Wylde (Arizona Vengeance 7)

“I wouldn’t know,” Aaron says in a low voice, his gaze moving out the window before coming back. “How long ago was this?”

“Almost three years ago.”

“Bet it feels like yesterday, huh?” he sympathizes, and his words endear Aaron to me more than anything else could. That he probably understands how traumatizing it was for me.

I don’t bother affirming that, as I’m sure he knows how much it still affects me based on how squirrely I’ve been with him. “I’m really sorry, but I just have this horrible, deep-seated distrust of men now. Add to the fact you’re a celebrity—I blame part of his behavior on his entitled actor attitude—and well, this was just never going to go anywhere and I wanted you to know the truth about why.”

“I understand,” Aaron murmurs, reaching over to take my hand. “I’m really sorry that happened to you, and while I should be mad you would lump me into a category with that guy, I understand where you’re coming from.”

I let out a sigh of relief, and at the same time, I feel strangely let down. I fully expected this tale to send Aaron running for the hills, which is why I let him see my pain. I wanted to let him down easy, so I could go on my way.

But hearing his acceptance of my reasoning, without a proclamation he’d like to keep trying with me, makes me a bit sad at the same time. It’s almost like I want my cake and to eat it, too, which is so not cool.

Once more, Aaron squeezes my hand and lets it go. Straightening in his seat, he puts his seat belt on. “Well… it’s been a long night. Let me get you home.”

“That sounds good,” I murmur, reaching for my own seat belt.

We ride in absolute silence to my home, and it gets more awkward as each mile ticks away.

Aaron pulls up to the curb in front of my house, putting the truck in park but leaving it running. “Let me help you out,” he says before jumping out of his side.

I wait for him to come around, then he offers me a gallant hand as I climb down as gracefully as I can in sandaled heels. He even escorts me up the sidewalk to my porch. Pulling the keys out of my clutch, I turn to face him.

“Thanks for understanding.”

“Thanks for telling me the story,” he replies before bending and placing a quick kiss on my cheek. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

I can do nothing but nod, a strange lump in my throat.

Tears prick at my eyes when he gives me one last smile as he heads to his truck.

And just like that, Aaron Wylde is no more.CHAPTER 9WyldeWhistling as I saunter down the sidewalk, I feel the joy in my day. I’d gotten up and hit the gym for leg day, then pushed myself with a five-mile run. Took a long hot shower, then made a breakfast of eggs, broccoli, and cheddar cheese. Ate an apple for the hell of it.

It was midmorning and hot as hell when I decided to take a stroll around the downtown area. Hit up a coffee shop I’d noticed before and I’m not disappointed with my order. The iced brew hits the spot, and I can feel the caffeine magically percolating in my veins.

I browse in windows as I walk the streets, taking my time to see what this area has to offer. Then I casually cut left, pushing open the door of Clarke’s Corner. The bells toll sweetly, as if they knew I’d be coming in.

My eyes immediately lock on Clarke, standing behind the register as she checks out a customer. Offering her a smile, I move into the stacks, eager to pick out my next read. I take a bit of joy, even, in that shocked, disbelieving look she just shot me.

As if she’d seen a ghost.

Since I started visiting Clarke’s store regularly, I’ve fallen back into a love of reading. Given I’m on vacation with no real obligations other than getting back into a good fitness routine, I’ve been reading every book I’ve bought from her cover to cover. I’m ready for a new read today, and I’m considering giving Harry Potter a try. I’ll make a note to ask Clarke her thoughts on it before I actually make the purchase.

I get lost in scanning the books while sipping at my iced coffee. A few minutes later, I hear the bells go off. I assume the customer she was waiting on had left, and I don’t see anyone else in the store.

True enough, her head soon pops around the end of a bookcase, then the rest of her body follows. “What are you doing here?” she asks tentatively.

“Need a new book,” I reply, my focus on an interesting-looking book. I pull it out, then hold it up. “John Grisham. Is he any good?”