Now, Wyatt is nothing more than a pushpin in the map of my life. A reminder of how horrible things can get, and why bad choices are, as advertised, bad.
He's not a man, he's a concept. A talisman. Fantasy mixed with memory and topped with a sprinkle of loss.
Unfortunate, maybe, but at least that's a Wyatt I can handle.
But this Wyatt? The one standing in front of me with golden-brown hair and whiskey-colored eyes that can see all the way into our past. The one whose lean body I can still imagine pressed against me, and whose strong arms once made me feel safe. The one with the impudent grin that used to make my heart flutter, but who now isn't smiling at all.
The boy who once made my breath catch in my throat whenever I caught a glimpse of him. Who's now a man who walks with confidence and grace and commands a room simply by standing in it.
The boy who made me break all the rules. Who made me lose control.
The man who nearly destroyed me.
That man isn't manageable at all. On the contrary, that man terrifies me. And right now, I can't help but think that coming on this audition was a mistake of monumental proportions.
Yup. Definitely going to have to kill Nia. A pity, really. Because when am I going to find the time to go shopping for a new best friend?
More important, how else am I going to earn fifteen grand by the end of the month?
As I stand there like a dolt, he crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head just slightly. That's when I realize that he's been watching me all this time. Not saying a word. Just waiting. As if this is all on me.
I guess maybe it is.
I swallow, forcing myself not to dry my sweaty palms on my gray pencil skirt as I smile tentatively. I watch his face, hoping for an answering grin. For some hint that he's thought of me over the last twelve years. A sign that he remembers the things we said, the way we laughed. The way we touched.
I wait for even the tiniest inkling that I have lingered in his mind the way that he's lingered in mine. Because he has. Even when everything was screwed up and horrible. Even after I ruined everything. Even when I knew I shouldn't, I still thought of him.
And now, like a damn beggar, I'm searching his face for some sign that he's thought of me, too.
But there's nothing to see.
Right. Fine. Okay.
I let my gaze shift to the walls, but that's a mistake because I'm immediately drawn to the three uncovered photographs hanging behind him. They're raw and titillating, disturbing and honest. I can feel them resonate inside me, firing my blood and causing a flurry of pleasant-yet-terrifying sparks to zing around inside me.
I quickly turn my attention back to Wyatt and clear my throat. "So," I say, trying to speak normally. "Usually I'm auditioning to dance, not model. What do you want me to do?"
A heat so quick it could be my imagination flashes as his eyes narrow more, and I see a subtle tightening in his jaw. "Kelsey," he finally says, and the sound of my name on his lips sends a wave of relief coursing through me. At the very least, I know he remembers me.
"Yeah." I smile brightly, then remember that this is supposed to be an audition. I've been clutching a headshot with my email address and cell number on it, and I scurry forward and thrust it at him. "It's me."
He doesn't even look at it.
"It's been a long time." His voice is flat. Even.
"It has," I agree, my voice so sing-song I feel like an idiot. But he doesn't seem to hear me. Instead, he's looking me up and down, the slow inspection as sensual as a hand moving leisurely up my body. I draw in a breath and feel it flutter in my throat. My skin tingles with awareness, and I can feel small beads of sweat rise at the base of my neck, thankfully hidden under my shoulder-length chestnut waves.
I force myself not to shift my weight from foot to foot. It's hard, because right now I feel as exposed as the models in the photographs gracing the walls behind him. And when Wyatt's eyes finally meet mine, and his inspection ceases, I'm positive that my cheeks have bloomed a bright, revealing red.
I draw another breath in anticipation of his words. I expect him to say something about our past. At the very least, to say that it's good to see me after so much time.
I couldn't be more wrong.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he demands, and it's as if he's tossed a bucket of cold water all over me.
I sputter. I actually sputter as a chill runs through me, and I struggle to recover my thoughts, my power of speech, my pride. "I--I just . . . well, the job."
I stand straighter, fighting a fresh wave of vulnerability. Because Wyatt is dangerous to me, and I really need to keep that little fact at the forefront of my mind. "I'm here about the job," I repeat, and this time my voice is crisp and clear.