Page 25 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

evangeline

S taring at a curtained window in Wilder’s guest bedroom, I rub a towel over my hair and try not to focus on how fucking nervous I am.

So far nothing has gone the way I hoped it would. Most of the drive here, I felt good. Confident and full of purpose. Both feelings drained away on the ferry from Seattle to Madrone Island, which I spent hiding in a corner with my hood pulled low.

By the time I navigated off the ferry, my stomach was in knots. I ended up driving the main loop on the south side of the island for an hour in hopes my nerves would settle. Instead, I grew more and more paranoid that I was going to be pulled over for suspicious activity.

Finally, after checking to see when the last ferry of the day was leaving, I made it to the northern tip of the island. Then I almost turned right back around when I saw the manned security booth outside of Wilder’s gated community.

I stammered out my name and who I was visiting. The guard asked for my driver’s license and looked between it and me so many times I half expected him to citizen’s arrest me for impersonating a celebrity.

But then he smiled and gave me a small envelope with a key and a slip of paper inside. He explained that the key was for Wilder’s front door and the code on the paper would disarm his security system. Before I could muster a response, the thick gate rolled open.

A minute later, I was here, crashing a dinner party with Jax and Eddie, their significant others, and a woman who glared at me like I’d shit in her cereal. Which, given what I overheard Wilder tell Jax on the porch, I kind of did.

Bad timing, like Wilder said.

Or maybe perfect timing.

Who knows what might have happened if I’d waited a few more days, or even a few more weeks? Maybe he wanted to say yes to that date—would have, if I hadn’t shown up. From my ten-second glimpse of the woman, Aubrey, as everyone left, on looks alone I can’t blame him.

As much as I want to slap myself for comparing myself to her, I can’t help it. She was beautiful. Pacific blue eyes, bright and sparkly. Long, thick, shiny brown hair. Peaches and cream, freckle-free skin. Curvier hips. Much bigger boobs. The sweetest smile—when she aimed it at him.

She’s basically animated princess material. Probably does yoga and meditates. Doesn’t need therapy because she’s spiritually and mentally stable. Oh, and let’s not forget she’s super cool .

“Stop it,” I hiss at myself.

Giving up on my hair, I walk into the en suite to hang my damp towel on a rack.

The bathroom, like the guest bedroom and the glimpses I had of the rest of the house, is gorgeous.

I feel like I’m standing in one of those architectural magazine feature homes.

The ones that look so inviting, even whimsical, but also impossibly elegant.

Soft white walls, rich wood floors, warm metallic accents.

Tons of plants. Color and texture everywhere from rugs, throws, and art.

The style actually reminds me of the house I bought not far from my parents, which I sold before moving to Los Angeles. Or rather, it reminds me of the stylistic vision I had for that house before someone talked me out of finding a designer.

Before my brain decides to meander down Traumatic Memory Lane, I splash my face with cold water. Then I brush my teeth, moisturize, and finger comb my hair until I stop looking like I was drowned before being electrocuted.

Wilder still cares about me. I know he does. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have run after me. Nor would he have stopped me from leaving.

That his relief manifested as anger was no surprise. Everyone who loves me is acting the same way right now. I know they’re not angry at me—even Lily, who has every reason to be. Beneath their anger is helplessness, and beneath that is their fear for me . For my safety, my mental health, my future.

The way I unplugged and disappeared certainly didn’t help. It scared the hell out of everyone. But I don’t regret going. It was necessary.

Regardless of my tan, my time in Baja was anything but a vacation.

With Martin’s unfailing support, I started deconstructing and processing the last two years.

It was fucking exhausting. A nonstop emotional spin cycle of sadness, rage, numbness, hilarity, confusion, manic hope, and sluggish depression.

It took a week for me to actually break down and let it all out. I cried for three days straight.

When I woke up on the fourth day, I felt it for the first time—the reason I’m here.

Another crossroads. One that was always inside me, hidden behind the bricks I’d routinely stacked in front of it.

I did my best to ignore it, but as weeks passed, it only grew clearer.

Larger. Louder. Until I could no longer resist its call.

It doesn’t matter what I interrupted tonight or what might have happened. Nor does it matter that Martin might be right and this is too much, too soon.

What matters is that time is running out.

To forgive.

To repair.

To remember.

I’m pulling back the covers on the bed, about to surrender myself to the lengthy process of falling asleep, when there’s a soft knock on the door.

My heart yaps, adrenaline flooding my body.

“Evangeline?”

With no denial buffering me anymore, the sound of my full name on his lips weakens my knees and shortens my breath.

I glance down at myself and wince at what I’m wearing: a pair of my brother’s old sweatpants and a Breaking Giants T-shirt I stole from my dad.

But looking like a slob is what I get for leaving Baja for the Pacific Northwest’s version of spring.

