Page 102 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

“Alright. Appreciate it, Iris”

I hang up before she can say anything else, slipping the phone into my pocket as I glance toward the door, expecting Maeve to walk through it any minute.

But she’s still not here.

It’s way past the time she usually comes down. Hell, I am usually the one being greeted by Maeve tucked up on the swing chair. And it pains me to think we are wasting time apart when her time here is close to an end. More so when I’ve spent more time trying to deny this pull between us than I have with her. Fair to say I have regrets.

I know she can’t stay, not really. Especially not how we are now anyway, but while she’s here, I don’t want to waste another second.

I push off the railing and head inside, boots heavy against the floorboards. The house is quiet. She should be up by now.

We already missed a whole day together because she wasn’t feeling great—hungover, most likely. Spent most of the day in her room, and the house was too busy to even check on her without anyone becoming suspicious.

I should check on her. Make sure she is ok.

I grab a bottle of water from the kitchen, tucking it under my arm while I pour her a fresh coffee. Strong, the way she takes it. If anything was going to make my angel feel better, it’s going to be the liquid she seems to live off.

The hallway creaks as I make my way to her door. I gently tap my knuckles on the door, just loud enough she’s able to hear if she is awake.

There’s no answer. I wait, just a moment, then push the door open slowly to find Maeve, sat up in bed, knees pulled in, arms wrapped right around them like she’s doing her best to hold herself together.

As her head lifts, I catch her face—eyes red, swollen. Flushed cheeks. As beautiful as always.

“Hey…” I step inside, setting the coffee down on the bedside table. The water slips from under my arm and hits the floor. I don’t care; she’s more important.

I’m sat beside her in seconds, hand coming up to brush her hair back, thumb lingering near her cheek. “Angel,” I murmur, “what’s got you like this?”

She doesn’t answer right away, just looks at me with those red-rimmed eyes. Her hands come up, swiping mine away as she uses the back of hers to wipe her tears away.

“Wade.” Her voice is still cracked and caught in her throat.

“Talk to me,” I plead.

She unfolds herself slowly, feet sliding down the bed, gathering up the duvet along with them. She turns to face me properly, her face written with something that has me bracing myself.

“I think we need to stop.” She says it so matter-of-factly, like it isn’t up for discussion, and I just look at her, waiting for the punchline. Hoping this is some sick joke, but nothing comes. We just sit there looking at each other, waiting for one of us to break the silence.

“Stop?”

“Yeah.” The single word comes out shaky, nothing like the certainty she’s trying to project.

“Angel…”

“Please, Wade. Don’t make me say it twice.”

Her eyes fill quickly, her breath shaky as she begins to fidget with her hands. Seeing her like this hurts more than the words themselves.

“Wade, we were kidding ourselves,” she says, and lets out a small breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “I know we both thought we could do this and it’d be fine. That we can keep this going and when I got on that plane to London, it’d just be this fun and stupidly amazing thing that happened, and nobody’d be the wiser.”

“Maeve—”

“No, let me finish.”

She looks down at her hands, her fingers busy stroking her palm. “Colt’s trying so hard to figure himself out.” She swallows hard. “He's hurting, and I feel sick every time he looks at either of us because he trusts us.”

I look down at the water bottle still sitting where it fell on the floor. At the coffee going cold on the bedside table. At anything that ain’t her face, because if I look at her face too long, I’m not going to be able to do what she needs me to do, and that is to accept her decision. Even if I want to fight it.

“Alright,” I say.