“Son of a fucking bitch,” Aaron snarls. “But how do you know he did all that?”
“Because one of his friends recorded him. After the show concluded, it hit all the celebrity news gossip rags. And even though he chose another one of the women—actually proposed and married her later—I became the big news story from that season of Celebrity Proposal. There’s even an awful meme someone made using my picture floating around. It’s a still shot of when he announced he was cutting me. I’d made this terrible face… and they captioned it: It could be worse. You could have had an overnight with Clarke.”
“That is the sickest shit I’ve ever heard,” Aaron exclaims hotly. “Who is this fucking douche we’re talking about?”
“Tripp Horschen,” I mutter.
“Who?” he demands.
I shake my head. “He was a soap-opera actor. Did a few movies.”
“Can’t be all that famous,” Aaron mutters.
“I’d never heard of you,” I point out, and he snorts. “The fact is, he became far more famous after that. For being the guy who bagged the awful virgin. I became a cautionary tale to men all over the world, warning them virgins were totally overrated and lousy lays. I became a freaking meme.”
“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 9
Wylde
Whistling 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?”
“I like some of his stuff,” she replies stiffly.
I turn to her. “I was thinking about Harry Potter. What’s your take on that series? Worth my time to get invested in?”
She blows out a frustrated breath, auburn bangs flying upward briefly before settling back down around her lovely eyes enshrined behind her glasses. “Seriously, Aaron… what are you doing here?”
I put the Grisham book back, then turn to walk two paces so I’m toe to toe with her. “Why wouldn’t I be here? Did you think that little confession last night was going to scare me off?”
Instead of being cowed, she lifts her chin in defiance. “Actually, I did.”
“You were wrong then,” I reply with a grin, teasingly tapping the end of her nose with my finger. “But I am seriously considering Harry Potter as my next read and, well, it so happens the girl I’m dating owns a bookstore.”
“We are not dating,” she replies huffily, trying to push past me.
Her shoulder brushes against mine, the feeling electric and pulsating. I wonder if she feels it, too, but regardless… she’s not walking away from me. I grab her arm, stop her trajectory, and spin her back.
Clarke gasps, her cheeks flushed, and fuck… now I want to kiss the hell out of her. Instead, I ask, “Dinner tonight? Pick you up at seven?”
Her confidence ebbs, and her gaze cuts away. “Aaron… I told you, I can’t—”
“You can,” I interject. “You can try. You can give me a try… a chance. I know what you’ve been through, so I know the perils. I may be a celebrity, but I hope you know I’m not a douche like that Tripp asshole.”
“Aaron,” she murmurs, her eyes finally lifting to meet mine. They are filled with fear.
I dip my face closer to hers. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret, okay?”
Clarke nods mutely.
“I’m usually not a prince,” I admit bluntly. “I’ve never dated the same woman more than once or twice. You ask any member on my team, and they’ll say I’m a player.”
Clarke narrows her eyes. “Why would you even admit that?”
“Because I want you to know I’m being as honest with you as I can,” I say. “You have baggage, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. This is probably fated for disaster. But I like you,
Clarke. I want to get to know you better. It’s a first for me, and well… if you give me a chance, it will be like a first for you, too. At least the first in a few years. We can stumble through this together. A joint effort. What do you say?”
She stares, her entire body almost vibrating with skepticism. I can actually feel the tension within her, like a rabbit ready to bolt.
But I’ve said my part. If she doesn’t have it in her to take the chance, I can’t hold it against her. The woman was traumatized, and she has every right to go running and screaming away from me.
Then something changes. I can feel her body relax, her brow smooths, and she gives me a tentative smile. “You plead a good case. You can pick me up at seven.”
Oh, how I want to kiss her now, but it’s not the right time. I mean, it would be the right time in a spontaneous way, but I’m not sure if she’s ready for that side of Aaron Wylde yet.
“Here or at your house?” I ask to confirm.
“My house,” she replies.
“Perfect. Now, how about you help me pick out a book. Harry Potter… yes or no?”
“Yes,” she concludes, turning her back on me. I follow her into another stack to find her holding up a paperback of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Her gaze drops to my iced coffee. “And I’ll take a latte next time.”
“Noted,” I reply with a grin. I tuck that information away, along with all the other things I’m starting to learn about Clarke.
♦
I don’t stick around at Clarke’s store for too long. She’s all business when I’m there. While the first two chapters of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone was interesting, I actually had some other things to do before our date tonight.
Errands included stopping at the dry cleaners to pick up some clothes, grocery shopping, and a quick detour to GNC to stock up on some protein powder Kane had recommended I try.
With a few hours before I need to hop in the shower to get ready for what I’m considering my first real date with Clarke, I putter around my condo. Clearly, I could relax with my new book, but something has been knocking around in my head since I first met Clarke a little over a week and a half ago.
While meeting her was quite the reward for stumbling into her little store, renewing my love of reading brings about some uneasy feelings.
It’s true my father was an English professor who inspired my love of reading, particularly the classics. But he also created an ultimate hate of books, one that caused me to abandon them for years.
Without much thought for what I’m about to do, I head into one of the guest bedrooms where I have some boxes packed up in the closet. I’m not one for sentimentality, so I don’t keep a lot of stuff. I’m the opposite of a packrat, so when I moved to Phoenix from Dallas this year, I used the opportunity to de-clutter even more.
But there’s one box I’ve been carrying around my entire adult life, and it has remained sealed the entire time. It seems weird now to keep it closeted away since Clarke has reinvigorated my desire to read.
