Page 97 of Jace
Gladly, I do. Anything to get him away from me, but I can’t resist, muttering, “Such a gentleman.”
“Darlin, you want a gentleman or a bodyguard ’cause you can’t have both? I don’t carry luggage. I carry Magnums.” He puffs up like a peacock, hearing his pun. “In my pistol and on my big d?—”
“Shut up.”
I march across the cobblestone street, lugging my bag behind me. After two weeks in Florida, it’s heavy, and I’m huffing mad. Not at Jace. At his choice of friends, and this one who broke my best friend’s heart.
And hymen.
I have a key to Delta’s entrance and use it, pressing the required code into the brass keypad as well. Pushing open the heavy black door, I call out, “Hello?”
No one’s in the front parlor. I don’t hear anyone down the hall in the new kitchen.
Glancing up the grand stairwell, I jump when Wilder’s voice teases over my shoulder. “Let’s shop for dildos while we wait. I need one for?—”
“Shut up.”
It’s my new mantra with him.
Leaving my suitcase by the door, I aim for the back kitchen, now our darkroom. Jace said he had a kings’ meeting, but surely it’ll be over by now. That was hours ago.
My heart flutters, excited to find him in here, but I push open the door, flick on the red safety light, and find it empty.
Setting my bag on the countertop, I huff, frustrated.
What the…?
Wilder’s loitering in the doorway, gazing around. I growl, irritated. “I’m fine. I’ll wait here for Jace. You can go now.”
Whoops. That was a rule that Wilder’s bound to break. He doesn’t listen, scoping the space, nodding his chin toward our gear.
“You got a vintage Beseler.” His tone changes. It’s not coy and cunning. It’s warm and reverent, admiring our classic photo enlarger. “Same kind Ansel Adams used.”
I’m shocked, clutching my cardigan. It was cold on the plane. I put it over my cream crocheted summer dress. But I shrug it off, tossing it over my bag. It’s oddly warm in the house tonight.
“How would you know about Ansel Adams and his Beseler?”
Wilder lifts a shoulder. “My dad and uncles. They were amateur photographers. Took a lot of shots on their road trips.”
Suddenly, I’m an empath, feeling his pain. There’s a sad story in Wilder’s eyes. He’s more than a reckless outlaw or a cute heartbreaker; he’s got depth.
I open my mouth, always wanting to know more about someone, but a door slams on the second floor—the bathroom—followed by footsteps, booting up to the third floor.
“Oh.” I perk up. “That’s Jace.”
Shoving past Wilder, I don’t want to wait another minute to be reunited, but Wilder’s on my heels. I whip around in the stairwell. “I’d like privacy, please.”
He smirks. “And I’d like a new dildo.”
“You can shop later.”
“And you can bet I’ll wait for Jace to give me the all clear.”
I narrow my eyes. “Since when do you follow the rules?”
“I ain’t.” He licks his lips. “I’m following your fine ass in that little dress up the stairs.”
“Touch me and die.” I hiss it again, marching to the landing between the second and third floors.
