Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

Archer

Attending a child’s birthday party was never on my bucket list. Probably because I hadn’t heard the term bucket list . I had to google it after leaving Willa in the kitchen at almost four o’clock this morning.

Honestly, now that I know what a bucket list is, I think the whole idea is kind of morbid. I mean … a list of things to do before kicking the proverbial bucket?

No thank you. I’d prefer something like a living list. Maybe it’s just semantics, but to me, it seems significant.

Semantics aside, I don’t keep this kind of list, but if I did, what Willa and I find when we walk through the gate of a white picket fence would not be on it.

“Oh, boy,” Willa says, coming to a full stop inside the backyard. It’s a chaotic sea of screaming children, balloons, and an inflatable castle. Music blasts through speakers I don’t see, and two dogs chase each other. Two shirtless boys are perched in a tree, throwing what appear to be water balloons.

It is the exact antithesis of the kind of parties my father threw in my name but for his own purposes. I was usually the only non-adult in attendance, with a nanny hovering nearby in the early years and Bellamy standing as sentry in the later ones, his smile sharper than his suit as he fended off various people who, I know now, were probably trying to get something from my father by being nice to me.

I realize suddenly that this is one of the first times I’ve even entertained the idea of attending any kind of social gathering without Bellamy by my side. Normally, I would have thought about this beforehand, but it didn’t cross my mind.

Maybe because I didn’t consider a children’s birthday party to be a social event—or maybe I was just happy for Willa to invite me somewhere. Though I’m already excited to leave, I don’t have the usual ugly twist of anxiety in my gut. Just straight-up dislike, and I can manage that on my own. Or with Willa.

Anyway, if Bellamy were here rather than spending a few unplanned extra days in New York, he’d be slipping off his shoes, leaving them in the messy pile outside of the bouncy castle to jump with the kids.

“Welcome to your first official kids’ backyard birthday party.” Willa nudges my arm with her shoulder. We’re each holding a box of her cookies, which she somehow managed to finish after I left last night. Or, technically, this morning. I’m grateful to have something to do with my hands. “Aren’t you so glad you came?” she asks.

“Ye-e-es.”

She grins. “Are you sure ?”

At that moment, a little girl with pigtails and an ice cream cone streaks by, leaving a smear of chocolate on my trouser leg. I opted not to wear a suit today, foregoing the jacket and tie for a simple button-down shirt and slacks—which will now need dry-cleaning.

“Positive,” I say through gritted teeth.

In truth, I’m happy to be just about anywhere—yes, this horrendous party included—if it means spending time with Willa. I can’t get enough of her. All week I’ve found various excuses to duck into my office. She clearly doesn’t need any micromanaging as she’s knocked out a whole list of things I couldn’t manage to do, but I ask anyway. And then stay for whatever personal questions she throws at me before I go.

It’s safe to say Willa already knows more about me than any of my previous girlfriends.

Not that she’s a girlfriend. She’s just … Willa. For now. I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask her on an actual date, but I’m not sure about the protocol, considering she is currently my one employee—and her office is inside my apartment. It seems like an ethical violation on every level.

Would Willa even want to date me? Has she been flirting, or just being nice? Would it make her uncomfortable if I asked her on a date? Could she be honest if I did?

I don’t know the answer to any of these questions yet, which means I’m happy to be here with her. Not a date. But we’re out of my apartment, out of the building. It’s a good middle ground to see how things feel between us when we’re somewhere besides our usual territory.

“Let me just deliver these cookies and we can go,” she says. “I didn’t plan to stay long.”

I think I’ve seen enough of the party already. But not of Willa.

“I don’t mind.”

She nudges me again. “Come on, boss.”

I’ve grown used to the nickname and find that I particularly like it, especially when we’re in a situation like this one where I’m not the boss.

I follow Willa along a sidewalk to the covered patio behind the house. A long table covered in a sparkly silver tablecloth holds an assortment of food and buckets of ice where cans of beer and colorful children’s drinks coexist.

I lean close to Willa and nod toward the closest ice bucket. And if I place my lips a little closer to her ear than I have any business doing, so be it. Sue me. I’ve got good lawyers and know how to plead the fifth. “Juice boxes?”

She laughs and, if I’m not mistaken, leans into me a little bit. “Juice boxes. Though I might prefer a beer.”

“Do you want one?”

“Not right now. Maybe …” Willa bites her lip, then glances up at me shyly. “Maybe after? Somewhere not here?”

“With me?” I think I know this is what she means, but I need to be sure.

“With you.”

“Sounds perfect.”

She grins at this. “Okay. Now I really want to drop these off and get out of here.”

Me too.

But this is easier said than done. So far, none of the adults have acknowledged our presence. And the long table, decorated to match the mermaid cookies Willa made, is completely full.

