11. Weland
Chapter eleven
Weland
I guess I’m riding on the hot mess express right now. It’s something to do with the inner cavewoman coming out and distracting the hell out of my normally rational brain because there’s a delicious man in my kitchen, and his presence is giving me all the tingles in all the spots.
After our walk, we came back to my condo, and I attempted to make breakfast for us—attempted being the keyword here. But after the eggs nearly caught on fire and the bacon sizzled down to little burnt crisps, I decided I was too distracted to cook and instead went with what I knew.
I could literally make these marshmallow peanut butter squares blindfolded. Not that I want to try. It’s hot and scary in the kitchen, and I wouldn’t actually like to do it without being able to see. You’d think this would involve a higher degree of don’t fuck up than bacon and eggs, but apparently not.
I’m just melting the peanut butter and butterscotch chips into a big pot when Sterling walks into the kitchen, pulls out a chair, and sits at the table.
There goes my ovaries.
There goes my nipples.
There goes my cooking skills.
I nearly fling the butterscotch mix out of the pot and onto the wall when he rakes a hand through his hair. He looks uncertain, kind of stressed, a little bit sad, and slightly lost. I don’t even know if he realizes his face is showing all the stuff he’s not used to letting anyone see.
Now that I know a little bit about how he grew up, given his life story crash course, I get why he’s been guarded. Granted, it’s all self-proclaimed, and I have to take his word for it, but I believe him. He could lie to me, but why would he at this point? I feel like the second we literally bumped into each other at the club, our lives took a different course. I’ve been going over everything in my head, and it’s so overwhelming.
“If you could be anything in life, would you be what you are right now?” I have to ask something to break up the silence that’s descended over the kitchen. Listening to myself cook and stir and Beans’ soft snores from the couch are just too quiet.
“I think so. I love what I do. It’s not just about the money. It’s always been about the fact that I’m good at it and I enjoy it. The music. Making people’s dreams come alive. It’s a good feeling.” Sterling raises his head, and I find myself melting like the butterscotch chips in my pot when under his butterscotch gaze. “What about you?”
“You know that saying, in a life where you can be anything, be kind? Well, I’d rather be fucking awesome. All those things people just won’t do because they’re afraid or they’re worried about failure or embarrassment? I want to do them. I want to be brave enough. I want to see beauty in the not-so-beautiful. And the fucks? I want to give all the fucks when it counts and not give them when it doesn’t.” I realize I shouldn’t be talking to my husband about fucks, but it’s not the same. It’s not that kind of fucks.
Dear lord, my face is probably on fire. I whip back around to the pot and stir, stir, stir. In my defense, if I don’t, burning will happen, and I’ve burnt enough crap this morning already.
The beginning of a smile makes my heart flop over when I glance over at Serling out of the side of my eyes. “That sounds like a good way to live.” A beat of silence follows, and then, “How did your parents pick out your name?”
If I had a dollar for every time someone’s asked me that, I wouldn’t have had to get contractually married to get my brother those surgeries, but for some reason, the way Sterling asks gives me pleasant goosebumps. I don’t mind it at all, making conversation with him.
“Apparently, it’s just another form of Waylon, but could my parents take the easy route? No, they could not. They had to go with something wild. I know it’s not a common female name, but whatever. Unisex is in fashion.”
“So are strange names,” Sterling says.
“Is it strange?”
He taps the tabletop with his fingertips, and his smile gets a little bit shy, which makes him look absolutely adorable. “Maybe a little, but I like it.”
“It sounds like wetland. That’s what most people associate it with.”
“That’s funny. Because I associate it with you, and you sound like an angel even when you’re just talking.” At those words, his cheeks turn pink, and he ducks his head. I don’t think he meant to say that, or at least not all of that, and it makes me stir the pot even harder and faster because my heart is racing, and I have to do something to keep from blurting out something silly.
We both fall silent, but sometimes having nothing to say is a huge improvement over giant embarrassing things, saying sad things, or being hecking awkward as all heck.
“I can’t sleep without white noise at night. I used to have a noise machine.” I don’t know why I’m saying this. Maybe because he’s given me so much, and it doesn’t matter that he told it to me like facts and without emotion. I know it hurt—his past. “But then my parents found this new age stuff. It’s just music. Tones and just kind of crazy stuff. I listen to it every single night.”