Somewhere in Seattle, there’s a storage unit with all my stuff, but the details are buried among the thousand other emails I’ve ignored for the last two months.

Running my hands through my hair one more time, I move to the door and open it.

I’m still not ready for the impact of him standing right in front of me, close enough to touch in flannel pajama pants and a soft gray T-shirt.

His hair is brushed back, wet from his own shower. Dark bristles shadow his jaw and neck.

A magical forest lives in his eyes.

A midnight rainstorm brews in the air around him.

My, “Hi,” is embarrassingly breathy.

Wilder’s gaze travels around the room, pausing on my guitar case before returning to me. He smiles softly.

“Hi back. I wanted to make sure you were settling in okay. Do you have everything you need? Enough blankets? Towels?”

“Yes. I’m perfect. Super great. Your water pressure is godlike. Towels were fluffy. Ten out of ten.”

His eyes flare with amusement. I mentally slap myself and pray my tan hides the heat crawling up my neck.

“Sure you’re not hungry? I have leftovers I can heat up. It’s no problem at all.”

“Positive, thanks. And thanks again for letting me invade your space. I’ll keep out of your way as much as possible.”

“Not necessary.” White teeth capture a corner of his lower lip, scraping gently before he clears his throat. “If you’re up before me tomorrow, feel free to eat and drink whatever. Or if you want to wait, I usually make breakfast around nine.”

I blink fast, my eyes burning. “Thank you.”

A dimple deepens on his cheek. “Please stop saying thank you. Just treat the house like it’s yours. There’s a studio out back, too. Used to be a guesthouse. You can get in with the key the guard gave you. There’s a piano out there and… stuff.”

He shifts on his feet. Scratches his jaw. Looks down the hallway and all around me but not at me. And even though I can hardly believe it, it finally sinks in.

He’s nervous, too.

Another surge of adrenaline lifts my heart to the base of my throat. I can hear my own breathing, steady if fast, but I’m suddenly not getting enough oxygen. My hands and feet tingle. My armpits, too.

I open my mouth.

Wilder says, “Okay. Um, goodnight. I’m just down the hall if you need me— something , I mean. If you need something. ”

Our eyes meet for half a second before he pivots and walks toward his room. One step, two steps, three…

“Wait!”

My plea is far too loud and high-pitched. Basically a screech.

Wilder freezes in place, then spins back around. “Holy shit, I thought I was about to fall down the stairs.”

We both look at the stairs—that are at least five feet away in the opposite direction—then look at each other.

“Oops?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, then chuckles. “Oops, she says.” Lowering his hand, he squints at me. “Were you trying to give me a heart attack or did you think of something you needed?”

Butterflies thwack against my ribcage and dive-bomb my centerline. I lick my lips. Take a stuttering breath.

Fuck it.

“You.”

His brows pinch. “You need…” Understanding dawns, lifting his chest on a sharp breath. His eyes darken. So does his voice. “Tell me what you mean by that.”

My toes curl against hardwood. “I need—or want, I should say—what I mean is I’m offering, if you wanted to, you know?— ”

“Evangeline,” he says in a pained voice. “Please stop.”

My teeth click as I close them. Before I can decide whether to throw myself in the bedroom and slam the door or run down the stairs and out of the house, Wilder takes a step toward me. The intensity in his expression pins me to the floor.

“So I don’t misunderstand, are you asking for my company? Like you want to talk or hang out? Or are you asking me if I want to fuck?”

I choke on my next breath but manage to force out, “Second one.”

A muscle on his jawline jumps. His stare penetrates me but not in a fun way. The longer he looks at me, the tighter vines of fear wrap around my chest.

When he sighs heavily, my heart dehydrates.

I’m too late.

Whatever he sees on my face makes his lips thin. “How are you one of the most observant people I’ve ever known and still so blind? If you’d so much as glanced down once in the last few minutes, you’d already know the answer.”

My gaze drops right as his tattooed hand strokes across the outline of his erection. A bomb explodes at the base of my spine, instantly drenching my underwear .

“I jacked off twice in the shower. Twice. And all you had to do was say ‘hi’ to me for this to happen.” He grunts. “Enough. Eyes up.”

My gaze lifts to his face. But instead of the anticipation I’m expecting, I find frustration.

“Me wanting to fuck you is like taxes and gravity. Immutable.”

I whisper, “Why do you sound angry about it?”

Hands sinking into his hair, his head drops back. I have no idea what he’s looking at on the ceiling, but ten seconds pass before his shoulders and face lower.

The frustration is gone. Now he wears a patchwork mask over sadness.

“No matter how much I want to have sex with you, it wouldn’t be right. Not after what you’ve just been through.” He takes another step toward me, eyes imploring. “Let me be here for you in every other way while you heal. And I swear to God, if you still want me down the line, I’m all yours.”