Page 66 of Tempting Wyatt
Today’s writing session has bled into the evening and been a marathon of epic proportions. For the first time in nearly a year, I can’t type as fast as the words are coming. I’m not even deterred by the two asinine, threatening texts I receive from Malcolm around dinner time.
The anticipation of knowing Wyatt is coming over has me giddy like a schoolgirl. It’s not a feeling I can recall having before.
Once I hit my goal, I break to chug some some much-needed water. Then, realizing my bladder is full, I head toward the bathroom. As I’m finishing up, my phone begins buzzing incessantly on the end table. Fully expecting it to be Malcolm, I rub my overworked eyes and take my time retrieving it. But once I do, I see that it’s a little after eight,and the call is from an unknown number. With a local area code.
Odd. Unable to ignore my curiosity, I answer.
“Ivy?” a wavering voice responds.
“Yeah,” I say softly, recognizing the voice. “Sutton?”
A sniffle. “Are you busy?”
Just killing time, waiting for your brother to come ravage me.
“No, sweetheart. I was writing, but I’m taking a break anyway. What’s going on?”
More sniffles. “I was right. About Brad and Cara.”
Brad and Cara?
It takes my brain a second to snap out of the fictional world I’ve been writing in for the past several hours.
“Your boyfriend and your best friend,” I clarify just to make sure I’m on the right page.
“Ex-boyfriend and ex–best friend,” she corrects with wounded venom in her voice. “I came to a party near campus, looking for them. I showed up early on purpose. And I found them. Together. Like, her on his lap. They were making out.” A soft cry escapes over the line. “Apparently, everyone knew but me.”
Inhaling sharply and attempting to gather all my twenty-six years’ worth of wisdom, I lean on the counter. “I’m so sorry, Sutton. People. . . fucking suck sometimes. But trust me when I tell you, you’re better off. At least now you know, and you won’t waste any more precious time and energy on those backstabbing assholes who couldn’t be adult enough to be honest with you.”
I might be channeling some of my own anger into the sentiment.
Another loud sniffle. “I know. You’re right. They’re jerks.”
“You deserve so much better, sweet girl.” I hear her whimper, but it’s muffled. “Where are you?”
She lets out a soft, sad laugh. “Um, in a coat closet at this guy Morgan’s house. I grabbed a bottle of Jack, and I’m just in here, drinking. Hiding.”
Jesus.
“How about you drop me a pin, and I’ll come get you?”
She’s silent for a beat, then says, “Um, I don’t want anyone at my house to see me like this. They’ll freak out and demand to know everything, and I justcan’t right now.”
“Well, in my experience, I’ve found this particular cabin to be quite healing for a broken heart.”
She sounds shocked when she speaks again. “Are you sure? You’re paying to rent that cabin, and you’re on vacation. I don’t want to impose on?—”
“Send me your location, Sutton. I’ll be there shortly. We’ll find some ice cream and coffee to go with all this apple cake I’ve got. Have a girls’ night.”
A brief flicker of the plans I had for later flashes in my mind.
Sorry, rancher.
She hiccups. “Okay. Sending the address now. Thanks, Ivy.”
IT TAKESME ALMOST an hour to arrive at the address Sutton sent. I pull up at a two-story Craftsman-style house in a quaint neighborhood near the college campus just after nine-thirty. I text Sutton that I’m out front, and a moment later, she and a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s make their way to my car.
“Maybe leave Jack here,” I suggest when she opens the door.
