Page 7 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

The following night

I ’m confused as to why Taylor is still here.

She spent the night in the guest room after we swam, took up my entire day by showing me around town, and now… we’re back in the pool.

It’s almost like she lives here whenever she wants, and no one else cares to tell her otherwise.

“I’m inviting your new besties over to join us,” she says. “You’re going to love them, and they’ll love you.”

Right. “I need to work on writing at some point today.”

“What college do you go to?”

“I start at Pitt in the fall.”

“And they already are asking you to do work?” She scoffs. “That’s B.S.”

I bite my tongue before I can explain. I’ve learned in our short time together that she’s not a good listener—but she’s not trying to be rude. She just lives in her own orbit.

“AHHHH!” “Taylorrr!” “I brought beer!”

Her three friends step out onto the concrete like they’re on a catwalk—each of them in a different neon bikini, sleek topknot buns glinting under the pool lights. They’re not clones, not exactly, but they talk and move like girls who’ve been growing up in each other’s shadows their whole lives.

“This is our new friend, Emily,” Taylor announces. “She’s the daughter of Mr. Aidan’s fiancée.”

“Nice to meet you,” they say in unison. Then, like rehearsed roll call:

“I’m Sarah.”

“I’m Ashley.”

“I’m Ashley, too, but you can call me Ash-leigh so we don’t get confused.”

“Nice to meet you all,” I say, stuck on the word fianc é e . “My mom’s not his fiancée, though…”

“Where’s Cole?” one of the Ashleys asks, immediately glancing toward the house. “He’s really living here?”

“He is.” Taylor nods, cracking a beer. “Hopefully he’ll come to his senses and join us.”

“He’s so fucking hot.”

“Sooo hot.”

“What are you wearing to the beach fest?”

“Something cute.”

“Me too.”

“Let me see.”

“Let me see, too.”

I lean back against the jets and let their conversation swirl around me like warm chlorine fog. They’re harmless. Loud, shallow, silly. But this is their world—a safe, glossy bubble of outfits and weekend plans and someone’s cousin Clive in L.A. who once dated a B-lister.

Eventually, I slip out of the pool and wrap myself in a towel.

“I’m going to shower and head to bed,” I say. “It was nice meeting you all.”

“I swear her Hermès bag was fake,” Sarah says, flipping her hair. “The clasp was completely off.”

“But Clive bought her that Prada one last year, remember?” Ashley says. “So maybe this one’s real, too.”

“I still don’t trust it.”

I duck inside and leave their voices fading behind me.

My mom and Aidan are laughing down the hall as I climb the stairs. Something about this house still doesn’t feel real—heated floors, towel warmers, entire rooms just for showering.

I switch on the warmer and slip into the private shower, sighing the moment hot water hits my skin.

It’s decadent.

The pressure is perfect. The lights can change color. The scent of the eucalyptus steam floods my senses like I’ve stepped into a spa. I tilt my face into the stream and close my eyes, letting the warmth sink into my shoulders, down my spine.

When I’ve soaked up enough of the heat, I reach for the warmer?—

But my towel’s gone.

Frowning, I open the linen closet. Empty.

I crack open the door and peek toward my room, but just as I step forward, the bathroom door opens.

Cole steps in.

He’s shirtless, damp, a towel slung low around his hips— my towel.

His gaze lands on me, and everything in the room stills.

My breath catches. He doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t even blink.

His eyes rake down my body—neck, breasts, stomach, thighs—and the burn of his attention makes my skin pulse.

“Why would you take that towel when you knew someone was in here?” I manage, holding the door with one hand and my pride with the other. “Didn’t you hear the shower?”

“No.” His voice is unhurried. “It’s soundproof. I didn’t know this suite was occupied.”

“Give me the towel.”

“Okay.” He smirks.

He drops it.

My lips part.

He steps closer, completely bare. All lean muscle and sculpted heat, not the least bit shy. My eyes betray me—dragging down his chest, his abdomen, his hips… lower.

God.

I can't breathe.

He picks up the towel again and closes the space between us.

“You sure you want it?” he murmurs.

I say nothing.

He slips it over my shoulders, slow, like he’s draping silk.

His fingers linger, brushing my pierced nipple through the fabric.

“A virgin with a nipple piercing,” he says, voice dark. “That’s new.”

“It was a dare.”

“I like dares.”

He presses the towel tighter around me, gaze locked on mine.

“Anything else pierced I should know about?”

I blink. “Are you done?”

“Almost.”

His hand trails down the edge of the towel. Then he steps back—just enough to let the air cool where his body heat had been.

“I’ll check next time,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt again.”

“You didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Good.” His voice dips lower. “Then I can leave without feeling bad.”

He finally steps out of my way, but not before letting his gaze linger on me one last time—slow, unhurried, like he’s taking mental notes for later.

“Goodnight, Emily,” he says, voice low.

Then he walks out, stark-ass naked, like nothing about this moment has rattled him at all.

The door shuts behind him with a soft click.

And with it, any last illusion that I’m going to survive this summer untouched.