Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Willa
“Well, isn’t this cozy?”
At the sound of Bellamy’s voice, Archer and I jerk apart. We are teenagers making out in a basement, caught mid-kiss by a snooping parent. Only in this case, we’re two grown adults who should be working but instead have been making out in his kitchen.
Story of my life this last week since the birthday party. Not the getting caught part so much as the kissing part. Like, a record-breaking amount of kissing, if there’s anyone who tracks this kind of thing. Someone call Guinness!
No complaints here. I never knew kissing could be so great either.
Guess I was never kissing the right person.
With Archer being eight years older, I wondered at first if things between us might move at a faster pace or be more … I don’t know, serious? Like dating him would be the equivalent of taking a stuffy PhD lecture rather than an intro class taught by the fun professor who comes to campus wearing jeans and wants to know how your weekend was.
I mean, Archer is a fairly intense, serious dude, in addition to being older. I assumed maybe after a day or two, he might initiate some kind of sit-down DTR with a lawyer present.
But things between us have felt light and fresh. Fun. Archer is playful with me. Who knew the man had a playful setting?
As illustrated by my current position seated on the kitchen counter while Bellamy is smiling smugly at us. As though this is exactly how he thought he’d find us when he finally returned from his extended stay in the city.
I quickly hop down and tug at the hem of my dress, which was riding up just a little above my knees. I already miss the cool marble against my skin and the insistent press of Archer’s fingertips on my thighs.
The counter would definitely offer some relief to my flaming hot face right now.
“Welcome back, Alfred!” I give Bellamy an impromptu hug.
Bellamy, as it turns out, is a hugger. He squeezes me tightly, laughing. “Good to see you again, little baker. I hope you have some cookies waiting for me.”
When he releases me, I turn and find the box on the countertop. “Archer ate the first order, but I made you another.”
“Excellent.” Bellamy wastes no time, flipping open the box and taking a bite. “Mmm. I missed these.”
“You didn’t say you missed me,” Archer says.
“No,” Bellamy says with a smile and a mouthful of cookie. “I certainly didn’t.”
I turn back to Archer, then hesitate. Other than Sophie on the rooftop last night, we haven’t yet tried on our relationship in front of other people in our lives. Assumed relationship. I mean, it’s as shippy as any relationship I’ve had. Definitely leagues beyond anything I’ve had since Trey. We’re definitely dating : a few romantic dinners, strolling through downtown hand in hand, oh—and he tried to make me go running with him, which gave me a good laugh. But it’s been very isolated, a little bubble of happiness.
I’m not sure how Archer wants to play this in front of Bellamy.
Whatever. He already saw us making out. No reason to avoid touching Archer in front of him now.
I fold myself into him, pressing against his side. His arm curves around my shoulders, and I sink into his chest with a sigh. I don’t know how expensive his suits are or what they’re made of, but the fabric is so soft. I’d like to smuggle out one of his jackets and have someone sew it into a pillow for me.
Archer presses a quick kiss against my forehead, then glares at Bellamy. “Don’t you say a word.”
Bellamy’s smile is huge. “What ever would I say? Can I at least offer a congratulations?”
“Yes. And thank you,” Archer says.
“Also: I saw this coming.”
“That,” Archer says, pointing a finger at Bellamy. “That’s the kind of thing I meant.”
“Oops.” Bellamy gives a casual shrug, still grinning like a scoundrel. “I guess it’s true what they say: While the cat’s away…”
“Bell.” Archer’s plea is almost a groan, and Bellamy holds up both hands.
“Fine. We’ll pretend this is all very casual. No different than the first night we all met in this very room,” Bellamy says.
A sharp prickle of discomfort snakes its way up my spine at the thought. Because I don’t want to think or talk about that night. I’ve been conveniently forgetting about my magical closet, and it’s been acting on its best, normal closet behavior. I’d like to keep it that way.
Despite how things have been with Archer, telling him I’ve been magically transported not once, but two times into his apartment is a test I’m not ready to take yet.
Later. We can talk about my magical closet later. Or maybe never.
“Well, I should get back to work after my … break.” I pull away, backing toward the office. Truth be told, I’m not getting back to work. I never started.
Because the moment I walked in the door, Archer was on me, lifting me up onto the counter with his mouth on mine. A ripple of happiness moves through me, and I bite back a smile.
“Maybe the three of us could catch up over dinner,” Bellamy says. “Any plans?”
“Actually …” I glance at Archer, who shifts and clears his throat.
“We’re having dinner at Willa’s parents’ house,” he says.
Bellamy’s eyes widen, and so does his smile. “Meeting the parents already? Wow. I missed a lot.”
“No, no, no—not like that,” I say, though it really is at least a little like that. I can’t read Archer’s expression, but I’m hoping this doesn’t feel like too much. “My dad called yesterday, and Archer happened to answer my phone, and one thing led to another, and … yeah. You should come!” I say to Bellamy quickly.
