Page 86 of Tempting Wyatt

She shivers in my arms, and heat sparks in her eyes. “I still have the rest of this week,” she whispers.

“Good,” I say low against her lips. “Because that’s probably how long it will take me to show you how proud of you I am.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ivy

I’M DREAMING. I HAVE TO BE.

I’m back in the Third Avenue apartment again, the one we spent a summer in when I was nine. It’s the reason I’m claustrophobic and I freak the hell out if anyone blocks the exits. It’s smoke-filled and hot, and I can’t find Mr. Bojangles anywhere.

My mom had to work late, or maybe she had a date after work—I can’t remember. But she sent Miss Wilson from across the hall over to check on me earlier. Miss Wilson is half blind, but she made me a frozen pizza for dinner. She burned it. But I salvaged what I could because I was starving.

I can still smell it burning.

The smoke fills my lungs.

“Mom?” I try to cry out, but I can’t.

My voice won’t work, and when I open my mouth, smoke pours down my throat, choking me.

The apartment is tiny, but it’s a dark, smoky maze, and I can’t see anything. I run into the wall and feel Mr. Bojangles dart past me.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” I call to him, but he’s gone.

I can’t see. I can’t breathe.

The smoke reaches a scorching hand down my throat, causing me to cough uncontrollably. My chest burns, and my head hurts as I reach out and try to blindly feel my way to the door.

When I finally find it, the small futon that functions as our couch is blocking it. I got scared before going to bed and moved it in case someone tried to break in. It wasn’t heavy enough to stop anyone, but I figured it would slow them down, and I could climb out the window. Now I’m bumping into it while panicking because I can’t get to the doorknob.

Sirens cry out in the distance, but they’re so far away. No one will be able to help me in time.

I can’t find Mr. Bojangles. I had to beg my mom to let me keep the tiny orange-and-black kitten someone had left beneath the fast-food restaurant’s dumpster. I’m still calling out his name and yelling for my mom when the firefighter grabs me.

He tosses me over his shoulder the same way Wyatt did.

Then he transforms into Wyatt as we go up in flames.

And that’s when I wake up. Sweat-drenched and struggling for air, I come to in a quaint but cozy cabin.

Blinking in the dusky light just before sunrise, the apartment fades from my memory. But the smoke doesn’t. It still permeates the air all around me.

I’m not in California. I’m in Montana. Sweaty, trapped in covers I must’ve tangled myself in.

It was just a dream. A nightmare. But the smoke is very real. Thick and cloying, making the air difficult to breathe.

I cough and stand on shaky legs. Is the cabin on fire?

Out the back window, I see flames, and without thinking twice, I run out the front door in a panic.

I’ve barely made it off the porch when I slam into a solid wall of muscle in a flannel shirt.

“Fire. There’s a fire,” I cry out, breathless, more in panic than pain, but the collision knocked the wind out of me so my voice is barely audible.

Wyatt holds me by the shoulders. “Ivy,” he says firmly. “Hey. Look at me.”

I look up at his handsome face, but I’m lost in the past. Trapped in a memory I thought I’d buried long ago.