There’s Wild, Then There’s You (The Wild Ones #3)(20)
Author: M. Leighton

I nod slowly, taking in the new dimension I’m seeing to this increasingly interesting female. Not only is she gorgeous and sexy and a little bit shy, but she’s smart and has it together in a way that I don’t see in women very often.

Before I even realize what I’m doing, I give her something truly honest. “You’re a pretty amazing woman, Violet. Wilson, is it?”

She smiles, a radiant, relieved smile that mirrors the . . . lighter feeling that’s taken over my gut. Evidently confession really is good for the soul.

“Thank you, Jet. Blevins, is it?”

“Yes,” I laugh. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“And it’s very nice to meet you,” she returns in her shy way.

As I stare at her from across the table, I wonder for the first time if maybe the guys were right. Maybe even I’m not that cold.

Or maybe I am. Because I still want her. I want her more than I want to tell her the truth.

SEVENTEEN: Violet

It’s been ages since I’ve spilled my guts like I did with Jet over coffee last weekend. On the one hand, I feel good. Still. All these days later. I feel lighter, cleansed. But on the other hand, I know it’s a huge mistake to get too close to him, to let him in when the basis of our entire association is a lie. That could be devastating for someone like him, someone who’s just looking for some help. For that reason, I’ve decided to be extra careful and not let him get too close.

As I drive to a client’s house, I let my mind wander to the SAA meeting tonight. I tell myself that there’s nothing wrong with looking forward to it. Not only am I helping my best friend and supporting her by going, but I’m helping Jet, too. I should be excited about going. I should feel exhilarated. Because I’m doing something good for others. Helping them. Fixing them. Enjoying the company of them in the meantime is only a bonus. Nothing to be concerned about.

At least that’s what I tell myself. I ignore the fact that my stomach is jittery just thinking of seeing him again tonight. I ignore the fact that I can’t seem to forget the way his lips felt on mine or the way his body fit against me. I push all that aside and remind myself that I’m just helping.

Just helping. Just helping, I chant, hoping that the ache I feel behind my eyes won’t erupt into a full-blown headache.

My phone rings, jarring me out of my thoughts. I glance down at it as I roll slowly toward a stop sign.

I sigh. A deep sigh.

I can’t help it. I feel forty pounds heavier than I did ten seconds ago and I haven’t even answered the phone yet. For one millisecond, I consider not answering. But that’s just not who I am.

I hit the talk button. “Hello?”

“Violet?” comes a tiny voice.

“Hi, DeeDee. How are you?” The question is a nicety, a courtesy. I’m pretty sure I don’t really want to know the answer. DeeDee is my much-older cousin. She is addicted to painkillers, she’s an undiagnosed hypochondriac, and the only goal of her existence is to have a man in her life at all times. Even if it’s a crappy man.

Normally, her calls involve some kind of drama that ends with me going to her apartment to rescue her from someone or something. Just another family member I’m trying to help. Or fix. Or, in some cases, just survive.

“I’m just awful,” she whines, her voice trembling.

“What’s the matter?”

I listen to her draw a deep, steadying breath as I pull into the driveway at my client’s house. Rather than getting out of the car, I simply cut the engine and lean my head back against the seat, bracing myself for the onslaught to come.

“Well, I ran out of toilet paper last week and I didn’t have enough money for gas to get to the store, so I used paper towels instead.”

“DeeDee, please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Why would I joke about something like that?” she asks, truly perplexed. “Well, evidently all those paper towels stopped up the pipes and the sewer started backing up. Violet, the smell was terrible!”

“I imagine that it was,” I commiserate, glad she can’t see me shaking my head and pinching the bridge of my nose to fend off the migraine that is now more an inevitability than a possibility.

“I called the landlord and he sent Maintenance up to fix it. They couldn’t get it unclogged even after they pulled up the toilet, so they had to leave it like that until a plumber could come. Those rascals opened up the floodgates for those fumes and, after a few days, I started feeling sick and getting headaches. I felt so weak I could barely get off the couch.” DeeDee says this like it’s an abnormal thing, but considering her long list of pseudo-medical problems, she spends more days on the couch than not.

“Did you go to the doctor? Maybe you’re getting sick.”

“I did go to the emergency room, and you’ll never believe what they told me.” I think to myself, Probably not. But I refrain from voicing that thought. Instead, I wait for her to tell me, which she always does. “They told me I have methane gas poisoning. Those maintenance men could’ve killed me, Violet!” she cries shrilly. Everything with DeeDee is a matter of life and death. Like everything else about her personality, there is no middle ground. It’s high or low, wonderful or horrible, black or white.

“What did they suggest you do?”

“They said I need to get out of there until they fix that mess and let the place air out.”

I can feel my day taking a turn for the worse. “When was this?”

Shamefully, I’m praying that she’ll say this was days ago and that the danger has passed, and that she’s back in her apartment again. But I realize this is likely a stretch.

“Last night.”

I sigh. Again. I can’t help it. I know what’s coming. I’m going to offer her a place to stay, because that’s who I am. And she’s going to accept it, because that’s who she is. And she’s going to turn my neat, orderly home and life into a pigsty in two point two seconds, because that’s the way it goes. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word clean and I’d say she hasn’t even seen a broom in a year or more.

But then, miracle of miracles, she continues, saving my Thursday from the apocalypse of houseguests. “But John, the guy who lives in 3C that I was telling you about, offered to let me stay with him so I could be close to all my stuff.”

“John? The one who told you he has a problem with his temper? That John?”