Page 22 of From the Wreckage
We discover we love the same authors, trade favorite quotes from books, and laugh over guilty-pleasure movies. Then we move to arguing good-naturedly about toppings on pizza.
Somewhere between confessions and banter, I realize hours have passed, and it’s now 3 am.
I yawn, and it’s as if he knows.
Everett: You getting tired, angel?
Me: Yeah.
Everett: Get some sleep. I’ll be here if you need me.
His words feel like a blanket tucked around me. A promise that I cling to.
Me: Thanks for tonight. Sweet dreams.
Everett: Anytime. Sweet dreams, angel.
I fall asleep smiling and dream about him.
Dad leavesearly for the garage, and the house feels too quiet once his truck fades down the drive. I glance out the window at Everett’s cabin across the lake.
Five minutes later, I’ve laced up my sneakers and am on the trail, the pull toward him stronger than my common sense.
The trees arch overhead, sunlight breaking through in shards. The air is crisp, thick with pine and lake water.
When I get closer, I pull my phone from my shorts pocket and text him.
Me: Morning. I’m heading your way.
I tuck it away and pick up the pace, anticipation coiling in my gut.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t see him until he’s already striding toward me—sweat-slick muscles flexing under the morning light. My breath catches, disbelief and excitement tangling inside me.
The man is gorgeous. I’m mesmerized by the sight of him, shirtless in a pair of running shorts and sneakers. Lean muscles and golden skin on display?—
And then my toe snags on a root.
The world tilts. I fling out my arms, bracing for impact. But instead of dirt, I crash into heat and strength.
We tumble, but Everett twists so he takes the brunt of it, his back hitting the trail, me sprawled across his chest. His heartbeat thunders beneath my palm. His dark brows slash low as he stares at me, his breathing ragged.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” he growls, his voice sharp but eyes unbearably soft as they sweep over my face.
“You… Caught me,” I breathe out, dazed.
“Damn right I did.” One of his hands stays firm at my waist while the other pushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “There was no way in hell I was letting you hit the ground and get hurt again.”
My lips part. My body hums.
“Technically,” I whisper, “I still fell.”
His mouth twitches into a smile—God, that smile—and the sight of it steals the air from my lungs.
“Technically,” he says, his voice low and rough, “you fell into me.”
Then his fingers brush my healing cut, featherlight, and my world narrows to the warmth of his touch and the intensity in his brown eyes.
“Everett,” I whisper, my lips so close to his I can feel his warm breath.
