33. Evangeline
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
evangeline
D espite having never painted toenails in his life, Wilder handles the tiny nail polish brush like he does chords on a guitar—with focus, confidence, and an annoying level of innate talent. He’s almost done with a second coat of the dark, opalescent blue polish. A warm hand cradles my ankle, occasionally sliding up to massage my bare calf or squeeze in chastisement when I move.
Sunlight diffuses through the glass slider behind him, bringing out hints of umber in his dark hair. Outside, newborn leaves glisten on the trees and bushes in my backyard, the memory of winter fading more with each passing day. The daffodils are in full bloom, a river of white and yellow confetti along the fence.
Soft music plays around us. My Kindle sits forgotten on my lap as I cradle a mug of coffee and watch the most incredible man I’ve ever known carefully paint my toenails. A man who spent yesterday afternoon helping me iron out lyrics and melodies for three new Glow songs, then insisted on cooking me dinner—which wasn’t even burned—and having me for dessert. The same man who woke me up this morning with back-to-back orgasms. Who followed me into the shower because he has a thing for washing me. Who made me coffee before rummaging under my bathroom sink for acetone, cotton balls, and nail polish because he noticed my pedicure was chipping.
It’s not even 10:00 a.m. and I want this every Sunday for the rest of my life. I want him for the rest of my life.
“Come to brunch today.”
I don’t know who’s more surprised by my sudden words. We both freeze; his fingers briefly tighten on my foot, then relax. With a final swipe of blue on my pinkie toe, he caps the polish and sets it on the coffee table. As his eyes lift to mine, I brace for disappointment.
“Okay.”
“I completely understand—wait, what?”
He smiles slightly, giving my ankle another squeeze before gently relocating my foot to the floor. “Okay, Evangeline. I’ll go to brunch at your parents’ house.” He glances at his watch. “You normally leave around ten-thirty, right?”
I close my gaping mouth. “Really? You’re really okay with coming?”
He gives me a dry look. “Am I excited to face your dad? Not even a little bit. But I don’t want to keep our relationship a secret anymore. Not from your parents or the public. And if we don’t do it now, I’m not sure when we’ll be able to. The album drops in two weeks and we announce the tour two weeks after that. Our team thinks we’ll sell out fast and they’re already prepared to add dates on both ends. We could be on the road as early as the third week of May.”
My ears ring. He might be gone before my birthday. “That’s like… five weeks from now.”
“I know. And we might be gone eight months.” He cracks a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “This probably wasn’t the best time to start a relationship, was it?”
Eight months.
I have only myself to blame for the shock I’m feeling. I’ve purposely avoided thinking about how limited our time is before our careers pull us apart.
No more Sunday mornings. No more dreamless, deep sleep in his arms. No more forehead kisses or midnight whispers or watching him brush his teeth. Instead, he’ll be on the road and performing almost every night. Surrounded by fans. By drugs and alcohol. Women. At the thought, a particularly vivid memory from our first tour makes me flinch.
Wilder snatches my mug and puts it on the table, then claims my hands between his. His worried eyes study my face.
“Once our schedules for the next year are in place, we’ll find the time to see each other. There will be breaks on tour. I’ll fly home or fly you to me.” He swallows, fear brightening his eyes. “Tell me what’s going on in your head. Are you… is it too much? Are you regretting?—”
“No,” I gasp out, shaking my head quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m being stupid. You’re right. We’ll figure it out. The band and tour need to be your priority, anyway.”
I make to stand, to escape, but pressure on my hands holds me down. He scoots closer, lifting a palm to cup the side of my face. This close to him, my muscles can’t help but relax. My mind, however, continues storming, screaming as it spirals toward the ground.
“Eyes on me, Fairy.”
Unable to resist that deep, textured tone of command, my eyes immediately find his. The connection between us flares, obscuring the world.
“I love you,” he says with quiet intensity. “Yes, the band is a priority, but you’re equally important to me. I’m not who I was three years ago. I’m not interested in partying anymore, and the only woman I want is you. I’m yours, okay? Only yours. I know it’s going to be hard to trust me because of my past mistakes, but can you try? Can you let me prove I’m different now? That we’re different?”
My mental descent slows. Stops. The storm inside me disperses so suddenly I feel dizzy.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I trust you.”
One cloud reforms, a dark smudge at the corner of my mind, but I keep its contents to myself.
Please don’t break my heart.