Chapter 7 Wyatt
WYATT
THE BAR IS ONE OF those lake-town dives with string lights and wooden tables with sticky tops.
We find a seat in the back near a jukebox that’s cranking out classic rock my dad would drool over.
Speaking of drooling, our waiter can’t stop checking out Blake, though I don’t blame him because I’m doing the same damn thing.
The infuriating woman changed into a sundress designed to get a man hard.
Short, white, and innocent in the kind of way that isn’t innocent at all.
Kill me.
I’d much rather be back at the house with my guitar, but she was determined to go out tonight, with or without me.
And, well, the latter wasn’t an option, so…
here I am. Nursing a whiskey I don’t even want, trying not to notice the way her dress rides up as she settles on a stool.
At least she’s drinking a virgin cocktail. That’s reassuring, I suppose.
Fuck. How did I let everyone get in my head like this? I need to be keeping my distance from Blake, and instead I’m sticking to her like glue because the entire family keeps reminding me she’s fresh off a breakup and needs someone to watch out for her.
That someone should not be me.
Like, I’m the worst person for the job.
Whatever she sees in my expression has Blake rolling her eyes. “Jeez, Graham. Your brooding is off the charts, even by your high standards of brooding.”
“Stop flirting with the waiter,” I say flatly.
She gapes at me. “I’m sorry, what? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing. But don’t think I didn’t see that hand action when he gave you your drink.”
“Hand action?”
“You touched his hand. And your smile was too friendly. He thought you were hitting on him.”
“Oh my God. My hand grazed his when I was accepting my drink, and I gave him a polite thank-you smile.” She bends her head to wrap her lips around her straw, taking a long sip. “Why are you suddenly so concerned about everything I do? You’re not my dad.”
She’s right. I’m not her dad. I’m the selfish prick who has no right to want her this badly.
But I do. Every time she laughs, I want to inject that sound directly into my soul.
Every time she rolls her eyes at me, I want to shove her against the wall and show her exactly what I’ve been holding back.
I’ve always been attracted to her, but until now, it was just attraction. Which made it easy to draw a line and follow a self-imposed hands-off rule. I can get sex anywhere. I don’t need to risk hurting a close family friend for it.
But today, it’s felt like a lot more than lust. It’s felt like goddamn obsession.
Because today, she’s been living inside my head.
Even now, I keep replaying every conversation we had, every time she smiled, every dumb joke she made.
And that strange ache I’ve felt in my chest since she got here is the worst part, because it reminds me too much of being a preteen with my first crush.
This isn’t a fucking crush. I’m not that guy. And I’ve known this girl most of my life. Why the hell am I obsessing now?
It’s the celibacy vow. That’s got to be it. Combined with the fact that I can’t seem to get away from her. Close quarters, hot girl, no sex. Clearly that’s a recipe for fuck with Wyatt’s head.
I set my glass down too hard, jolting the tabletop. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”
“Well, don’t. I don’t need it,” she says irritably, planting both hands on the table before wincing. “Ew! Why is this so sticky?” She lifts her palms and grimaces at them. Then, with a grumble, she slides off the stool. “Awesome. Now I need to wash my hands.”
Every man in a fifty-foot radius watches her go.
Once she disappears into the restroom corridor, I reach for my phone and text the dude who put me in this position.
Cole swore this celibacy plan would help.
He did it himself last year, a full sex cleanse after years of fuckboying his way through life.
And I’ve heard his celibacy tracks. His new album slays, and he’s going on a world tour this fall, which means there’s obviously some method to this madness.
So why isn’t it working for me?
This no-sex thing is messing with my head.
COLE
Told you it wouldn’t be easy. Chin up, little buddy. Just avoid temptation.
How am I supposed to do that when temptation literally showed up at my door?
COLE
What does that mean?
It means the girl who’s the definition of forbidden fruit is spending the summer with me.
COLE
Fuck’s sake. Only you have this sort of luck, Graham. I swear you were born with a horseshoe up your ass.
Oh, and she likes to tan topless.
COLE
Nice. Channel it into a sexy track.
I’m not selling sex.
COLE
You’re such a stubborn asshole, G.
When Blake returns to the table, I do my best to de-scowl and paste on a pleasant expression.
Truth is we had a pretty good day. I even wrote something that wasn’t garbage, thanks to Blake.
She inspired one line that spawned an entire verse.
If she wants to have fun tonight, maybe I should stop getting in her way.
“Any update on the toaster situation?” I ask her.
She eyes me distrustfully.
“What?”
