I slam the laptop shut.
Resting my head in my hands, I groan. “Come on. Talk to me, you stupid, sexy figment of my imagination.”
All I can hear is silence—the kind of silence where the only sound you can hear is the ringing in your ears.
I push away from the desk and pour another glass of wine.The night stretches on as I scroll on my phone. I listen to old voicemails and delete Eric’s number—again.
By the time midnight rolls around, I’m back downstairs, lying on the couch under a fleece blanket with my laptop open, page still blank.
I close my eyes and whisper, “Damn, I wish you were real, Rye. You’d know what to do.”
THREE
ryder
Wakingup in someone else’s house isn’t new—but waking up in one that smells like lavender and chaos?
Definitely a first.
I’m standing in the middle of a living room, barefoot, shirtless, and hella confused.
It’s still dark outside, or maybe it’s early. I can’t really tell because the windows sitting across from me have a wall of mist pressing up against the glass. The air is heavy with something... familiar. This isn’t a place I recognize, but there’s this feeling I can’t quite put my finger on.
The room is cozy and cluttered. A couple of soft throw blankets are draped over the back of a dark green velvet couch, and there’s a stack of paperbacks on the coffee table, next to a candle.
A record player is sitting in the corner with a stack of vinyl leaning next to it.
And there are books.Everywhere.
Stacked on the shelves, piled under the coffee table, crammed into wicker baskets by the fireplace.
I walk past a framed cover of a novel hung as art on the wall.
Heartstruck: by Noia Wilde
Stunned, all I can do is blink.
Noia. That name stirs something to life inside me—deep and electric—making my spine stiffen.
I spot another copy of the same book lying on an armchair, spine cracked and covered in Post-Its. Plucking it up, I flip through it.
Scribbled in pencil every few pages are notes and rewrites.
Author notes?
More books are stacked underneath, each with a different title, but all written by the same author.
Noia Wilde
Tension itching between my shoulder blades, I sit on the couch. As I skim, flipping through the pages, the words start to become awfully familiar.
Wait. These aremystories, my military brothers’ stories—or at least some version of them.
What thefuck.
A chirrup cuts through my spiraling train of thoughts, and I glance up to see a fat calico cat strolling into the room like he owns the place. With one torn ear, his squished, smug face looks like it’s seen better days. Rubbing against my leg with a low purr, he gives me a judgmental look.
I stare, judging right back. “Bet you’re a little menace, aren’t you...?” I take a look at his name tag. “Goonie.”