I pull the box off the top shelf, then carry it over to the bed. There are no markings on it, just brown packing tape that’s peeling at the edges. Without hesitation, I pull it off and carefully open the top flaps. I half expect an army of spiders to come crawling out, but, when I peer in, it’s nothing but what I had packed away ten years ago.
The last remnants of my relationship with my father.
Reaching in, I pull out a stack of books. The paper is yellowed, not because they aged greatly in ten years, but because they were already old when I packed them.
I sift through them, setting them one by one on the mattress. All are classics that were owned by my dad when he was a young man just in high school himself. His favorites, which he read over and over again.
The Count of Monte Cristo.
The Great Gatsby.
1984.
Of Mice and Men.
Lord of the Flies.
Great Expectations.
I’ve read them all on more than one occasion, hoping to ferret out some nugget of information that would help me understand my father. I’d memorized the lines he’d underlined with a pencil, hoping it would provide a connection to him.
Reaching back in the box, I pull out another book—Catcher in the Rye. I can’t help but smile as I remember the look on Clarke’s face when I was able to identify a quote from it. My ability to do so made me realize I had pushed away all of this great literature because I was angry at my dad, but all it did was hurt me.
While I’ve been buying modern works from Clarke’s store, I decide my goal for the upcoming hockey season is to read one of these old classics a week.
I reach in again, retrieving another book. The Canterbury Tales.
My nose wrinkles as I set this one in a different pile. I didn’t enjoy Chaucer the first time I read it, so I know I won’t now.
The next book that comes out causes a throbbing in the center of my chest, so much so I rub at it with my knuckles.
I stare down at a weathered copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. Flipping to the first page, I start to read Wilde’s preface, in which he defended the merits of his work.
The artist is the creator of beautiful things.
Sometimes true, but other times not. For example, I hate Chaucer while others find his work sublime.
Whatever.
The point being, when I first picked out this book from my father’s office, which was a converted second-floor bedroom in our house, I was just ten years old. My father was at his desk, reading through mid-term papers, and I’d held it up. “Can I read this one?”
My dad glanced up, reaching for the glass of bourbon he’d been drinking from, and frowned. His words were drunk and slurred. “You’d never be able to really comprehend it at your age. Maybe in a few years.”
That was his answer about most of his favorite books I wanted to read, and when I was finally old enough to read and appreciate them, I found he had been correct. Most of this stuff would bore a ten-year-old horribly, so I’d stuck to books such as The Adventures of Tom Sawyer to hold my interest.
By the time I finally read The Picture of Dorian Gray and was able to understand and have an intelligent discussion about it, my father was no longer around. He’d already abandoned my mother and me, moving on with a new family.
It didn’t stop me from trying to have a relationship with him. I used the classic books he’d left behind as a means to bridge the gap. I’d call him, excited to tell him about a passage that captivated me, but he wasn’t interested in discussing any of it with me. He’d cleaned his act up. Stopped drinking. Had a pretty new wife and a new daughter he doted on. He had no time for a fourteen-year-old boy who wanted to talk about the social injustices I’d learned about from reading George Orwell or my fifteen-year-old self who couldn’t contain my pride at having finished the gargantuan tome of Anna Karenina.
He simply didn’t care anymore.
It took years for me to realize that. I valiantly tried to reconnect with the now-sober man, refusing to be bitter I had only ever had the drunk. Refusing to cry over the fact he wouldn’t share anything, no matter how small, with his only son whom he’d left behind.
After I graduated high school, but before entering college, I’d packed all these books away and never looked at them again. Once, I’d even considered burning the damn things, but I decided to keep them as a reminder that not all parents are good and loving.
I wonder what Clarke’s parents are like. Did they raise her in a way to make her close herself off from men after one bad decision? Not to downplay what that douche did to her, because that was some traumatizing shit. But did her environment make her inherently closed off, thus making my job harder?
And what, exactly, is my job? I mean, what in the hell am I doing with her? Flirting with her, being romantic, flattering her?
Taking her out to dinner? Giving her pecks on the cheek?
That’s not me.
&n
bsp; Or, at least, it didn’t use to be.
The one thing I’ll admit is she has opened something up within me. For the first time, I’m interested in a woman for more than just sex. Don’t get me wrong… I very much want to have sex with Clarke. Don’t think I won’t work hard for it, too, probably starting tonight.
But I’m also cool with sticking to the long game for now because she’s just that intriguing.
And while her story about what happened on that reality TV show should probably have any sane guy running in the opposite direction, it makes her even more fascinating.
Just as I wonder about Clarke’s family and how much of that experience weighs on who she is today, I have to wonder about my own background. Drunk father who didn’t give a damn about his wife or son, so much so he happily started a brand-new life without us. Apathetic mother—also a drunk—who didn’t care enough to fight for her husband or console her son when his dad left. It left me to raise myself pretty much on my own.
It meant I had to figure out what love meant, along with the boundaries between right and wrong, on my own.
I know it’s definitely had to have some effect on my desire—or, let’s be honest, lack thereof—to form attachments.
Mostly, I wonder if any of that’s going to come back to haunt Clarke at some point. Am I destined to end up hurting her because I don’t have much inside of me to give a woman like her?
I guess only time will tell.
CHAPTER 10
Clarke
My phone rings, causing me to jerk. My finger touches the edge of the curling wand I’m holding in my hair, and I swear I hear my skin sizzle.
“Shit,” I exclaim, pulling the wand from my hair and setting it on my bathroom counter. My middle knuckle on my left hand has a small, red welt.
My phone continues to ring, and I look down to see it’s Veronica. I tap the screen to connect the call, then immediately set it to speakerphone. “I really don’t have time to talk,” I drawl, picking up the wand and wrapping another long lock around it.
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