowd echoes faintly in my ears. But everything feels muted now. Sharpened.

He tugs the blanket over me once I’m dressed, his hands careful, almost reverent.

I watch him. The way his jaw shifts. The way he avoids my eyes.

“Why did you step in?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t answer.

“Were you jealous?”

Nothing.

“I need pajama pants,” I say softly, curling deeper into the bed.

He stands. Moves to the door.

At the threshold, he looks back, eyes unreadable in the dark.

“Sober up, Emily.”

He pauses.

“Oh—and I was jealous.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

And I stare at the ceiling, my heart still thudding in a rhythm that has nothing to do with weed, or sugar, or alcohol.