“You’re impossible,” he growls, but his eyes have gone soft. He expels a sharp breath. “I grew up watching all these movies of epic love stories on the big screen. They were inescapable. Men and women who are destined to cross paths, fated to fall in love, predetermined to be together forever because it’s supposedly written in the stars or steered by invisible winds or sparked by the prick of cupid’s arrow.Soulmates. One, single person in the universe who is meant just for you.” His eyes hold mine and I feel the temperature in the room kick up by several degrees. When he continues, his voice is fraught with tension. “But that’s not real. It’s fiction. It’s the Hollywood spin. It’s the fairy tale that never really comes true. Because while the idea that we all have a single soulmate is lovely… It’s also bullshit.”
“But you’re a romantic! How can you—”
He cuts me off, mouth twisting. “You planning to let me finish?”
I clamp my lips shut.
“Trust me, I get the appeal of star-crossed lovers, fated to fall. Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Buffy and Angel.”
“Did you just make a Buffy the Vampire Slayer reference?”
“Yes.” His eyes narrow. “Why?”
I grin at him. “No reason.”
Nerd-boy.
“Anyway…” He narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the idea of soulmates. It’s thrilling to think about meeting someone, taking one look at them, and knowing in your heart that they’re your other half. It’s romantic as hell. But, to me… it’s infinitely more romantic to think that, out of the seven billion people on this planet you could be with… youchooseto be with just one.” He steps a shade closer, almost without realizing it. “Love isn’t some unavoidable destiny, some fate you can’t sidestep. It’s a choice you make — and keep making — every day of your life.”
Shit. My eyes are stinging.
“That’s why I wroteUncharted. In these pages… Violet wouldn’t die without Beck; Beck didn’t take one look at Violet and simply know she was the one. There is no instant, inexplicable connection or unhealthy co-dependence.” He shrugs. “There’s just a story about two people whochooseto be together — not because they have to, but because they want to. Even when it’s hard. Even when the whole world is stacked against them.”
My chest aches so intensely, it feels like I’ve been stabbed. Not for the first time — and probably not for the last — my mind is overtaken by a mournful lament.
Why does he have to be so damn wonderful?
He stares at me and I stare straight back, straight to his soul. I swear, in that moment, we have a full conversation without ever speaking a word. A million unspoken thoughts ping back and forth between us like a silent tennis match of things we’re both too stubborn to say out loud.
It takes a minute to rein in my emotions. When I’m relatively sure they’re back under control, I look up at him and speak in a voice that cracks despite my best efforts.
“It’s not because of them.”
He blinks, confused by the sudden shift in topic. “What?”
“Your success. It’s not because of your family, Wyatt. Maybe they had a hand in helping you, maybe their connections gave you a leg up, when you were first starting out… but that only takes you so far. Some people with even better connections than yours don’t do a damn thing with their lives. They piss away the chances they’ve been given because they’re entitled and arrogant and lazy.Why use your god-given talent when you can party all day instead?” I shake my head. “Those people, well-connected or not, lack the passion needed to create, to succeed. Butyouhave passion — for your art, for your work, for every part of your life.”
“Oh, really?” His voice is wry. “You’ve known me, what — two months?”
It hurts to hear him diminish our connection with a time constraint, even in a teasing way. I push on anyway.
“You forget, I’ve read your words. And the man who wrote these…” I trace the name on the front cover again, still stunned it’s the same man standing three feet from me. “Thisman… he has a gift for words and characters and beauty. He has more passion than he knows what to do with. It’s there in every sentence, buried in every line, enmeshed in every scene of Violet and Beck’s story.”
My fingertip presses down until the embossed letters dig into my skin. He doesn’t speak, but suddenly the air is so full of tension, it’s hard to haul breath into my lungs. I can’t bear to look at him as I force out the rest of my words. My voice shakes.
“Don’t dismiss your own hard work, just because your family happens to be in the same industry. Don’t disregard your own talent, just because of your bloodline. My mother—” My voice breaks.
Wyatt shifts closer, as if to comfort me, but holds himself back at the last moment.
I clear my throat and try again. “My mother pushed me so hard to be someone I’m not that it nearly broke me. She forced a square peg into a round hole, determined to make me fit even if vital pieces of my soul were shaved away in the process. It’s taken me a long time to realize how much that messed up my self-worth. Honestly, some days I still struggle with it. But I’ve finally figured out that the family you’re born into doesn’t define the person you become — no matter if you’re the spawn of a crazed pageant mom or the offspring of Hollywood’s wealthiest family. At the end of the day, the only person who determines who you become and what you do with your life isyou.” My eyes flicker up to his. “And.. you’re one of the best people I know.”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows several times. It doesn’t help much — his voice is still gruff when he speaks. “When did you get so wise, Katharine Firestone?”
“Not wise. Just marginally less stupid.” I let my eyes hold his for a breathless moment. “I’ve had a lot of time on my hands to think, this past month.”
The comment hangs between us like a physical presence, saturating every particle of air. I want so badly to step into his strong, safe arms, to close that final distance between us and whisper all the things I’m scared of, all the awful doubts that I’ll never deserve a man like this, so he can assure me otherwise. I want his hands on my skin, his mouth in my hair, his body pressed against mine like my own personal beacon of strength.
As if he can somehow read my thoughts, he takes a half step toward me, eyes never leaving mine. I grow roots; a hurricane could not move me, in this instant. My mouth opens. It’s there, on the tip of my tongue — something crazy, something I shouldn’t say, but can’t seem to keep locked inside anymore.