I’m about to ask what to do with the boxes when a woman with dark hair and a very bald baby shrieks at the sight of Willa. Somewhere inside the house, I’m sure all the glassware just shattered.

The still-shrieking woman hands off the baby to a man next to her, which forces him to juggle a baby and a beer. He does so expertly, as though this is a skill he’s been preparing his whole life for. Maybe it is, because as the baby’s pudgy fists grab for the beer, he manages to keep it out of reach and take a long swig without missing whatever his buddy is saying.

The woman proceeds to smother Willa in a hug. “You’re here!”

“Watch the cookies!” Willa says with a laugh I can tell is slightly forced. “Good to see you, Angie.”

“Wow,” Angie says, stepping back, and at first I think she means the cookies, but quickly realize she’s looking at Willa. “Don’t you look great!”

It should be a compliment, but the way it comes out is pure, undiluted jealousy.

Willa is wearing a pink dress, and her loose waves are down, barely brushing her shoulders. She does look great. But I also liked her last night in the kitchen, sleepy and casually dressed, with powdered sugar on her cheeks. And I don’t like how uncomfortable she seems now.

I notice a few other people on the patio looking at us and whispering. The familiar prickle of discomfort climbs up my spine until I realize they’re not looking at me but Willa. Then I get angry because it’s clear they’re talking about her. She can’t have missed it either, but she pretends she’s just fine.

“Thanks.” She gives a nervous laugh and holds out the box as she glances around. “I thought we were early.”

Angie waves a hand, and several rings flash on her fingers. “Oh, this is just the pregame.” She laughs. “Most people will be coming in an hour.”

The backyard is already teeming with people, and we had a hard time finding parking within a block of the house. Maybe children’s birthday parties aren’t so different from the kind my father threw “for” me after all. I’m surprised at how unaffected I feel. Usually, the sight of this many people would have me searching for an exit.

I don’t know if it’s Willa’s presence, which turns out to have a surprisingly calming effect on me not unlike Bellamy’s, or if it’s because this is her thing. Next to Willa in her pink dress, I’m practically invisible.

Of course, the moment I think this, Angie’s gaze snaps to me. Her blatant perusal makes me want to take Willa by the hand and bolt for the nearest exit. But we’re still holding the boxes of cookies.

“Oh, hello,” she says. “I’m Angie Solomon. Have we met?”

“No.”

“Angie, this is Archer. He’s here with me.”

A succinct but vague answer. I like it.

“People are really excited to see you,” Angie says, clapping her hands. I noticed her fingernails are painted to match the decor. “You have no idea.”

Willa shifts, suddenly looking unsure. “People? People like who?”

Angie rolls her eyes. The motion is so exaggerated that I’m honestly surprised her eyelashes, which appear to be glued on and slightly crooked, stay in place. “People from high school, silly. A lot of us still keep in touch, but you don’t ever hang out with us!”

Willa’s unsure ratchets up to a definitely sure she doesn’t want to be here. “Actually, I…”

Someone calls Angie’s name, and she spins away in a cloud of too-sweet perfume, leaving us standing on the patio under a turquoise and silver balloon arch, still holding boxes of cookies. Willa turns, her blue eyes wide and panicked.

Just like when we were in the grocery store, I find myself overcome with an urge to protect her that’s nearly impossible to ignore.

“What is it?” I ask.

“There’s someone specific Angie might have invited. Someone I definitely don’t want to see again.”

My grip on the box tightens, and I force myself to relax so I don’t crush the cookies. “Who? What did they do? Were you bullied?”

“Nothing like that. Simmer down. But we do need to go.”

“Where should we put the cookies?” I ask.

“Great question.” Willa’s head whips back and forth, looking for any available space.

“I’ll trade you.” The man with the beer and the baby steps up and somehow manages to hand Willa the child and take both boxes of cookies without spilling his beer. I’m impressed, and he’s pretty pleased with himself before he disappears with the cookies inside the house.

Leaving me and Willa … and a baby.

“Hello, you,” Willa says.

There’s an unexpected tug inside my chest as I watch Willa soften. She readjusts the baby against her chest until they’re almost nose to nose. I’m glad she knows how to hold him—or her?—because I certainly wouldn’t if someone thrust a baby at me.

“I don’t even know your name,” Willa says, and the child laughs, revealing a toothless grin. “Or how old you are. Three months? Four?”

The baby gurgles up at her, delighted, then flails tiny fists until he or she has snagged Willa’s hair.

She winces, leaning forward as the baby tugs. “Ouch! Oh my, that’s quite a grip. A little help, boss?”

“I, uh …” I don’t know the first thing about babies. I can’t recall the last time I was this close to one. Maybe never.

The baby yanks hard, and Willa cries out. Immediately, I step closer, gently prying tiny fingers one by one from Willa’s hair.

“Hair pulling isn’t polite,” I say in my softest, most reasonable tone. “You can have my fingers, though.”

