Page 12 of Wildfire
When I spoke to his secretary to see if he would be at my leaving breakfast, she said yes and that he didn’t travel to Spain for the Grand Prix this weekend because he had “important plans.” The foolish part of me that still hopes her dad isn’t a total jackass questioned if I was the important plans, and he wanted to say good-bye to me before I leave for the summer. Now I know who he really considers to be important, and, once again, it isn’t me. I hate the type of person it’s turned me into, one desperate for attention and validation, and I hate that I’ve let my life become one shaped by kneejerk reactions to feeling forgotten.
For once I want to make a decision because it will make me happy, not because something has triggered me into acting out.
I lock my phone screen and push my phone back into my purse as soon as the body in my peripheral vision gets too close. It’s not that Emilia doesn’t know I snoop, but it’s still embarrassing, particularly because her dad is actual perfection, and as much as she tries, she’ll never understand.
It isn’t Emilia.
“Hey,” Russ says carefully. “Are you okay?”
Forcing a smile, I look up at him with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “Yeah, I’m great. Are you?”
He watches me closely before responding. “Are you really okay? Did someone bother you?”
“He’s been bothering me for twenty years, it’s totally fine.”
His mouth forms an O as he nods, apparently understanding immediately. “What can I do to make you feel better?” My brain wants me to tell him to take his T-shirt off again, but that feels like the wrong move. So I shrug, because I don’t have the answer to what will make me feel better yet. “There must be something.”
“Tell me a secret.”
“A secret?” he repeats.
“Yeah.” I don’t know why I said it, but I can tell he’s thinking about it. It’s a silly thing my sister and I started asking each other when we were kids. We’ve never been the closest siblings, but our middle ground has always been doing things we shouldn’t, and it was our way of sharing.
“You make me nervous,” he says eventually, immediately taking a swig of his beer.
“That isn’t a secret,” I laugh. “That’s very obvious.”
He blows out a sigh and rubs his hand against his face. “I think you’re stunning.”
His admission catches me off guard. Stunning. I shake my head anyway, and my hair dances in front of my eyes. “That isn’t a secret, either…”
“You’re impossible.” He chuckles. His hand reaches out slowly, cautiously, tucking my hair behind my ear, hovering a little longer than necessary. “My secret is I don’t really like parties, but I’m glad I came to this one and met you. And when I couldn’t find you I was sad when I thought you’d left.”
Oh shit. “That was smooth.”
“Was it actually? Because I tried really fucking hard. I was really close to confessing to a crime I didn’t commit because of the pressure.” There he is.
“You did a great job.”
“Thanks, I don’t do this a lot. I’m, uh, I’m not good at it.”
“You don’t go around telling strangers your secrets?” I hide my smile with a sip of my drink. A real smile this time.
“I don’t tell anyone usually, but I meant I’m not good at talking to people I’m interested in.”
I don’t know what it is about his uncertainty that I find so charming. Maybe it’s because even though he’s not sure of himself, he’s sure he wants to talk to me—and I’m clinging to those slivers of certainty with both hands. “You said you live here.”
“Because I do.”
“You have a room.”
“Is that a question? They don’t make me sleep outside if that’s what you mean.” This fucking guy. “Yeah, I have a room.”
Painful. Actually painful. “Are you going to… show it to me? You said you don’t like parties. We could get away from it.”
I practically see the lightbulb appear above his head when he realizes what I’m asking. “That depends. Are you drunk?”
“A little buzzed, but definitely not drunk. Are you drunk?”