This is a bad idea, mostly because I think my dad would have way too much fun with Bellamy. I suspect the two of them would give Archer and me both a ridiculously hard time—and fully relish every moment of doing so.
“Oh, no,” Bellamy says, starting in on his third—fourth?—cookie. “I couldn’t. But I can’t wait to hear how it goes.”
I disappear into the office, giving Archer a last look before closing the door and leaving them to discuss whatever important business things have been stressing Archer out this week.
Underneath all the sweet, happy, kissy times, I’ve detected an undercurrent of something heavier with him. Tension triggered whenever Bellamy calls, or whenever Archer gets a call he refuses to answer. New York area codes. No names saved in his phone. Extra frowny frown as he stares at the screen before sending it to voicemail.
I’m not sure if this is normal or if it’s related to the things with his father or what. Once, the name of a lawyer’s office flashed across the screen, so my guess is at least some of it relates to that. I know the appeal trial is impending, but he hasn’t mentioned it. Or if he plans to go.
His father is one area he’s carefully skirted around in our conversations.
In between the slow lazy minutes or hours we were making out like teenagers, Archer and I talk. Silly things like ice cream flavors (I love any chocolate; Archer rarely eats ice cream because he’s a monster and when he does, it’s raspberry sorbet which I argue doesn’t actually count because it’s sorbet) and pet preferences (I love all animals but don’t feel responsible enough to feed them; Archer likes few animals but would take a cat because of their cleanliness and independence). More serious things like his struggle with reading social or interpersonal cues, my barely surviving business, and going a little deeper into our past relationship failures.
Turns out, we share the common theme of having not emotionally connected with people we’ve dated. And I swear, when our eyes met during that discussion, we shared a sense of knowing this was different.
Because it is.
Archer is a juxtaposition of unexpected parts somehow fitting together seamlessly. He’s measured and possesses more careful control than I have in my entire genetic makeup. And yet he kisses me with an unbridled fervor that holds nothing back.
I can still sense the restraint in him, still sense how careful he is with me. Not because he thinks I’m breakable, but more like I’m some precious commodity. He cherishes me, but I also feel like he wants to consume me.
The restraint also extends to himself. I know there are things he’s holding back. Not hiding , per se, but more like he’s cautiously extending a little more of himself every day. Testing the boundaries.
It makes me sad, because this feels like the actions of a man who, when he’s made himself vulnerable in the past, was punished for it. Or, at the least, unappreciated.
Archer’s natural resting state may still be serious and at least a little grumpy, but I’ve also heard his booming laughter and witnessed boyish—even roguish—smiles. I keep squinting at him when he’s not looking—on the phone or frowning down at paperwork or something on his laptop—trying to see the jagged edges of where all the pieces of this simple yet complicated man fit together.
And I think I could keep doing so forever.
“Why are you nervous?” I ask, glancing away from the road for a moment at the tense man seated next to me.
“Who says I’m nervous?”
“Your hands look like they’re about to shatter the wine bottle.”
At this, Archer clears his throat and loosens his grip—just the slightest bit—on the wine he’s bringing my parents. We’re on the way to their house for dinner, and Archer looks like a pressure cooker about to blow its lid and take out half a kitchen.
“Hey, that reminds me—you haven’t been eating your ginger mints. I haven’t seen you pull them out in days. Chewing those disgusting things seemed like your destressing go-to.”
Archer’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t like them. I didn’t want to taste like—what did you call them, spicy dirt?—when we were kissing.”
I wish I weren’t driving so I could give him a hug. A tiny, but very thoughtful gesture. “That’s really sweet.”
“I also haven’t felt as stressed lately.” When I glance over, he’s smiling. “For some reason.”
Even sweeter. Though not entirely true. Unless … unless the tension he’s tried to keep a lid on this week would have been worse without me. I don’t like that thought.
“Seriously, though. You’ve got nothing to worry about. My parents are easy. And I’m sure you’ve met the parents of someone you’re dating before.”
“A few times.”
I’m speared with an irrational jealousy over these past girlfriends whose parents— multiple parents—he’s met.
It’s tear out someone’s hair level jealousy.
“Were you nervous then?” I force myself to sound like a normal human and not a homicidal maniac stifling the desire to stab all of Archer’s exes.
“No.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “What makes this different? Or why are you nervous now?”
“Because before, I knew their parents wanted to meet me because they thought I could give them something. Money, clout, social standing.”
“Well, that’s plain horrible.”
“Yes.” He pauses, and I can hear the hesitation in his voice.
“But?”
“At least in that context, I know what to expect. I have something to offer. With your parents …” He shrugs. “I don’t know how to impress them.”