It’s really a concession, considering the baby already has my fingers in a tight grip, which leaves me practically draped over Willa. I don’t mind. The baby clasping my fingers or being this close to Willa.

“Baby likes you,” Willa says.

“Does s…he?”

If I sound dubious, it’s because I am. The wide eyes focused on me appear to be about two seconds from tears. In fact, when the baby blinks, a wet sheen forms and its lip trembles. Panic clutches at my chest. “Hey, now. None of that,” I say in just above a whisper. “Crying isn’t allowed at birthday parties.”

Or, it shouldn’t be. I distinctly remember crying at one of my own after overhearing a conversation between two older ladies who were discussing my mother’s absence.

“So sad,” one of the women had said, sipping from the drink in her hand. I remember the blood-red mark of her lips left on the rim of the glass. “His mother must really have hated him to completely abandon them both.”

After years of the words slinking like shadows through my mind, I realized the him might have referred to my father, not me. That’s more likely.

Because as I stare down at this baby, I know this for certain: I could never do the same.

Even when he or she crams one fist—still holding my finger, straight into its mouth.

“I hope you washed your hands today,” Willa says.

“At least twice.”

She grins up at me, but as our eyes meet, the smile slowly fades into a softer, more serious expression. Tender.

“You seem to have a way with babies,” she says, her voice a little shaky.

I shake my head, not letting my gaze leave hers for a moment. “This is the first.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. Not many babies in my world. But I rather like this one. Though if he or she had teeth, I might feel differently.” The baby is gnawing at its own hand, and I’m grateful my finger is protected in its fist, though I’m not safe from drool.

“Willa! Oh, thank heavens,” Angie appears, having flung the sliding door right off its track. “I thought Jeff lost Baba.”

“Baba?” Willa says.

“The baby you’re holding, silly. Bring her inside.”

Willa and I exchange a look as we move toward the house, stepping awkwardly since the baby is still in her arms but not releasing my hands.

“I hope that’s a nickname,” Willa whispers, leaning close to the baby and nuzzling her cheek. “Because you’re going to have a long, hard road ahead of you if not.”

Inside, Angie manages to disentangle us both from the baby—whose name really better not be Baba—and then disappears back outside.

The kitchen looks newly renovated and still smells of fresh paint. We’re totally alone. But now that I realize how loud it was in the backyard, the quiet is refreshing.

“She was supposed to pay me, but …” Willa hesitates, glancing toward the sliding door, which Angie must have gotten back on its track. Willa looks just as eager to go back outside as I feel. “Let’s just go.”

I hate the idea of Willa not getting paid. But when she grabs my hand, I’m the one forgetting. Because I like the feel of her palm sliding into mine. Her skin is warm and soft, and though this smacks of desperation to get out of here for fear of running into whomever she doesn’t want to see from her past, for me, it’s something else entirely.

To the point where I almost feel a little guilty enjoying it so much when Willa is clearly panicked about whomever she doesn’t want to see.

We’re almost to the front door when it swings open. The couple entering is looking at each other, not us, but I immediately recognize them from the grocery store.

Clearly, Willa’s ex and his fiancée are the ones she was hoping to avoid.

Willa yanks me to the left. We stumble through a door, and she quickly slams it behind us. We’re in a dim and very cramped half-bathroom. I know this because my hip is jammed right up against the pedestal sink. Willa is still holding my hand—crushing it in hers, really—and she takes her other and slaps it over my mouth.

“Shh,” she whispers.

I wasn’t going to say anything, but I don’t argue or pull away. We’re pressed together, almost as close as we were the night we were trying to escape the opossum. And just like that night, the air between us feels weighty and electric, like something is building, a storm gaining strength.

Voices pass outside the door, and without thinking, I reach behind me and flip the lock. Just in time, too, as the door handle rattles. Then there’s a knock.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice calls.

“Occupied!” Willa calls in a high falsetto that makes me snort.

Her eyes go right to mine, and she grins as the voices move away. There’s a loud, happy scream that sounds like Angie before there’s a thud like the sliding glass door shutting and then quiet.

A beat passes. Then two. Willa relaxes and starts to drop her hand away from my mouth.

I’m not sure what possesses me because I’ve never been … possessed . I grab Willa’s wrist, keeping her hand in place against my lips.

I don’t know what I’m doing. But that doesn’t stop me from doing it.

My breath is suddenly trapped behind my ribs. If I have any breath at all. And I’m not sure I do.

Willa’s eyes are so blue. I don’t think I’ve seen a sky that compares. Even as her pupils expand, ink bleeding over a page until there’s only the smallest ring of navy at the edge.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“I don’t know.”

With every syllable my lips brush against her hand, a sweet sigh of a touch. Have I ever been so delicate with anyone? Have I ever wanted to be?