“I would have pegged you for more soft country.”
“Nah. Nothing with words. If I listen to the words, then I can’t fall asleep. If I know the songs, then I’m going through all the words. If I don’t know them, then I’m focusing on them, and it has the opposite effect of making me tired.”
The mix is finally ready, and I whip it off the burner so it can cool for a few minutes before I add the marshmallows. I don’t want anything to melt down to nothing. I lean against the counter and face Sterling because having a conversation with my back turned to him doesn’t seem very brave. “Are you one of those disagreeable label execs who kind of intimidates the hell out of people?”
“Never. That’s not my vibe at all.”
“Do you still meet with people, or is someone else doing the meeting?”
“I still discover every single artist we sign, and I absolutely meet with every one of them. By discover, I mean every single suggestion goes through me, so I might not make the original discovery. That’s probably taking too much credit or using the wrong word. But I do care. I care about my company, every single person there, and every single artist. That’s another reason why I’ll do anything to hold it together. If my cousins get those shares, they’ll be able to break it up or do anything they want to them, and just because they’re mine, they’ll cash them out in any way they can. And if they can’t find a buyer, they’ll do what they can to make my life miserable, which means everyone who depends on me will suffer.”
“So they wouldn’t sell them to you if anything happened, and they got them?” I ask.
“Oh, hell no. No way in hell, cold day in hell, all the hell, just no.”
“Why do they act that way? Is it because of what you said about your aunt encouraging competition?”
“I don’t know. It’s complicated.” He sighs. “I don’t know how to explain it. It just ended up being me against them, and maybe there was always a little bit of misplaced jealousy involved. People also don’t like seeing someone become more successful than them.”
Now I’m the one who sighs. “I don’t know why life has to be a competition. I’m so glad my family has always been so loving and supportive of each other. Even my extended family. But people can be really cutthroat sometimes, and you’re right. Jealousy is rough.”
“The worst.”
“Well, if all things fail, you can always sell foot photos.”
He gapes at me. “Fa—what?”
“Yeah. Foot photos. You haven’t heard of that? If I hadn’t found you when I did, I probably would have resorted to it, although I don’t think it was as popular then as it is now.”
“Are you serious?” Sterling gasps.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes so wide. “Yeah. I wish. I think it can be a legit career. If you don’t want to dive in with both feet, you can just dip your toes in.” I giggle at my own terrible joke and reach for the bag of mini-colored marshmallows. Rainbow galore, here we come. “That might sound extra dirty.” I dump the whole bag into the pot. “Anyway, I’m kidding about that, I really am. But it would be a good backup plan. I’ve always had it in my head if all else fails. Once you start freelancing online, you hear about the extras, and then the extras , and it probably spirals from there, like picking a loose thread and having the whole darn sweater come undone.
“But is it that bad? I think it’s pretty innocent. It’s just feet. There are obviously way worse things to put out there. Or way better things. If you were a hand model, you wouldn’t get the same kind of grief. Why are hands so much classier than feet? There’s probably a good chance I’m overthinking this.” There’s a hundred percent chance I’m rambling. And over-stirring this. “All the power to people who do the feet thing. I think they must have unchained souls. They seem wild and free and unbound by the norms and conventions of society. To all the feet photo posting individuals, I give you two big toes up.”
It takes a second, but the first low rumblings of a laugh start. It gets louder and more rowdy, and then it’s a full-on belly laugh, and I have to turn to look.
Turning to look is a mistake.
Sterling is a gorgeous, sexy, beautiful beast of a man, and when he’s belly laughing? Dear god, I’m finished. Slain. Done like this marshmallow dessert that I’m dumping into the pan I’ve set out on the counter for it to solidify and cool in.
“Is this too much?” Sterling asks.
“What?” I whip around and nearly fling half of the pot’s contents across the room. I have to control my body and keep my hands centered over the baking pan. “Is what too much?”
There’s a very fine line between intelligence and brawn. Or no, I suppose not. It’s more like there’s a recipe for how much brains and how much brawn is sexy. That ratio isn’t set in stone. It varies from person to person. I suppose that’s what people term attraction and personality. Why one person works for you while another doesn’t. Alright, there’s a good chance I have no flipping idea what I’m talking about. I love intelligence. Maybe I should just say that. Muscly goodness is just a bonus. But emotional stuff? Where does that factor in? Sterling is obviously smart, and he’s even more obviously good-looking. Muscly, brawn, and brains. But the emotional intelligence aspect? It seems totally new to him. He’s so used to being shut down, and now we’ve done this outpouring with each other. I think that’s what he’s talking about.
