Page 214 of One Wild Wish

After pointing out our cars, we separated slowly, walking backward, our hands the last things to part. Again, a cold desolation gripped me. I almost changed my plan and dragged him to my car, but that was the crazy talking. Daffy as a duck. When my heel cranked into a lamppost, I finally turned and hurried to my Impreza.

8

6:30 p.m., 29 ½ Hours…

Gwen

My driving skills on the way to the TASC center were an embarrassment. I cut off two cars, nearly plowed over a man, and I drove so slowly at one point, honking blared for five seconds.

All I could picture was losing August, his rental car disappearing from sight, him disappearing from my life. I could win that show: America’s Worst Driver.

In one of America’s seediest districts.

The Tenderloin had a smell about it, eau de vomit mixed with rotting garbage and a skunkiness all its own. Weed mixed with gasoline. The homeless community owned the sidewalks, sleeping and loitering twenty-four/seven. Random shouts competed with grinding brakes, and this was an improvement from decades ago.

Again, I tried picturing my mother venturing here, blouse buttoned to her chin, gray-streaked hair close cropped. Pointed nose. Thin lips. Severe. That was the word that best described her, in looks and personality.

Yet her younger self had spent time in the Tenderloin.

I dodged crumpled garbage on the cigarette-littered street, stopping once to drop a bill into a woman’s panhandling cup. San Francisco’s homeless problem was always upsetting. The number of displaced people here threatened to flood my already overwrought heart.

They were also intimidating, especially the man swerving toward me, who smelled like he’d bathed in whiskey. “Gimme some sugar, hot cakes.”

August appeared at my side and wrapped a protective arm around my shoulder. “She’s only serving sugar to me,” he said, curt, leading me toward the rec center. His handsome profile was a granite mask.

When he escorted me safely up the stone steps and inside the front doors, I kissed his smooth cheek. I still couldn’t believe I could kiss his cheek, smooth or otherwise. “My Prince Charming.”

He kept me tucked into his side. “Please don’t come here alone.”

“Are you feeling protective?”

“I’m feeling like I want to cut out that man’s tongue and feed it to him after marinating it in E. coli.”

“I think Ainsley rubbed off on you.”

He shivered. “I’d prefer to remain on her good side. We should also find you a parka to wear, keep leering men away.”

I glanced at my white tank top, tight but not showing excessive cleavage. “This isn’t exactly skimpy, and I could have handled myself on the street.”

He backed me against the hallway wall and planted one hand on the plaster by my head. His pupils blew wide. “Do you know how gorgeous you are? I swear to God, Gwen—I can barely focus around you. It was always like this, like I couldn’t think about anything but you when we were together. All I could do was write songs. You just exude this strength and confidence, even back when you thought you weren’t worthy. More so now. And there’s nothing sexier than a woman who can handle her own, but I do not want you handling yourself with sloppy men who have no issues taking without asking.”

A piano’s harmonics drifted toward us, each struck key mimicking my sharp pulse. I flattened my palms on his firm chest and almost whimpered again. “I used to distract you?”

He chuckled, a low devious sound. “Oh, honey, you have no idea.”

“I want an idea.” I wanted all of his ideas, every thought he’d ever had. I wanted to collect them. My secret jar of hearts. And honey ? Sign me up for that endearment.

“We’ll discuss my ideas during your pole vaulting lesson,” he said.

I inched my leg between his, until my hip made contact with his groin. “Will these lessons involve show and tell?”

He rotated his hips, enough for me to appreciate the solid bulge behind his zipper. “Since you sucked at school, I thought visuals would help.”

A PowerPoint presentation would be appreciated. “Says the guy who dropped out of college and made a sport out of shooting green Jell-O from his nose. And I worked hard for my degree, thank you very much. I also rock at my job.”

Although I was teasing him, his faced sobered. He created space between us. “What do you do for work?”

Right. He didn’t know. I may have followed (stalked) his career, but I didn’t have a Facebook page. I’d avoided social media since my catastrophic WTF. He wouldn’t know defining details of my life. No details at all, really.