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It’s much too soon, and much too wild, but it’s completely unfair that I have to go back to my normal life now.
Because right now, leaving him is the biggest mistake I’ve ever made, and as soon as I get into my car and close the door, I start to cry.
Chapter Eleven
Heath
The next few days suck.
There’s no easy way to come down from the high of meeting someone you think could – and should – be your mate. Seriously. I don’t know how people meet someone they could adore and just fall head over heels for them and then walk away.
I’m a fucking idiot.
Even Spot seems lonely and bored without the boys around. He really liked having brothers in the house, even if it was only for a few days.
I finish closing on the property I purchased and I meet with an architect to talk about my plans for building. My entire week is filled with contracts and meetings and so many chores that I barely have time to do anything, let alone read.
It’s not until the following Friday night when I’m unloading groceries from the SUV that I spot my Terri Jones book I left in the trunk. I grab it and bring it inside with me. It’s a good night to finish finding out what happens to the bad boy and the girl he loves, so as soon as I’m done putting away the things I bought, I settle down on the couch with a bottle of wine and my book, and I open it up.
And then I stare at my book, blinking.
What the fuck?
This is an autographed copy?
I bought it used at a thrift shop a few weeks ago. I feel like I would have noticed it was autographed, but then I see that there’s a note above the scrawling script that reads Terri Jones. There’s a personalized message.
And it’s addressed to me.
Dear Heath,
Thanks for a great weekend. Couldn’t have asked for a better guy to rescue me. Part of me wonders how I’m ever going to return to reality after being beneath you for the better part of a weekend. I miss you already, and I’m never going to forget you. If you’re ever around my neck of the woods, give me a call. I’d love to see you again.
Love, Terri Jones
XOXO
Beneath the signature is a neatly printed phone number.
Her phone number.
Terri Jones’ phone number.
No, scratch that: Theresa Jones.
Holy dragons.
I slept with my favorite author.
The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. The woman I’m falling for – well, the woman I’ve fallen for – happens to write the most wonderful and romantic novels I’ve ever read.
And I let her walk away.
I stand up and start pacing because I’m a little bit horrified at what’s happened. How could I have done this? How could I have let her slip through my fingers?
It’s just that I thought she didn’t want anything serious.
No, scratch that.