“Is this how the summer is going to play out?” She twirls her straw, making the ice cubes clack against her glass.
“One second you’re cool, and then you’re snapping at me and insulting my boobs.
Then you’re totally normal, talking about music and swapping virginity stories, and then boom—forbidding me from leaving the house.
And now you’re pretending to care about my custody battle for Hot Boi? I want off this ride, Graham.”
I let out a rueful breath. “I’m sorry for insulting your boobs earlier.”
“And my taste in music.”
“Well, no. Your taste in music sucks.”
“Mollie May is catchy!”
“She’s surface level,” I shoot back.
“Right, and you’re an endless abyss of deep. Sooooo deep.” Blake presents me with the dramatic rolling of her eyes.
I toy with my condensation-drenched beer label, slowly peeling it off the bottle. “I mean, I’m trying to be. But it’s not working. I’ve had writer’s block for almost a year now.”
She falters. “Oh shit. I’m sorry. Why didn’t you say something earlier? I didn’t realize you were blocked.”
“It’s fine. It happens.”
“It’s not ‘fine.’ Music is your whole life. And it’s how you make a living. Do you have any, like, strategies to combat writer’s block? Have you had it before?”
“Never like this,” I find myself admitting.
“That’s awful.”
The sympathy that flashes in her eyes prickles at me, mostly because I have a tough time separating sympathy from pity. I fucking hate pity.
I rip a piece of the label, and the narrow strip curls into itself. “It’s fine,” I repeat, firmer this time, because I don’t want to talk about this anymore. “I’ll get over it. I have a plan.”
“Okay. What’s the plan?”
“No sex.”
Blake looks confused. “What?”
I rub the back of my neck, feeling sheepish. “I’m off sex for a while.”
“What’s a while?” she demands.
“Haven’t gotten laid in six months.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true.” I tip back the bottle and gulp down a mouthful of beer.
“How are you still alive?”
I laugh mid-sip, coughing. “Funny.”
“No, seriously. I can’t believe you’re not having sex. This must be torture for you.”
“How often do you think I fuck, freckles?”
The moment the question pops out, I grit my teeth, reminding myself I’m not supposed to say shit like that around her. It’s bad enough that I allowed the virginity conversation earlier.
Allowed?
Fine. Initiated.
I regret that now, because the only thing it achieved was planting visions in my head of Blake having sex with Beau of all people. I certainly didn’t expect the hot rush of jealousy I felt at the knowledge that she’d given it up to him.
It’s so fucking wrong, but I wish I was her first.
“So you’re forsaking sex for music?” Blake muses, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
“Sort of.” I grudgingly continue. “I was talking to Cole, my old bandmate—”
“Cole Tanner? Oh my God, he’s so hot.”
I roll my eyes at her. “How is that relevant to anything?”
“It’s not. Just stating a fact.”
“Anyway, supposedly celibacy is a creative reset. Helps clear your head. You know, channel the frustration and pent-up…” I search for the right word.
“Semen?” she offers, and I huff out a laugh.
“Lust,” I correct. “Cole swears it’ll get me back in touch with my work.”
“So basically, you’ve been acting like a cranky asshole because you haven’t had sex?” She curiously seeks out my gaze. “Do you jerk off?”
Oh, hell. Why did I open this door?
“That’s none of your business.”
“No, tell me. Are you abstaining from orgasms in general or just sex with another person?”
“I jerk off,” I answer against my will. My vocal cords are working of their own volition without input from my brain.
Blake pops her straw back in her mouth, realizing her glass is empty when she sucks in nothing but air. “I’m gonna grab another,” she says. “Want me to get you another beer?”
I narrow my eyes on her. “With what ID?”
“Definitely not a fake one,” she says innocently.
I sigh as she darts off. This girl will be the death of me.
My phone buzzes, a much-needed distraction. Or not. Because it’s my sister asking how Blake’s doing. I swear this entire family network is obsessed with Blake Logan’s well-being.
She’s fine. We went out on the boat today.
GIGI
Are you being nice to her?
Sometimes.
GIGI
LMAO You’re such a dick.
This was supposed to be my writing summer, Stan.
GIGI
Well, now it’s your be-a-nice-human summer where you get to show some compassion for the girl whose heart got broken.
Trust me, she’s doing fine.
More than fine, in fact. My shoulders go rigid when I notice Blake chatting with the bartender. She leans against the counter to hear him better over the music. He’s leaning toward her too.
There’s an unsettling amount of leaning happening right now.
Are they flirting? And does he have a mullet?
Who has a mullet this day and age?