Page 16 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

COLE

S unlight cuts across the balcony in long, slanted bands, painting the floorboards in gold and gray.

I layer cobalt onto the canvas, dragging the brush through the waterline of a narrow two-lane road that stretches between mirrored lakes.

It’s nearly finished—deceptively calm, deliberately still.

But underneath the surface, the whole thing hums with tension.

Footsteps cross behind me.

She enters without a word, the sound of a tray settling onto the table cutting through the quiet. When I glance over my shoulder, she’s already moving past me—bare legs visible beneath one of my shirts, hair twisted into a knot, a few strands curling along her jaw like they belong there.

No performance, no nerves. She’s just here.

“For the record,” she says, her voice rough with sleep, “I don’t usually stalk people.”

“I didn’t mind,” I say, setting the brush down.

Her gaze meets mine for a second, then drops.

There’s a pause as she adjusts the mug in her hands. Her grip is a little too careful, like she’s holding more than just coffee.

“And another correction,” she adds, quieter. “I’m not trying to give my virginity away to just anyone. Not anymore.”

I study her for a moment. There’s no teasing in her voice. Just truth—stated plainly, like she’s trying to level the ground between us.

“Good to know,” I say. “You should know there are plenty of guys who’d take it.”

Color creeps into her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away. She just presses her lips to the edge of the mug and takes a sip.

“I just want to feel what everyone claims to feel,” she says. “That’s all.”

There’s more beneath that, but she doesn’t offer it.

She reaches for a croissant, tears off a corner, and places it on my side of the tray. “Figured you’d skip breakfast again.”

I nod toward the empty chair across from me. “Sit.”

“I should finish a poem.”

“You’re lying.”

Her smile is brief, but it softens the tension in her shoulders. She sits, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and I slice into one of the croissants, handing her half.

“What’s the turnaround time for one of your poems?” I ask.

“For you?”

“For anyone.”

“If I’m focused, a few days.”

I nod again. “I’ll wait.”

Her lips press together like she’s trying not to smile. I watch the way she moves—small shifts, subtle tells. She’s not guarded, exactly. She’s bracing. Like she’s waiting to see if she can really settle into this moment or if it’s going to vanish the second she does.

“You’re not wearing a shirt again,” she says, and there’s a hint of deflection in her tone.

“I paint shirtless.”

“It’s distracting.”

“Don’t look.”

“I dare you to wear one tomorrow.”

“You suck at dares.”

“You suck at focus.”

“I’m focused right now.”

“Not in the ways that matter.”

I tilt my head, considering her. “So a shirt would help your creative process?”

“It would help my sanity.”

“You hum when you write,” I say. “And talk to yourself.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. It’s distracting.”

“Then maybe I’ll wear duct tape and you’ll wear a raggedy old shirt and we’ll call it even.”

“I don’t own raggedy old shirts.”

“I’m sure you can paint one into existence.”

I let the silence stretch, watching her mouth twitch as she tries not to smile again.

“I’ve got a delivery to make,” I say, standing. “Out of town. I’ll be back late.”

She doesn’t respond, but something shifts in her expression. Barely a flicker, like she’s not sure if she’s supposed to care.

I shouldn’t say anything else. I’ve already touched her too much. Let her in too far. This thing between us—whatever it is—is already closer to the edge than it should be. I should keep my distance. I should leave it there.

But the words are out before I can stop them.

“Want to come with me?”

Her head tilts slightly, surprise flickering across her face.

I don’t move. Don’t try to take it back.

She doesn’t answer right away, but her eyes stay locked on mine. Searching. Considering.

And in the quiet that follows, I know she’s already said yes.