Chapter 2

Wilder

If life were a circus, I always imagined women as the beautiful and notorious ringleaders. Mischievous and charming enough to make men jump through hoops of fire, but now I've found a second type of woman—the crazy one who tells you to hold her beer before she jumps through the ring of fire by herself.

Daria Withers is that type of woman—fearless, beautiful, and daring, like a lioness, even though she is supposedly a nun.

Damn, I can't believe I kissed nun! Our kiss must have been Daria's first experience with a man if she is a real nun, yet she blew my mind.

That woman, the only way to describe her is by saying WOW in capitalized letters. She came in like a storm, straddled my lap, and breathed fast before her soft lips made contact with mine.

She set magical colors to my otherwise dull world with her mouth. My eyes snapped up into her face, and there she was, so beautiful and untamed that I couldn't even think straight.

I would tell a lie if I said it was love at first sight. No. Daria rocked my world, and my head said: what-a-woman-yes-please, this is what I've been searching for my entire life! She brought in passion, flames, and the awakening of my soul.

"Smith?" I call my driver from the passenger seat, running my hands through my hair while smiling at the streets. My heart is still beating a mile per second, unable to calm down. Daria knocked me good. "Have you ever been in love?"

My driver rolls his eyes—he has worked for my family his entire life and isn't afraid of voicing his thoughts and concerns. My father is a wealthy CEO, a rich billionaire, and we never speak to each other except during the holiday. Long story short, he wanted me to take over his company at eighteen, while I had other plans.

Acting has always been my calling, and Smith understands and respects me for chasing my dream. He was my father's butler, but now he is my driver and a life advisor—I ask him everything.

Smith inhales, preparing to lecture me in his British accent, the one that makes me feel like I'm a teenager and not a grown-ass man. It doesn't matter that I'm close to thirty. Smith will always see me as a child, even if I tower over the older man.

It is no wonder—Smith has been around since I was a kid. He has been picking out my clothes and told me when to head to bed. The older man loves to dress in a business suit, and his back is always held straight. And when I was a little wildling, only six years old, Smith dressed me up in expensive suits to resemble my father.

I wouldn't say I liked it. My young self loathed the idea of not having enough freedom to decide my future, and eventually, Smith stopped trying to create a clone of my father by dressing me in the same way. These days, he respects my wishes. I dress in ordinary clothes, while Smith is still looking proper every day. I don't mind—it's his style and fashion statement, and it suits him.

"Wilder, you may need to calm down and take a moment to reflect." His blue eyes meet mine briefly in the rear-view mirror. "You know nothing about this woman yet—she could be a serial killer!"

I produce this strangled snort-laugh. "Please, I'm like 6'4, and the woman can't be taller than 5'3 feet. What is she going to do—kick my shins? Sling me over her shoulder and then throw me into her car? Smith, are you serious right now? Daria wouldn't be able to throw me into the trunk without help!"

Smith shivers as if remembering an unpleasant memory. "You shouldn't underestimate today's women, Wilder. They are all masters of kung fu or equipped with pepper spray these days. Some carry bricks in their GUCCI bag."

I'm smirking, dreamingly watching couples hold hands on the street and then longing to do it myself. Daria struck me like thunder from above. I can't stop the images of her gorgeous smile play on repeat inside of my brain.

With a never-ending pounding inside my chest, I talk straight from the heart. "I don't doubt women can defend themselves, but Daria isn't a serial killer. Of this, I'm certain. I judge she is a wonderful woman—my gut is giving me this good vibe. I want to know more about her."

Smith lifts his eyebrows. "Well, you're famous, so you need to think twice before you see someone. If the paparazzi found out you're sneaking around with a nun-..." He grimaces. "Bloody hell—imagine the headlines!"

Fear pangs my chest when I hear those words. I don't care about media, but I'm aware some women see it as a turnoff knowing someone is always watching us. But there is also the opposite.

Rebecka, an ex-girlfriend of mine, loved every minute of the pictures the paparazzi were taking of us. Being an actress herself, she rode the wave into more fame, and then she dumped my ass after finding out she could replace me with someone richer.

She broke my heart, and I've been lost for some time. Rebecka took a part of me with her when she left, but now a certain brunette has blown new life into my heart. It's beating again—longing to find out how Daria's skin would feel underneath my hands.

"I want you to do me a favor, Smith."

"Anything, master Wilder."

"Find out everything you can about the woman Daria Withers." Suddenly, I laugh at my obsession—these butterflies swarming the inside of my belly are new. Seriously, I'm not joking. In my entire lifetime, I've never been this caught by someone before. "I normally never get nervous around women, but my tongue might have slipped with Daria. I said something that offended her, and now, I might need to send her flowers to get on her good side."

Smith chuckles. "Women love flowers."

I grimace. "Some women hate them—shit, what if she is allergic or something? I don't want her to hate my gift."

"I'm sure she will appreciate the thought," Smith smiles as he parks the car next to the curb. He glances up into my eyes, his lips curving higher on his wrinkly face. "So, where am I driving you? We have no clue where this Daria Withers live."

I suck oxygen into my lungs, already hyperventilating at having failed with my first mission: delivering Daria flowers to win her heart. Shit. I'm losing my damn mind, and it was only like a few hours since I met her. I need to calm the fuck down.

"She must live at some convent..." I prod my lips, frying my brain cells while trying to figure out where Daria might live. Then again, I only met her today—perhaps I should give it a week before looking her up. "Maybe I should wait to find her. The last thing I want is for Daria to assume I'm a stalker and be afraid of me."

"A wise decision, master Wilder," Smith nods as if agreeing with this plan. He drives out onto the street again. "Then, if we are not buying flowers, we should drive home so I don't miss the new episode of MasterChef. I draw inspiration from that program."

I sigh dramatically. Smith knows I'm fooling around, judging from his entertained expression.

"Fine." I fold my hands behind my head, smiling. "I will enjoy an excellent workout while you watch Gordon Ramsay yelling at people, but tomorrow, I will find out everything there is to know about Daria Withers on the internet."