Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
OWEN
Francie
Josh’s sisters are insisting on throwing us an engagement party. First Saturday in June. You’re coming
Owen
Is that an invite or an order?
Francie
The only question is, do you want a plus one?
My immediate instinct is to say yes. I want nothing more than to introduce Wyatt to Francie. I have no doubt they’d get along famously; they’d probably instantly team up against me in a festival of playful taunts the likes of which the world has never seen.
There’s also the fact that now that I’ve convinced her to be with me—even if it’s in some messy, inscrutable way—I want her by my side as much as possible.
But I also know that what Wyatt and I have is tenuous at best. I’ve had to coax her to me like a stray cat, and any sudden movement could scare her off. That’s precisely why I sent her home by herself this morning. The prospect of curling up around her in my bed, listening to her gentle breaths and feeling her relax, really relax, into me was like a siren’s call. But I knew it would be too much. Wyatt needs to establish distance, even if every part of me wants to obliterate it.
So extending an invite to my ex-girlfriend-turned-best-friend’s engagement party five weeks from now is probably not the move with Wyatt Hart.
And yet …
Owen
Yes
Francie
Seriously?
Don’t bring a rando app date or a call girl to my engagement party
Owen
I’m offended, Frank
Francie
You will tell me everything about this girl, Owen McBride
But later. We’re doing dinner with my parents and Josh’s parents, and I have to steel myself for nonstop hint-dropping about grandkids
Owen
You can’t fault them for loving you so much they want you to make copies
Francie
Save the charm for your mystery girl
Owen
I’ve got plenty of charm to go around
Francie
LORD
Half an hour later I’ve confirmed that Felix is spending the evening in Bloomington with Margo, his latest short-term girlfriend. I’m putting the finishing touches on a charcuterie board and uncorking a nice-but-not-too-nice bottle of red.
A spring storm has blown in, the rain pounding the roof in sheets so loudly that I barely hear the knock at the door. I mentally curse Felix for once again ignoring my pleas to fix the doorbell.
Wyatt is standing on my doorstep in her usual uniform of jeans and combat boots and a deconstructed T-shirt. This one is baby blue and advertises the Deluxe Town Diner in red, a little cartoon coffee cup below it with a speech bubble reading, “ life is brew-tiful .” It’s been cut up the sides and crosswise into strips, which are tied together to make the shirt fit her narrow torso like a second skin. The sleeves have been cut off and the neckline cut into a dangerous deep V that displays the top of her tattoos.
Tattoos I’m still dying to see.
There’s so much of Wyatt Hart that I’m dying to see.
And so much I worry she’ll never show me.
The whole tableau is only made more delicious by the fact that she braved the pouring rain to get to my doorstep. Her thick dripping curls are pasted to her cheeks and forehead, her shirt clings to her body, and her jeans are blooming with dark wet spots down her thighs.
A bolt of lightening flashes behind her.
“Wow, that really came out of nowhere, huh?” I peer at the dark clouds over her shoulder.
“I’ve been thinking that since last night, Doc,” she replies with a wink.
“Get in here, you.” I grab her wrist and tug, pulling her into my arms. I rest my chin on her head and enjoy the feeling of her arms wrapping around my waist.
She doesn’t squeeze, though, doesn’t pull me close to her. I’m starting to recognize the distance Wyatt always leaves herself. She’s careful.
So am I.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her, and when she doesn’t say anything, I add, “Are you glad you’re here?”
She glances up at me, that wicked gleam in her eye I’m starting to know so well.
“That remains to be seen. You mentioned food?”
I release her and lead her through the house by the hand, pointing out all Felix’s unfinished projects as we make our way to the kitchen. Now that she’s here, I don’t want to let her go. Having her hand in mine feels like snapping the last piece into a puzzle I’ve been working on for months.
“I promised to feed you, and I always deliver,” I say when we get to the kitchen island. The large cutting board Felix made in high school shop is covered in a swirling selection of salami and prosciutto, Gruyère and Brie, raspberries and dried apricots, wasabi peas, almonds, dark chocolate–covered golden raisins, and a selection of crackers. A warm, crusty baguette sits atop a dish towel, ready to be torn to yeasty bits.
“Where did you get this?” she asks as she circles the board like a lion circling her prey.
“I made it. I know your penchant for snacks, so this is, you know, grown-up snacks. Well, mostly.”
And then she dives straight for the center of the board.
“Circus Peanuts!” she cries, holding up a candy.
“They were out at the grocery store. I can only assume you bought all of them, because I refuse to believe anyone else eats those things. I had to drive to four different gas stations before I found these, and I can’t promise they’re not twenty to thirty years old.”
She plucks one off the board. “That’s okay. They’re good when they’re a little stale.”
She holds it up between her thumb and forefinger, then sinks her teeth into the neon-orange marshmallow, and shit, she makes it look delicious. She looks delicious, even eating an unholy lump of sugar, food dye, and artificial flavoring.
I watch her in wonder as she chews and swallows, still not believing that she’s here. The taste of her is still so vivid on my lips from last night.
“Oh, I forgot. I brought something,” she says, then digs into the worn leather tote bag still hanging over her shoulder. She drags out a heavy can and thunks it onto the bar. It takes me a few seconds to get it.
