Tonight, he’s downstairs fixing a leak in one of the third-floor units. I can hear the faint thud of tools through the floor if I focus hard enough. The apartment feels different when he’s not in it…quieter, but not empty. Like part of him stays behind.
His scent lingers…clean soap and leather, with a hint of something darker underneath.
I shake myself and pull my jewelry kit out of my backpack, setting it carefully on the small dining table. I look at my supply—just a few strands of leather cord, some dark wooden beads, and a handful of matte black stones I’ve been saving.
Not a lot but just enough…
I don’t know much about Wilder, but I’ve noticed he wears bracelets. Leather. Beaded. Worn like they’ve been with him for years. They look natural on him, like the ink that disappears beneath the sleeves of his shirts. Like the scars along his knuckles.
The need to thank him for offering me a safe place spurred my decision to make him one…
My fingers move automatically, looping cord, sliding beads into place. The rhythm soothes me.
As I work, I think about what I’ve learned about Wilder House. Wilder owns it—inherited it—he said. He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t push. I sense a weight behind that story…I can feel it but he guards his past the way he guards everything else.
Still, I’ve seen enough.
The way he fixes things himself. The way tenants lower their voices when he walks by…not out of fear exactly, but respect. The building is clean, quiet, and seemingly safe. He did mention that he renovated it. That part impressed me more than I let on.
I twist the cord tighter and try not to think about the other thing that’s been hardest about living here.
Him.
It’s ridiculous, embarrassing even. I’m nineteen, not thirteen. But I’ve never felt anything like this before. I feel like I’m experiencing my first crush all over again—just more intensely.Maybe it’s because he’s so darned handsome.
Sometimes, I catch myself staring at him…or thinking about him…the way he fills every room he walks into. His broad shoulders and those thick arms that strain against his shirts when he works. The way his dark hair falls slightly into his eyes when he forgets to push it back. His sharp jaw, usually shadowed with stubble by evening. And his eyes…
Steel gray.
They see everything.
And when they land on me, I feel pinned in place.
I’m usually wary of men. I’ve learned to be. But from the moment he opened that closet door, I felt…safe. Protected. Like nothing could touch me if he was standing nearby. And then there’s the way he calls mebaby girl.
The first time felt like a slip of the tongue. He looked surprised but hadn’t taken it back. The times after that feel deliberate, and something about the way he says it makes my stomach flip.
I may be a virgin, but I’m not clueless. I know what desire feels like. I know why my heart beats faster when he walks past me. Why my thoughts drift to the shape of his hands, the heat of his body, the way his voice drops lower when he’s tired.
He hasn’t touched me or even crossed any lines. He definitely hasn’t given me a single clear sign that he wants me the way I want him. And it’s driving me crazy.
I trim the last thread, so focused on getting the knot clean that the world narrows to leather and beads between my fingers. I don’t hear him come in until I feel a hand on my shoulder.
I gasp and jerk violently, the chair legs scraping against the floor as I nearly tip sideways, but strong hands catch me before I fall.
“Easy,” Wilder’s voice rumbles above me.
His grip is firm, one hand wrapped around my upper arm, the other steadying my waist.
Heat seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt like his touch carries its own temperature. My pulse spikes.
Up close like this, he’s overwhelming. He’s tall, at least a head above me even when I’m standing. His chest is solid when my palm accidentally presses against it, muscle hard beneath the dark cotton of his T-shirt. His forearm flexes as he steadies me, veins shifting under tan skin marked with faint scars and black ink.
“Sorry,” I breathe, though I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for.
He doesn’t let go immediately. His hands linger just a second too long. Or maybe it only feels that way because every place he touches burns.
“What are you doing, baby girl?”
