Page 117 of Wild Card

“I’m always in your corner, Gwen. You ever need a pick-me-up? I’m your guy.”

I hug him back, combing my fingers through his mussed hair with a satisfied smile.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to be loved.

And at the very least, I fall asleep feeling incredibly fortunate that this guy—out of all of them—has decided to be mine.

I tidy the studio and my thoughts drift to Bash, as they often have over the past couple of weeks.

It’s like my brain has been rewired with constant thoughts of him, my body reliving memories of the last time we touched. If I thought I was obsessed with him before, I knew nothing. I’m so obsessed that, on a whim, I followed up with the resort in Costa Rica and told them I wouldn’t be coming—something I still need to confess to Bash.

All I know is that I have to trust my gut. And my gut says I belong here, with him.

This feeling now? It’s incomparable. Consuming. And it’s all new. Everything between us feels perfect.

Perhaps just a little too perfect. As life has taught me, nothing really is. There are ups and downs. There are incredibly bright moments, always balanced by the memory of a loss, the feeling of something being incomplete. Or in this case, theconstant knowledge that there’s an elephant in the room that neither of us wants to look at—let alone talk about.

I stack the wooden blocks on the shelf in the corner, humming to myself as I do, attempting to put myself in Bash’s shoes.

He’s finally let himself admit he wants this, in his own way, of course. But giving in to temptation—for a man as honorable as him—says it all.

On the other hand, I can’t help but notice him checking his phone. Anytime I’ve asked if he’s heard from Tripp since that night on the balcony, his response is somewhat dismissive.

It’s alwaysOh yeah, we swapped a textbut nothing more than that. I may not have firsthand experience with complicated father-son family dynamics, but I know secrets weigh on a person. I know they are not good for the soul. And whether or not Bash admits it, I know this is eating away at him. Possibly more than he even realizes.

It’s something I need to broach with him—soon. But everything between us still feels so tenuous, so fragile and new. Like the slightest gust of wind could push us off course.

I sanitize and reroll the yoga mats, losing myself in thoughts of how I can best support Bash through an awkward moment or a painful conversation.

He is the human embodiment of that old sayingyou can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink.

I need to convince Bash he’s thirsty, that he needs this off his chest. That much like giving in to the pull between us, clearing his conscience of this perceived deception will only make him feel better in the long haul, even if it doesn’t feel very good right now.

I’m mulling this over when a jingle at the front door draws my attention.

“Be right there,” I call out, knowing there’s no class again for about two hours.

I roll up the last mat and slide it onto the shelf, dusting my hands off on my leggings. When I turn, I realize that the person from the front is now in the studio. And that person is Bash.

Shoulder propped against the doorframe, arms crossed, he watches me hungrily. That electric current I’ve grown accustomed to feeling around him pulses through my limbs, growing stronger as I take him in.

He’s in uniform. I make a show of checking him out, biting my bottom lip as I do.

Navy cargo pants. That matching BC Fire Service T-shirt—the one that hugs his shoulders and biceps in the very best way. Clunky, black boots planted on the studio floor. It should be illegal to look that good and that heroic all at once.

When I finally meet his gaze, I ask, “What are you doing here?”

“Coming to see my girl,” he responds, but he makes no move toward me. He just continues standing there, staring at me.

I grin. “In that uniform? You’re a filthy tease, Rousseau. I hope you know that.”

“Sorry, I’ve been called out to a bushfire. I don’t think I’ll be gone too long, but I wanted to come check on you before I left.”

“Check on me or parade around in that slutty little outfit?”

He smirks and my panties disintegrate.

I have no doubt that he knows what he does to me. Watching him fly a plane had been hot as hell, but watching him fly a plane in literally any type of uniform would just be over-the-top.