“I want…” I start but can’t verbalize what I want.

Or maybe want is too small a word for the huge, strange things I’m feeling. Or maybe this room is too small to contain it.

I’m grateful for the tiny space, though, the uncomfortable ridge of the sink pressing into my hip, anchoring me firmly in the tactile reality of the moment. It sharpens my senses into blades as I hear the short gusts of Willa’s breaths, feel the rise and fall of her torso against mine, see the wonder and surprise in her face, an expression sliding heavily into desire. A mirror of my own face, I’m sure.

The moment is so poignant, it’s almost painful.

Before it slips away, as moments always do, I kiss Willa’s palm. Soft, slow, a lingering press.

Her gasp is quick and soft. Lids dropping low, her gaze tracks the movement of my lips as I lower her hand, guiding it to my waist. Her fingers clutch at my shirt, tugging me as though we’re not close enough. She’d have to climb into my skin to be closer, but I understand the desperation because it’s humming underneath my skin, a buzz in my blood growing harder to ignore.

I’m cupping her cheek without knowing how my hand got there. She nuzzles into me, eyes fluttering closed, her lashes resting on the apples of her cheeks. I want to count each eyelash, to study her delicate features until I could conjure up a completely flawless memory of her.

I think I?—

“Yes,” Willa whispers, surging forward a little until the door is against my back. Her eyes are open again, on my mouth again, still ink ringed in blue.

“What?” The question comes out strangled, almost a groan.

“You didn’t ask, but I’m telling you yes—you can kiss me.”

I don’t wait for another invitation.

Kissing Willa feels like the bravest thing I’ve ever done. The bravest … and also the most dangerous. I’ve counted no costs, run no risk analysis. Zero projections for long-term success.

The only thought in my head as my mouth moves hungrily against hers is Why did I wait so long?

Not as in, so long since we’ve been in this bathroom, but why—and how—did I wait so long in my adult life, how did I live without this kiss?

Without Willa?

The thought is a pulse, driving my hand from her cheek to the back of her neck. She makes a little sound when my fingers reach into her hair. Not a whimper, not a moan. A new sound, uncategorized by labels and definitions. An elusive, rare new species I’ll name and keep completely to myself.

Her lips are soft against mine, her mouth sweet but not easy . She kisses me like we’re arguing again. A back-and-forth that builds the energy between us as her hand yanks my shirt right out of my pants until her fingertips rest on the skin just below my ribs. They don’t move or explore, but claim only this space as though, for now, she’s satisfied with these few inches of me.

“Willa,” I groan, sliding my other hand up her spine, the fabric of her pink dress silky against my palm.

“What are we doing?” she asks, punctuating the question with a fierce kiss on the corner of my mouth as her teeth skim my bottom lip. “You don’t even like me.”

I freeze. Muscles locking and breath caught and held.

Willa tenses against me, pulling back to stare up at me. My hands drop to her shoulders, squeezing once. Then again.

“You think … I don’t like you?”

“Do you?” There’s so much vulnerability in her question, so much raw emotion, fear twining with the glow of hope.

I gently massage her shoulders, strong but so small underneath my palms. “Willa, yes. You are …”

I search for words. I wish I had the exact ones to explain the way I’m so impressed by her. Enamored. Her bravery in wanting to help me after I’ve been so snappish with her. The skill of her creativity and her ability to make sugar into actual art. Her humor and kindness.

“You are so Willa—as in Willa . Not Willow.”

It takes a moment for this phrase, an echo of our conversation the night we met, to click. She grins, fast and bright.

Her cheeks are flushed, and I’m not sure if it’s from the kissing or the trapped heat in the room or my words. A flash of my own vulnerability pulses through me—does she like me? And why?

I’ve been horrible to her on several occasions. From the night we met—I shove away the uncomfortable reminder that she still hasn’t told me the truth about how she got into my closet—to deciding she needed to pay rent for using the kitchen. Sure—I took it back. But the damage was done from doing it in the first place.

Guilt slices through me. I’ll fix the rent issue later. And pay her for the cookies today if Angie doesn’t.

There’s a bang outside the door, making us both jump—the sliding glass door again. Voices in the kitchen. Laughter and then a male voice saying, “The bathroom’s in the front hall.”

“Uh-oh.” Willa takes a step back, but she’s smiling as she pulls her hand out from where it’s been burrowed inside my shirt. “Sorry I wrinkled your shirt. Can I iron it for you later?”

“Absolutely not.”

She narrows her eyes as footsteps approach. “Why? Is that not in the list of tasks for me? Or are you going to fire me now that we’re … whatever this is?”

I lean forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against her lips that makes me want to start all over again. “It’s not that,” I whisper, kissing her cheek, then her jaw, ignoring whoever is now jiggling the door handle. “It’s that I don’t trust you with a hot iron.”

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