Chapter 6 Blake
BLAKE
THE MOOD IS LIGHTER WHEN we tie off the bowrider a few hours later.
Despite the rocky start to the day, Wyatt finally calmed his grouchy ass down, scribbling up a storm on the boat while I napped.
I’m not sure what inspired him, but I much prefer a chill Wyatt to the one who was snapping at me for daring to sunbathe.
At the house, we discover that like the urban legend he is, Houseman Henry paid us a visit when we were gone.
The fridge and freezer are overflowing with food, including the juiciest-looking steaks from the butcher in town.
Part of me still feels like a spoiled brat who’s taking advantage of her parents, but I keep reminding myself it’s what they want.
Summer of Blake, Mom had encouraged. So I’m giving myself permission to be spoiled.
I go upstairs to take a shower and wash off the sunscreen and sweat from the day. When I come down to prep dinner, I stop halfway to the fridge, momentarily derailed by the sight of Wyatt in the dining room.
He’s at the table, shirtless, leaning over the puzzle that I noticed this morning.
For some reason, I assumed someone else had started it, but I realize now how dumb that is.
He’s the only other person here, unless Houseman Henry secretly shows up when we’re out to work on a jigsaw puzzle. Actually… I wouldn’t put it past him.
I wander over to pick up the box. It depicts a lake scene at night, with a huge moon reflected in the black water and a family of swans congregating beneath a willow tree with dark, dangling branches that look like skeleton fingers.
Other than the red canoe in the center of the lake, the puzzle is an obnoxious expanse of black and white in different gradients.
Wyatt is scowling at a piece like it murdered his family in a past life, but I’m too busy ogling his bare chest and wondering how he could make an activity this nerdy look pornographic. My eyes rest on the V of his hips. I love man vees. They’re so lickable.
I wonder what he’d do if I dropped to my knees and licked his man vee.
The thought makes me snort out loud.
Wyatt glances at me. “Can I help you?” he says politely.
I snap out of it. “Are you doing a puzzle?”
“No, I’m just putting these pieces in place for no reason. They don’t form an image at all.”
“Wyatt Graham is doing a puzzle.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Fuckboys don’t puzzle.”
“I’m not a boy. I’m a man.”
“Got it. So you’re a fuckman.”
With a sigh, he leans forward again, abs tightening. I gulp down a flood of saliva. Oh my God. His abs are lickable too. So are his pecs. They’re just defined enough to be sexy but not bulky enough to look like gym boobs.
I can’t handle him like this. Bare-chested, hair messed, sweatpants low. It should be illegal for someone to be this hot while doing a puzzle.
“Why aren’t you putting together the frame first?” I ask him.
“That’s not how I roll.”
“That’s the only way to puzzle,” I argue.
“I have a system, okay? The Graham system.”
“It’s inefficient.”
“Can you please go away? This is my activity. Go find your own.”
I pluck a few edge pieces out of the box and start making a pile.
“No,” Wyatt growls. “I told you, I don’t go by edges. I go by colors.”
“It’s all black and white!”
“And red,” he says smugly, pointing to the canoe.
“You know what? Fine. Do your stupid puzzle without my help. It’s only, what…” I check the box. “Four thousand pieces? I’m sure your system will have you finishing this in no time. Fucking asshole.”
His snort tickles my shoulder blades as I go to prep dinner.
I soon discover that Wyatt is a kitchen nuisance.
Abandoning his puzzle, he wanders over and gets in the way constantly.
Bumping into me. Jostling me with his elbow.
Swiping a cherry tomato from the bowl when I’m in the middle of tossing the salad.
When I open the fridge, he’s randomly standing there, even though he’s not getting anything.
“You need to get out of here,” I blurt out. “You’re in my way! Go prep the grill.”
“The grill is heating up.”
“I don’t care. You’re being intrusive.”
“You’re being intrusive. You intruded on my summer.”
“Oh my God, just go and stand silently outside and wait for the barbecue to heat up and get out of my life.”
“You’re very bossy,” he says, smiling faintly. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Yes.”
“I’m digging it.”
“Oh really. You enjoy being bossed around.”
“Outside the bedroom? Sure,” he says, then saunters off and leaves me battling a jolt of desire.
The idea of Wyatt being commanding in the bedroom sends a tiny thrill down my spine and—
Nope.
I’m not allowed to think about what he enjoys in bed.
Through the glass doors, I watch him pull on a long-sleeved shirt.
His sweatpants ride lower on his hips as he lifts his arms, and I gulp because I don’t think he’s wearing anything underneath those pants.
My eyes instinctively focus on his ass. I sort of want him to turn around so I can search for the outline of his dick, and oh my God, that is the perviest thing I’ve ever thought, and I should be ashamed of myself.