Pineapple.
“I figured it was on theme,” she says with a grin.
I roll my eyes and reach for the wine bottle, pouring two glasses and passing one to her. Then I raise mine. “To pineapple,” I say, and instead of clinking my glass, she clinks the can.
“To pineapple.”
And then the words just fall right out of my mouth, all thoughts of taking it slow and not scaring her gone. “Do you want to go with me to my friend Francie’s engagement party?”
I immediately cringe. I couldn’t have let her have a glass of wine first? Some food? Maybe coaxed her through four or five orgasms? I couldn’t have waited a day ?
But the truth is, this woman makes me lose all self-restraint and discipline. Any notion of being thoughtful or delicate? Just gone .
I’m gone.
For her.
Shit.
Wyatt swallows hard. “Francie your ex-girlfriend who’s now your best friend?”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes narrow. “When?”
Well, I opened the can—might as well shake out the worms. “First weekend in June.”
She sets her wineglass down on the counter to another rumble of thunder.
“Owen, we need to talk about what this is.”
My heart starts to thud like I’ve got my own thunderstorm in the center of my chest.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Not that. Not me being your date to your ex-girlfriend’s engagement party five weeks from now.”
The thunderstorm blows from my chest into my brain, my thoughts flashing like lightning as I work to save this moment.
“Which part bothers you? The fact that Francie and I used to date? That I asked you to go? Or that it’s five weeks from now?”
“I…well…” Her nose scrunches, her eyebrows furrowing as she fumbles for an answer. “Yes?”
The hesitation, the questioning lift of her voice, shows me that I haven’t scared her off. Not yet. Because Wyatt Hart is nothing if not stubborn. If she didn’t want to do this with me, she wouldn’t still be standing here. She wouldn’t have come in the first place. We just need to get on the same page.
“First of all, I didn’t ask you to be my date. I asked you to go with me. It’s going to be fun, I don’t want to go alone, and I think you’d like Francie. I want to take you even if I never manage to get you into bed,” I tell her, and the tension in her brow begins to ease. “I meant it when I said I don’t need this to be a relationship. I want to be around you. I want to receive your weird non sequitur texts. I want to flirt with you shamelessly even if it never comes to anything.
“I don’t want to trick you, Wyatt, or make you guess. We can decide what we want this to be. Right now. You can tell me the rules. Tell me what you want to call it. All I want is you.”
She nibbles at her lip, but the tension in her brow doesn’t return. “What if I can’t…”
“Whatever you have to give me, Wyatt, I’ll take it.”
She inhales, holds the breath for a moment before she blows it out with a little nod.
“Okay,” she says, then again, more sure. “Okay. Then we need an agreement.”
I nod. “Okay, let’s talk terms.”
“No labels,” she says.
“Agree.”
“No commitments,” she says.
“Okay.”
She pauses, then adds, “No flowers.”
I scoff. “Seriously?”
She gives me a stern look. “That’s boyfriend shit. I was serious, Owen—flowers make me sneeze. I’m allergic to boyfriends.”
I shake my head and let out a little chuckle, but I agree. “No flowers,” I say, and she appears satisfied. She reaches for another Circus Peanut, but I’m not done. “I have one condition too.”
She glances up, waiting.
“Nobody else.”
She frowns. “That sounds an awful lot like a commitment.”
I shrug. “I told you, Wyatt. I don’t share. If you’re with me, I don’t want you to be with anybody else.”
“Okay, but?—”
“You need an escape hatch. I get that. You’re not tied to me. If you want to be done, or you want a break, or you want to change the terms, you just talk to me. I won’t fight you. If you want out, I’ll let you go. We’ll both walk away. I promise.” I place my hands firmly on the counter, leaning across the island. “But I’m serious. I. Don’t. Share.”
She breathes out a little hmmm that makes my cock stir.
“Okay, then let’s make it official.” She reaches for the cup on the counter that’s filled with pencils and pens. She finds a black Sharpie and uncaps it with her teeth, then reaches for the can of pineapple. She scribbles on the top, then pushes it across the island to me. In her crooked handwriting, it says:
No labels
No commitments
No flowers
Nobody else
And beneath it, her messy signature.
“Sign it,” she says, and I do. Then she takes the pen back and adds a note at the bottom. When she spins it back toward me, I see the title of our little contract.
Owen + Wyatt 4Now
I grin. “We good?” I ask.
She nods. “We’re good. Which means I can properly devote my attention to this pile of meat and cheese.”
“There’s veggies and fruit on there too,” I tease.
“Oh, I thought those were just for decoration,” she says, leaning over the board. A raindrop breaks free of her curls and rolls down her cheek, landing on the counter with a splash.
“We really should get you out of these wet clothes first,” I say.
She grins. “My, my, quite the smooth operator, Dr. McBride.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m serious. I did laundry earlier. There’s a stack of dry clothes on my bed. Go grab something. I’ll throw your clothes in the dryer. Then we can feast.”
“Awfully bossy,” she says, but she’s already moving in the direction I’m pointing. I’ve noticed she likes to be told what to do, but she can’t do it without a little lip.
I like it.
“My house, my rules,” I tell her.
She tosses a devious grin over her shoulder. “We’ll see about that.”