I reach over and squeeze his hand, turning to face him as I stop at a red light. “It’s not about impressing them.”
When his gray-blue eyes meet mine, they’re stormier than usual, with a vulnerability that makes me ache. “I want them to approve. I want them to like me. I don’t know how to make them do that.”
“You don’t need to make them like you. You don’t need to make anyone like you. It’s not something you can force. Just be yourself, and I promise, they’ll see you and like you. My parents already like you because I’ve told them so much.”
Maybe too much. I think they’re honestly equal parts excited and scared. They’re thrilled because I sound happy, and it’s been so long since I’ve talked to them about any guy. If Mom and Dad are a little hesitant, it’s because of how much I had to say and how quickly things have been moving.
“You don’t think this is all progressing a little fast?” Mom had asked, her voice hesitant.
Honestly, no. I can’t put it into words yet, but with Archer, I want to jam my foot on the gas. I’m ready to end the test drive and take this puppy out on the Autobahn, full speed.
Sure, there are a few things to work out. Like … the fact that I haven’t told him about my agoraphobia. Or the way I’m hoping against hope he never brings up the night we met and how I got into his apartment.
I also don’t know if his long-term plans involve me. Or going back to New York, which would obviously pose a problem for me.
Then there’s the little matter of his sweeping changes to The Serendipity and how Archer has basically served me an eviction notice.
So, yeah—we’ve still got some things to discuss.
See, Mom? We’re not moving that fast.
“What if you’ve given them expectations that are too high?” Archer asks. “What if they’re disappointed?”
He looks so miserable, I want to cup his face in my hands and kiss him until he’s too distracted to worry. Too bad I’m driving. Or maybe it’s a good thing, as otherwise, we’d be very late.
“They’ll love you, boss.”
“But how do you know? ”
“I just know.” My voice is fierce. “I know they’ll love you because I ?—”
The word cuts off, lodged in my throat as I realize what I almost said.
Love . I almost said love.
I’m sure it almost slipped out because I just said love when talking about my parents liking him. Love, as in I love cold pizza for breakfast and the very first sip of coffee in the morning.
Even if I had said I love you , it wouldn’t have been that kind of love. The big one.
I mean, I like Archer. I don’t love him. It’s way too early for that. Isn’t it?
“They’ll like you because I like you,” I say quickly, trying to distract myself from a little too much self-reflection. “And because you are a wonderful man. All they want for me is someone kind and good. You are both those things.”
And I’m right, of course. They do love Archer.
I had a momentary hot flash of panic when we first walked inside the house. I saw Archer standing in his very expensive suit against the backdrop of my parents’ very normal, very middle-class home. Framed family pictures that all need dusting, some of the photos slightly out of focus. A house plant clearly no one has remembered to water based on the leaves it’s shed all over the floor.
Has the rug in this front hallway always been so worn and faded?
Before I could start hyperventilating, Archer stepped forward, right into the center of the definitely-needs-to-be-replaced rug and smiled at my parents. The big, wide smile I never would have imagined him capable of when I first met him but looks so dang good on his handsome face.
Issue the man a ticket for public disturbance good.
“I’m Archer Gaines, and I’m going to pretend I’m not nervous to meet you even though I want to run right back out the front door.”
With that adorably honest statement, he handed my dad the bottle of wine, let my mom give him a hug, and basically won my entire heart.
It only got worse from there. Worse, as in, losing all chance at protecting myself against tumbling Jack-and-Jill style down a steep hill for this man.
I tried to stop Dad from dragging Archer to the basement but couldn’t. And when I was no longer physically able to keep myself upstairs, I crept down to find Archer wearing Dad’s Optivisor, the two of them bent over a piece of track, discussing train stuff.
Archer glanced up at me, his eyes distorted and swimming through the magnifier, and I wondered what was wrong with me that seeing him like that made me want to yank him into the nearest closet to steam up the lenses of the Optivisor.
During dinner, Archer is charming and polite, if not a little quiet. My parents do enough talking for him and me both. I play referee—issuing penalties and yellow cards for any too-nosy questions and kicking Mom under the table whenever she and Dad get a little lovey-dovey. I’m not sure I stop smiling the whole time, even when I’m chewing.
Angel hair pasta wasn’t necessarily the best choice for a meeting-the-parents dinner, as all four of us end up with tiny splatters of tomato sauce on our cheeks and chins. Archer’s going to need to dry clean his shirt. Or is he the type to just throw away dirty clothes rather than trying to get a stain out? Another fun fact I need to learn.
It’s not until we’re all sopping up the extra sauce with garlic bread that my dad commits a personal foul. “So, Archer. What’s it like to be a billionaire?”
I choke.
Not legitimately—though needing someone to give me the Heimlich might have saved Archer from having to answer the question. But enough bread goes down the wrong way that I need a long gulp of water. Too bad I don’t have time for such trivial things now.