I force my gaze away and focus on the salad and roasted potatoes.
By the time I step onto the deck, he’s set the table, and the smell of grilled sirloin fills my nostrils. My stomach rumbles in response. I got a lot of sun today and didn’t eat much, so I’m ravenous.
“Can we talk about the puzzle now?” I ask as I cut off a piece of steak. “I have some constructive criticism.”
“No.”
“I checked out your sorting trays, and you’re putting pieces that belong to the moon into the tray with the swans.”
“Logan,” he says. “Go find your own puzzle.”
“You know what? Maybe I will. Then you can watch me puzzle circles around your sorry ass.”
“Oh wow. I keep forgetting how competitive you are.”
“I’m not competitive,” I object.
“Remember when you were a kid and used to challenge Gigi to foot races and then cried each time she beat you?”
“I didn’t cry. I just teared up.”
“That’s crying.”
“Crying occurs when the tears exit your eyes. If they’re still contained, it doesn’t count.”
“It totally counts.”
We spend the rest of dinner bickering about literally everything. Whether ketchup belongs on steak. If humans could ever live on the moon. The correct orientation of the toilet paper roll. At first, I think maybe he’s picking the wrong answers just to annoy me.
But then I realize what’s happening.
“The dynamic is off,” I announce, cutting him off midsentence as he tries to explain why I’m wrong about mosquitoes. Mr. Naive over here actually believes we can eradicate them without it affecting the food chain. I can’t even.
“What do you mean?” Wyatt says. “What dynamic?”
“That’s why we keep arguing. Because we’ve never spent any time alone together, and it’s a shock to the system. Like, I don’t know what your personality is without your sister here.”
“Well, I don’t know what your personality is without your dad standing there glaring at anyone who talks to you.”
I snicker. “Not anyone. Just the Golden Boys.”
The Golden Boys refers to three of the more entertaining hockey kids in our circle—Beau, AJ, and Gray. A year younger than I am, they’re a hell-raising, heartbreaking trio of budding hockey stars. I’ve never met a straight woman who didn’t fall over backward for one of the Golden Boys.
I finish my prosecco, which I’m surprised Wyatt didn’t try to confiscate. But he didn’t say a word when I pulled the bottle out of the wine fridge. I’m on my second glass now, and it’s loosening my tongue.
“God, imagine if he knew I lost my virginity to one of them?” I giggle as I picture my dad’s reaction.
Wyatt’s surprised gaze flies to mine. “Which one?”
“Beau,” I confess.
“Ah, the goldenest of the Golden Boys.”
He’s not wrong. Beau Di Laurentis is the definition of golden. I’m talking blond hair, bright green eyes, dazzling smile. The worst part? He’s also a genuinely good guy. The all-American sweetheart.
“How was it?” Intrigue flickers in Wyatt’s eyes. And I swear I see a spark of heat too.
But that’s probably wishful thinking. I don’t make Wyatt hot.
For a moment there, when we were on the boat today, I thought maybe I was actually affecting him.
He seemed so flustered at the sight of my boobs that it gave me a little ego boost. But then he informed me they “weren’t anything special,” so who the fuck knows. He’s too difficult to pin down.
“I’m not telling you that,” I reply.
“Why not?”
“Do you want to tell me about the night you lost your virginity?”
“I mean, it wasn’t that eventful. I lasted about ten strokes before blowing my load.”
“Was it to Mrs. Brown?”
He grins. “No. It was to an age-appropriate girl.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen. How old were you with Golden Boy?”
“Seventeen.”
He sips his beer, and my gaze is drawn to his mouth. Ugh. It isn’t fair. Even almost three years later, I can clearly remember how those lips felt trailing up my neck, when his body was pressed up against me and I wanted him so badly it made me dizzy.
He never kissed me.
He kissed my neck, my jaw, that sensitive spot beneath my ear. But not my lips.
Sometimes I wonder if he did that on purpose. Maybe he knew that if our lips touched, I’d never forget it.
Catching me staring, Wyatt lifts a brow. “What?”
“Nothing.” I quickly avert my eyes, feeling a blush rising in my cheeks.
His tone is casual when he speaks again. “How did that happen anyway? You and Beau? Where was it?”
“Their place in Connecticut. My parents and I were spending the weekend, and I stayed home when everyone went out for dinner. Beau had plans that night. Otherwise, I doubt Dad would’ve left us alone. But his plans fell through.”
“And the rest is virginity history,” Wyatt finishes.
“Yep.”
“What was his move?”
“Pretty sure it was my move. I didn’t want to go to college a virgin.”
“So you lost it just for the sake of losing it?” He makes a tsking noise. “You’re better than that, freckles.”