“What you told me?” I prod gently because his jaw is working, but no sound is coming out. He’s clearly having trouble with the words.
“I mean this. Us. Me. You. I have no idea how this is supposed to work.”
I’m half pouring out marshmallow goo and the other half with my neck cranked around like an owl, though not quite because I’m not that talented. “Just hold that for a second. That thought.” I finish what I’m doing, set the pot aside, pat down the dessert, pop the pan in the fridge, and turn back around.
“I don’t think either of us knows how marriage is supposed to be because we haven’t been married before. And dating? It’s been a long time since I did that.”
I let my eyes do a slow perusal over the rugged features of Sterling’s face. He shaved this morning, so the shadow is gone, but his face is angular enough that he has all the mountain man vibes. Those jeans are really doing it for me, and so is his shirt. I can imagine how I’d like a few things to go.
Are we going to have steamy closet sex one day? I think that might be even better than any bathroom sex, the backseat of a car sex, or on top of some public monument sneaky sex I’ve ever dreamed of. Not that I’ve really ever dreamed of that or think it’s a thing. You just hear about it happening, and I couldn’t not admire the bravery and guts it must take. Or just like regular steamy sex? I’d take that right now. Wait, umm, no, not right now. Jesus. The hormones are clearly out of control.
I feel like I’m a million degrees, so even though I just put the dessert in the fridge, I rush toward it and take the dessert back out. I slip a knife from the utensil drawer and cut a few quick slabs, which are still more like hot, sticky messes than pieces, but whatever. It’s something to do with my hands. Maybe if I concentrate hard enough on this, I can force air back into my lungs.
The air is all butterscotch, peanut butter, and marshmallows, but all of a sudden, there’s pine and fresh air and man .
I freeze. I can sense Sterling behind me before he reaches past me for the pan. His hands look huge, capable, and a little bit veiny. His skin tone is naturally darker, more of an olive undertone, so they look the slightest bit tanned. And that’s it for air and my lungs and me. We’re all finished.
“I’ve never had this before,” he comments.
“N—no?” I choke out. “It’s in—incredible.”
“What do you call it?”
“M—marsh—marsh…” I know what’s wrong with me. He’s what’s wrong with me. He’s why I can’t get the words out or why I’m going to pass out from ovary overload and lack of air. “Marshmallow peanut butter squares. Or peanut butter butterscotch squares.”
Sterling chuckles. “That’s a long name for something that smells so delicious.”
“They are delicious. They’re worth the effort and the long name. I promise.”
There’s the slightest pause. I know this is a weird breakfast. Maybe he doesn’t eat sugar or carbs. Maybe I should have asked before I—
“Will you feed them to me?” he murmurs, his voice low.
My stomach bottoms out, and my heart goes into so high an overdrive mode that it’s probably dangerous. I can feel it banging around in my chest. I can also feel every single part of me that is distinctly female heating up, tightening, throbbing, and causing all sorts of general chaos.
“Sure. Let me just…let me just get the knife and a plate and—”
“No. Will you feed them to me?”
Holy hotdogs and macaroni. That sounds dangerous and dirty. It sounds distinctly… I pick a marshmallow off the top. It’s coated in butterscotch, peanutty, gooey goodness. My hand shakes as Sterling leans in—in my kitchen and into my space. He’s really here, and I think this is actually real. He dips his head in at a funny angle because I haven’t raised my hand up properly, and then his tongue…oh my sweet marshmallows, his tongue hits my fingers first. His lips are next, so warm and soft. The marshmallow is rapidly gone, almost like a magic trick, and then he licks my fingers clean. My hoo-ha thinks that was a great trick. A spectacular trick. The fastest anyone has ever gotten me dripping wet and clenching kind of a trick.
“Delicious.” Sterling’s voice is a low rumble, like a sudden blast of thunder from one of those past gods coming down to claim me.
“I—I know.” I’m melting. I’m melting right here, and this is the end of me and my panties. We’ll never be the same again. “It’s the best dessert—”
“No.”
