Page 51 of The Bombshell and the Bodyguard
“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” I said.
“Hey!” Wilder lunged toward me, grabbing for it. I slid from the piano bench and scrambled beneath the instrument, giggling.
“I’m fresh out of reading material, so this should be good.”
Dropping to his good knee, Wilder ducked under the piano and swiped a large paw at me in an attempt to retrieve his stolen property.
“Give that back to me. I’m serious, Jessica. I don’t want you to read it.”
I giggled again, shifting the book to my other hand and holding it away from him. “Don’t be shy. What’s the point of writing if no one else ever sees it?”
Wilder was practically growling in irritation now. “The point is I do it forme—not other people. Now shut the book and give it to me.”
He managed to get his fingers on it and tugged, causing the page in my hand to tear off. I gasped in surprise then laughed again as he tried to grabitfrom me.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “We can tape it—afterI take a look.”
I stuffed the loose page into my dress, tucking it inside my bra, then scooted out from under the piano and faced him with a teasing look.
“Come and get it.”
Getting to his feet Wilder gave me a death glare and extended his palm. “Give it to me.”
“I will...” I turned and started walking toward the nearby bathroom. “... in just a minute.”
“No,” he practically shouted.
But he was much slower than usual these days, and I easily beat him to the bathroom. I closed and locked the door.
He pounded on it, yelling, “Jessica. Open up. I’m not kidding around. This isn’t funny.”
Sitting on the closed toilet lid, I extracted the notebook page from my bra. I unfolded the warm, crumpled page and began to read.
And my mouth dropped open.
There in Wilder’s small, neat handwriting were several verses of poetry. I turned it over to the back and saw several more.
Then I began actually reading them.
More shocking than the fact that Wilder Lowe had written poetry waswhathe’d written about. Or ratherwhom.
My eyes scanned the lines again and again, my pulse picking up speed and my breath coming in shallow puffs.
His words were about long, dark, curling hair and eyes the shade of jade stone, soft skin and even softer curves, about a voice as sweet as an angel’s song and lips that he longed to kiss but never would.
My heart pounded in my throat. I felt lightheaded. I could barely hear Wilder’s shouting and banging on the door now—my entire world had narrowed to the unexpected, unbelievable, absolutely beautiful words on the page in my hands.
What I’ve always wanted. What I’ll never have.
Trapped with her.
More trapped without her.
And she will never know the eternal cage that holds my heart.
Is her sweet song.
The poem was entitled, “Hummingbird.”
