Page 34 of Last Chorus (A Perfect Song Duet #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY

evangeline

W ilder builds a fire in the living room fireplace as I light candles on the mantel and make a nest on the floor out of pillows and blankets. He digs out a deck of cards. We play Go Fish, Hearts, and Crazy Eights.

I win every round for twenty straight minutes, and I’m smug about it until I remember I always won whenever we played card games as kids too. Annoyed, I tell him to stop losing on purpose. He complies and wipes the floor with me until I throw the cards at him.

When my stomach growls, he puts together a massive charcuterie board that looks like it belongs on a food blogger’s Instagram.

I eat like I’m feral, moaning and licking my fingers, which has the intended effect of him tackling me to the ground and yanking off my sweatpants.

After, we doze on the blankets, my head on his chest and his fingers twirling in my hair.

With the soft snap and crackle of logs and the steady patter of rain on the roof, I float in sensory heaven.

The power comes back on midafternoon, but we don’t bother turning on any lights.

Wilder makes us tea and disappears upstairs, then reappears with my guitar.

When he asks me to play some of my new material for him, I do.

He listens the same way he always has, with a rapt expression that makes me feel like the center of the universe.

Like I’m precious and worthy and magical.

I have to stop to wipe away tears. He doesn’t ask me what’s wrong, simply holds me until I’m calm again. I reward him with another blowjob, thankfully less traumatic than the first. Then I make the mistake of confessing that I thought swallowing cum would be grosser.

He laughs so hard, for so long, that I attempt to smother him with a pillow. My punishment is his mouth on my pussy, two fingers in my ass, and a husky warning that soon it’ll be something a lot bigger than his fingers inside me. The so-called threat triggers an immediate, shattering orgasm.

I’m still buzzing and relearning how to breathe when he whispers in my ear, “The reason my cum tastes good is because I’m made for you.” He leaves right after to wash his face and hands, sparing me the embarrassment of a witness as I dazedly wonder if he’s right.

When he returns, he has his own acoustic, a custom Gibson slightly larger than mine. I cozy up in blankets, grinning like a fangirl because I haven’t heard him play in far too long.

He stands dramatically before the fire. Makes a show of tuning the guitar with a frown of concentration and nervous glances. Right when I’m convinced he’s about to break my heart, he launches into a ridiculous, ad hoc song about a storm cloud that contains no less than five sexual puns.

We spend the rest of the afternoon playing an old game where we give the other person a color, emotion, and a setting, and five minutes to come up with a jingle.

Just before sunset, the rain lets up and the sky partly clears.

We bundle up and go outside, presumably to see if any tree branches have fallen, but end up walking down to the water on a path clogged by yellow and white daffodils.

The blooms are a little beat up from the storm but glow like fallen stars in the fading sunlight.

I crouch beside a section of flowers near the small beach and gently lift bent stalks. “I planted these same colors once. Did you ever see them? At my first place?”

Wilder’s gaze lifts from the flowers. “I saw them.”

I almost ask whether these were here when he bought the property or if he planted them, but something stops me. Maybe how presumptuous the question is, but more likely his lack of smile.

A cloud covers the sun, the temperature instantly dropping, and a gust off the water makes me shiver.

“Let’s head in,” he says softly. “I’ll get started on dinner.”

He pulls me up, warm fingers around mine for two seconds before he releases me and tucks his hand in a pocket.

Those two seconds—and the loss of them—stay with me as he reheats leftover pastitsio. As I fold the blankets and clean up the mess we left on the coffee table.

Lights are turned back on. Candles are blown out. The fire is covered by a grate and left to die.

Over dinner, we try to get it back—the peaceful, joyful bubble we floated in most of the day—and we almost do a few times. But as we finish eating, Wilder’s phone starts vibrating on the mantel and doesn’t stop. He ignores the first two calls, but on the third, he leaves the table to grab it.

He frowns down at the screen.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine for a moment. “Fine, but I need to return a call. Be back in a sec. ”

He walks from the room before I can decide whether or not I have the right to ask who’s calling.

By the time he returns, the kitchen is clean and the dishwasher is running.

“Don’t tell me I didn’t have to,” I say as he opens his mouth. “I might throw a chair at your face.”