I’m surprised. He didn’t like it? Who doesn’t like this? There isn’t anyone in the world who wouldn’t like this. “Oh, I beg to differ. It has all the butterscotch—”
“No.”
“And peanut butter.”
“No.”
I frown. “You can’t tell me the marshmallows aren’t the perfect combination.”
“It was delicious.” That deep raspy burr is going to do me in. “But I wasn’t talking about the dessert.”
My knees turn to water, and my panties poof clean off my body. Is reverse nipples a thing? Because mine are so hard that I think they might be heading in a reverse direction. I try to brush my legs together to stop the pounding in my center, but of course, it doesn’t work at all. My face must be a thousand million degrees, like landing on the surface of some great big gassy planet that is…wait, not the sun…and full of the most primal urges that ever existed, and—
Oh god! Oh god, Sterling is right here. He’s bending his face toward mine, and then his lips are on mine, and he’s kissing me. He tastes like man and butterscotch, like marshmallows and peanut butter. And I was wrong. The recipe does have room for improvement because I’ve never tasted it like this before.
He’s all in my space, but my body doesn’t mind one bit. My body has a mind of its own, actually. It angles toward him, craving the heat beneath his clothing. I’m totally sinking into it. But I’m not brave enough to touch him even though he’s kissing me right now. He touches me instead. His hand traces my arm and then settles on my shoulder. Supporting me and keeping me from falling over. It keeps going until his warm fingers splay over the back of my neck.
The kiss becomes something else as soon as he touches me there. His tongue licks along my lips, and I give permission by parting them. However, he still takes his time and traces them before he tastes me. Before he tastes all of me, my lips, my tongue.
Maybe it’s the whole celibate for the past five years thing, or maybe it’s just a good chemical reaction, but I can’t hold back and be passive anymore. My hands come up and grip Sterling’s face. Against my fingertips, his skin is silk in one direction and rougher against the grain. I whimper against his lips, bumping my hips into his. I let him explore me with his lips, his tongue, his hands. One of his hands stays at the back of my neck while the other traces my opposite arm, my hip, and my curves. His fingers leave little trails of dynamite in their wake that slowly start exploding and detonating all over the place, one flame and spark at a time.
I want this. I want more. I want…I want Sterling. My husband. This man who I just met a few days ago, who has merely existed for me as a blacked-out name on a dotted line on a contract that has ruled my life. I’ve wondered and dreamed, disliked and burned, rallied and raged and cried, and dreamed again in turns. Contracted marriages don’t happen in real life, but it happened to me. Dreams also don’t come true very often, and this is the stuff of fluffy romances, but it’s happening to me too.
However, it might be happening a little bit too fast.
It takes all my strength to put a hand on Sterling’s chest and push against it just enough to pull back. My eyes are slightly unfocused, and the whole world feels hazy for a minute, but then it all centers again as blood goes rushing back to my brain.
“Too fast,” he whispers, looking not the least bit offended. He looks… I don’t know. He looks like he’s staring at something precious. In awe. Like he’s just discovered some super rare gem. Maybe he looks like that when he hears a song he loves for the first time.
God, I’d love to be in the room for that. I’d love to have seen his face when he heard my song for the first time.
“Maybe a little,” I gasp. I don’t know what else to say.
He recovers fast. He’s like a cat, always landing on his feet. “Will you let me take you out to dinner tonight?”
That’s what most people would term a real date. I’m not sure where the fear went…the fear about his cousins finding me. Or maybe he’s decided that if they did, I’m tough enough to fend them off, smart enough to play along, and…or…it could be that’s not it at all. Maybe he’s lost his fear of them because we’ve decided to make this real, so there’s no danger of it being fake anymore. Actually, there’s absolutely still danger, but maybe it’s done something to assuage his fears, and perhaps even a few of the past hurts. It might be wishful thinking, but…
I’m just standing here, and he’s waiting so patiently, and he needs an answer.
“Yes.” My voice is basically all breath and vapor, so I nod too. “Yes, I’ll go to dinner with you.”
Dinner. As in a wear something nice, do up your hair, spritz on some scented oil because I don’t do perfume, and go out into the world with someone else to have a good time and experience it with them kind of dinner. With Sterling. With my husband.
I honestly don’t know what’s scarier. The fact that I have a husband I’m going to have dinner with, or the fact that I get little fluttery butterflies when I think about it, and it doesn’t actually feel that crazy at all.