“Dad!” I scold through hacking coughs, my eyes watering. “You can’t just say things like that!”
I glare at him, but he just smiles his gap-toothed smile, which makes it hard to stay angry with him. “What? It’s not rude if it’s a google-able fact.”
Archer passes me my water, squeezing my arm and giving me the kind of pure male look that says, Step aside, little lady. I can handle this.
“I wouldn’t know what it’s like not to be a billionaire,” Archer says simply. “And though money certainly makes a lot of things easy that might otherwise be hard, I wouldn’t say I had an ideal childhood, by any means.”
I reach over and squeeze his hand under the table. He squeezes right back.
“I’m sure you might have other questions if you actually did search for my name or my family name.” Archer leans back in his chair, still keeping our fingers linked. “I’m happy to answer any questions you might have.”
“Within reason.” I shoot my parents warning glances, which they ignore.
“Or un reasonable,” Archer says firmly.
My parents keep it reasonable. Mostly. They ask about his relationship with his father, before and after his arrest. I can see both Mom and Dad getting fired up and protective when they pick up on how lacking in any paternal instincts Archer’s dad is. Archer skates over the subject of the mother he never knew and doesn’t mention the fact that he’ll have to testify at his father’s trial. I think my mom might have pulled out a pitchfork and marched straight to New York if he had.
They ask about The Serendipity, and Archer uses this as an excuse to talk me up and how I solved simple problems that stumped him. Only when Dad asks if there are any big plans for the building is there any hesitation on Archer’s part.
Immediately, my radar goes off. I haven’t moved to stage two yet, suggesting that Archer pull back on—or set fire to—the rent hike and pet policy. His guilty expression has me wondering if Archer has some bigger picture I haven’t even thought about yet. I guess it won’t matter if I’m no longer a resident, though I have developed sentimental feelings about The Serendipity.
Will Archer actually stick with his plan to raise the rent if he knows it means I’ll have to find a new place to live?
I’d like to think no, but then I also don’t want him to make exceptions just for me. It’s easier to think about him doing it for the good of the whole building. Not, like, a personal favor for his girlfriend.
But also—maybe living in a building owned by your boyfriend while also working for him is a complication we’d do better without.
I’m both relieved and suddenly fearful when the phone rings, interrupting Mom’s latest question about Archer’s education.
“Dad,” I warn, but he’s already up and out of his seat, lunging for the phone.
“What’s wrong?” Archer asks.
“Nothing, really. I just hoped you might not have to witness this.”
But the call is short, with Dad only asking two questions before the salesperson on the other end of the line reads the vibe and disconnects the call.
Grumbling, Dad returns to the table. “I like to have a little fun with the telemarketers,” he explains.
“He looks forward to this all day,” Mom says proudly, the way you’d talk about someone winning a distinguished work award.
“You know how they are—always calling at dinner,” Dad says.
Archer looks fascinated and slightly confused. “I don’t know, actually.”
Apparently, telemarketers fall under the umbrella of things like juice boxes that Archer’s never experienced. So when the next call comes, right after Mom and Dad explained how this works while I tried to remember why I thought bringing Archer to dinner was a good idea, both Dad and Archer jump up.
“No,” I whisper, as Mom cackles.
Dad and Archer debate who’s going to answer. The phone in our kitchen is so old, it doesn’t have a speakerphone option. It’s so ancient they should really charge tickets or make it an elementary school field trip destination to see an artifact from another time. Dad finally steps back, pointing to Archer and then the phone.
“Have at it,” Dad says.
Archer runs his hands down the thighs of his trousers and clears his throat twice. At this rate, he’s going to miss the call completely.
“Hello,” he says, and I wonder how it’s possible that this man looks hot even with a mustard-yellow relic of a phone held to his face. It brings out the square in his jaw.
“Don’t say the word yes !” Dad hisses. “They sometimes record it and then use it as consent for other things!”
But the warning must freak Archer out because he immediately starts saying the very word. “Ye-men. Sorry. No. I used to live in … Yemen.”
I’m laughing so hard that it makes no sound, silent tears leaking from my cheeks. Mom has a hand over her heart, and Dad’s nodding emphatically.
“Sorry. That was irrelevant information. Please continue. I am very interested in hearing about your funding needs and how I might be able to contribute.”
Dad claps a hand over Archer’s back and stands only an inch away from him, leaning in so he can hear what the guy is saying on the other end of the line.
Mom sighs. “I think you’ve found a good one,” she says. “Definitely better than Trey.”
“No contest,” I agree, and I can’t help but hope, as I watch Archer carry on a stilted conversation with a telemarketer, that he’ll respond differently than Trey did when I finally confess that I’m currently trapped in Serendipity Springs indefinitely.