He chuckles. “I was going to say ‘thank you,’ you maniac. Want to watch a movie?”

I stare at him, waiting for more before realizing he’s setting another boundary. He’s not going to tell me who was on the phone, and he doesn’t want me to ask.

Because he’s not mine.

The silence vibrates, a rubber band stretched to snap. I can already feel the impending sting.

I summon a weak smile. “I’m actually pretty tired.”

Concern, regret, acceptance—they cross his face like fast moving clouds before he nods. “Absolutely, sure. Sleep well, okay? I’ll see you in the morning.”

I’m smiling as I thank him for dinner and say goodnight. Smiling as I grab the two blankets I brought down from the guest room. Smiling, smiling as I say goodnight again and leave him standing in the kitchen with a lost expression on his face.

Upstairs in my room, I close the door, flip on the light, and faceplant on the bed. The sting in my chest intensifies. When it migrates to the backs of my eyes, I growl and haul myself into the bathroom.

Wilder’s doing what’s right for him, and the only thing I can do is respect that and hope that within the next few weeks, I’ll find the fortitude to lay it all out for him. How I’m scared of the future but equally certain I want to spend it with him. How I want to keep him, keep us .

I just need a little more time to get a handle on myself. To remember who I am and resuscitate my confidence. To learn how to tune out the voice in the back of my mind that’s so intent on undermining every moment of peace with parroted, poisonous words.

Helpless.

Lazy.

Crazy.

Too much, too much, too much…

Showering brings me back to the present via the unavoidable evidence of the last twenty-four hours. I relive every touch. Find and press every tender spot. Stretch to feel the burn of muscles and sigh into the phantom warmth and fullness.

Wilder and I may be in another limbo—this one a strange inversion of our vow as teens—but I take comfort in what my body tells me. What he told me. What my soul has always known .

We’re made for each other.

Somehow, someway, I’m going to fix what’s wrong with me. Course correct our past. Because I’m not letting him go.

Not ever again.

A few hours later, the soft creak of the door opening wakes me from a light sleep. Footsteps cross the room. I hold my breath as the covers lift, as the mattress dips and the sheets rustle. His arm slides over my waist. He fits himself against my back, tucking his knees beneath mine.

Relief pours from my lungs in a sigh. I find his hand and draw it to my face, pressing a kiss to his warm palm.

“I can’t do it,” he whispers. My stomach drops, but then he continues, “I can’t sleep knowing you’re right across the hall and I could have you in my arms.”

Guilt and elation war inside me. “I’m sorry.”

His exhale is thick with humor. “Liar.”

I kiss his palm again before cradling it to my chest. Looking over my shoulder, I find his eyes in the shadows. “You’re right, I’m not sorry. Sleeping beside you was at least twenty percent of why I came.”

His brows lift. “That so? ”

I nod. “You’re the only nightlight that’s ever worked. I haven’t slept for seven years. Not really. Not like I did with you.”

He exhales my name, eyes dropping to my mouth. My lips tingle. His features tighten, head tilting slightly with intent.

I don’t know where I get the strength, but I turn away before he can break another one of his rules. His forehead drops to the back of my head, a long sigh warming my neck.

“I suck at this,” he murmurs.

I hug his arm tighter. “I think we both do.”

“The phone call—that was stupid, not telling you. It was just band shit I forgot about. Our manager needed a confirmation for a festival headliner slot next summer. Eddie took it upon himself to call me over and over until I picked up.”

“Are you taking the slot?”

He rubs his face against my hair. “Mmhm. The booking agent has hounded us for years, but our schedule never lined up before now.”

“Bullshit. You hate festivals.”

He chuckles. “Truth. They’re chaotic as fuck and hell on my nerves. At least this one is local, and the lineup is pretty killer. Horizon Fest at the Gorge. Heard of it? ”

I gasp and slap his arm, then twist to see his grin. “Glow is headlining Saturday night. Are you Friday?”

Wilder nods, chewing his lip. “We could write a song. You and me, I mean. No pressure or anything, obviously.” He pauses, taking in my shocked expression. “Sorry. Shit. I shouldn’t have—mmfph.”

His eyes widen above the hand I’ve pressed to his mouth.

“Yes,” I say emphatically. “I’d love to write a song with you.”