Wilder (The Wild Ones 3)

“You could have just told me what was really going on. I wouldn’t have called you those things,” he deadpans, as though I’m supposed to cut the vein, bleed it in front of him, and never have any dignity at all.

“Are you really this oblivious?” I ask him very seriously.

He runs a hand over his beard, eyeing my apron a little differently. I flush from head to toe for a different reason when his gaze lingers.

“I’m starting to think it’s a blessing that I am,” he answers…confusing me.

His eyes come up, landing on mine, and the humor leaves his gaze.

“You’re leaving in nine days,” he says as his hand falls away from his beard and the atmosphere grows a little heavier. “It’s probably better if we don’t muddy the water more than it’s been muddied. If you know what I mean.”

I bristle, now feeling even more ridiculous and stupid. I didn’t want to have regrets, but I never stopped to consider he was deliberately building a giant wall between us.

I guess it was naive to think I was the only one worried about getting attached. I guess we’re both oblivious in our own ways.

“I think the water is a little muddier when you do all the cutesy couple stuff without the physical intimacy,” I say before I can stop myself, wondering why my heart is pounding like a jackhammer in my chest.

My head is so confused that it’s started affecting my damn heart.

Emotional intimacy is way more dangerous. What was I thinking spending so much time with him? Reese was smarter. She made it all about sex and very little else. Especially these past three or so weeks when she wisely assessed she was getting too attached.

She’s better at casual than I am.

“You’re leaving in nine days,” he says again, the words sounding hollower this time.

It’s as though that draft gets a little chillier, and I swallow the knot in my throat.

I wish I’d assessed my own situation a little sooner. But until this moment, I only thought I knew how attached I was.

“It’s been five weeks since we first came to Tomahawk. I can’t put it off longer than that,” I tell him quietly, glancing down. “Especially with the mess I have to help clean up that’s waiting for me at home.”

Shifting awkwardly, and desperately wishing I had something else on right now, I continue staring at my feet instead of him. It’s really hard to look at him for some reason. Something tells me it has nothing to do with the frilly apron.

“I can’t run off and leave my family. You can’t run off and leave yours. We have an entire country between us. I think it’d be better if we didn’t—”

“Say no more,” I tell him, throwing my hands up and waving him off.

This is definitely the most excruciatingly mortifying rejection of my life. I’ve been throwing myself at a man who was pushing me away on purpose, and it makes sense.

I’m just being a selfish idiot, never considering his feelings. It’s not fair, since I don’t even really know what I was actually asking for. We’ve built a friendship since the last time we had sex. That friendship just seemed a lot more like a relationship, considering he never looked like a friend at all in my eyes.

Now my heart is tearing into little tiny shreds because of the finality in the reality check he’s delivering with the most serious tone I’ve ever heard him use. Tears prick my eyes, but I fight hard to keep them at bay.

I don’t cry this easily, damn it. Now is the worst time for my tear ducts to grow so powerfully sensitive.

It’s also the worst time for that knot in my throat to double in size.

Not to mention the sick feeling that seems to steadily grow in the pit of my stomach.

I don’t even want to think about the weight that’s starting to settle on my chest.

All of these are very intense and nonsensical issues to suffer after having a confusing non-relationship with a reluctant winter-vacation fling.

“I-I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this,” I tell him quietly.

“Nah. It actually would have made me damn happy…if you weren’t leaving in nine days,” he says as though he’s suddenly nervous.

I glance over to find him staring at nothing, eyes distant as he seems to shut down.

“I guess we probably shouldn’t keep seeing each other if it’s fucking with your emotions or whatever,” he says, clearing his throat and glancing over at the door.

My knees actually wobble as my eyes widen, because I realize this is him saying goodbye.

“I mean, I don’t want to,” he goes on, refusing to look at me, “but I don’t see nine more days playing out that well. It’s better to part friends…since it’s all sort of out there and can’t be ignored now.”