Chapter 20 Wyatt
WYATT
I’M FUCKED.
Fucked.
And ironically, I didn’t even get fucked.
Blake and I stayed up all night talking like a pair of teenagers, watching the stars fade into sunrise. Not a single item of clothing came off.
I stumble into the blue room and face-plant on my bed, burying a silent scream in my pillow.
I knew it was a bad idea sometime around one in the morning, but I ignored the alarm bells in my head.
By three a.m., my defenses were starting to slip, because it felt so damn nice, lying there and talking to her.
Once four and then five a.m. rolled around, my brain stopped screaming for me to leave and just accepted my fate.
There’s something about Blake Logan that I can’t escape. Maybe it’s the way she looks at me like I’m someone worth knowing. It’s an addictive feeling.
But it wasn’t just the talking that did me in. It was the way her head felt against my shoulder. The smell of her hair. The sound of her laughter in the dark and the way her hand slipped so easily into mine.
She bared her soul to me last night, and I bared mine right back. I don’t do that. I don’t just open up with anyone and let them peek inside. My sister is probably the only person who has that power, but she’s my twin. It’s inevitable.
Yet with Blake, opening up felt as natural as breathing.
And that scares the hell out of me.
I’m not supposed to want her this badly.
But God, I do. I wanted to kiss her so badly I could taste her, and it took every ounce of my willpower not to.
But it’s all I think about when she’s near me.
Tangling my fingers in her hair and bringing her face to mine.
Kissing her. Touching her. Fuck, I want to touch her.
I want to slip my hands underneath her shirt and play with her tits.
Slide my hand inside her panties and play with her clit, then drop to my knees and suck on it until she’s moaning my name.
I roll over, trying to shake off my rising anxiety as my brain cycles through the litany of familiar warnings that crop up whenever the attraction feels too real.
She’s younger.
She’s the daughter of my father’s best friend.
She’s close with my sister.
She’s my muse.
In other words, she’s not someone whose heart I can break and then never see again. But both my brain and body don’t seem to care about any of those things. Because she’s not just those things.
She’s so much more.
I groan into the pillow. I need to keep my distance going forward. No more staying up all night on the dock with her.
And absolutely no more soul baring.
Like a coward, I avoid her most of the day. I take the bowrider out alone. I sit with Betty and my notebook and scribble the torrent of thoughts gushing out of me. I can’t remember the last time I was so inspired.
Of all the muses the universe could’ve sent me, why her?
Why torture me like this?
It’s late afternoon by the time I’m ready to head back to the house. I’m raising the anchor when my phone rings with a call from Gigi.
“Hey,” I answer as I make my way back to the pilot’s seat.
“Hey, this a bad time?”
“No, I’m just out on the lake. Heading home, though.”
“Where’s Blake?”
“Back at the house.”
“You’re not still being a dick to her, are you?”
“No. Did she say I was?”
“Not at all. But I know you,” my twin says. “You can’t help yourself.”
“I’m not being a dick, Stan. Simply minding my own business and writing music.”
Pulling an all-nighter talking to her…
Jerking off in front of her…
You know, things you do when you’re minding your business.
“How’s the music going?” Gigi asks.
“Good,” I admit. “I’ve been having bursts of inspiration. Wrote two songs already and working on a third.”
“Want to send me something?”
“Nope, not ready. But I might record in the next few weeks.”
“Shit. You are making progress. Have you shared anything with Mom?”
“No. You know I don’t like getting her input until later.”
Gigi’s sigh echoes in my ear. “I don’t know why you fight it so hard. I mean, just imagine a collab between you and Mom! It would be brilliant.”
“I don’t want to collab with her, Stan.”
“Jeez. Fine. Then don’t. But at least be nice to her.”
A frown mars my lips. “I am nice to her.”
“No, you’re not,” Gigi says flatly. “Any time she tries to help you, you shut her down—”
“Really, because you let Dad open hockey doors for you?” I interject. “Remember all the favors he tried to pull with the Olympic committee? You refused to let him help.”
“Yeah, but I was nice about it. You hurt her feelings sometimes, Wyatt. She’s so proud of you. She just wants to see you succeed, and you’re always snapping at her like she’s doing something wrong by trying to support you.”
I squeeze the phone tighter, trying to ignore the shards of guilt slicing into my gut. “Oh, come on, G. Stop.”
“Truth hurts, doesn’t it, kiddo?”
I snort. “Don’t call me kiddo.”
“I’m older than you.”
“By less than a minute.” Guilt continues to swirl inside me, so I try to change the subject. “When are you and BIL showing up in Tahoe?”
“July, same as everybody else. We can only stay a week, though.”
“Fuck that. You need to stay longer. I’ve barely seen you this year.” I know she’s busy with her agenting career, but I miss her.
“Ryder has to go back to Dallas for sure, but I’ll see if I can swing a second week and work remotely. Don’t worry. You’ll have Mom and Dad and the Logans all up in your personal space for the full month of August. Which will give you plenty of time to apologize to Mom,” she says sweetly.
“I have nothing to apologize for. Mom knows the rules. She doesn’t help unless I ask for help.”
“Oh, and you can help Dad when he shows up,” Gigi says. “He wants to set up a recording studio for Mom in the basement. He’s planning on getting started when he’s there.”
“Why does she need a Tahoe studio? Do they want to move here full-time?”
“I think they plan to spend the winter. Makes it easier if Mom has a place to record.”
I hurry my sister off the phone before she can start lecturing me again, then speed back to the house. When I walk into the great room, I find Blake sprawled on the couch, her laptop on her stomach.
“How’s the research going?”
“Slow,” she says without looking up. She taps a few keys. “I’m sending another email to the records office. They keep ignoring my information request for Darlie’s death certificate. If it even exists.”
“What do you want to do for dinner?”
“Nothing. I’m going out with Annaliese.”
I can’t stop the rush of relief. After staying up all night talking, I think we’re in need of some space. So while Blake goes upstairs to get ready, I grill myself a steak and throw a baked potato on the barbecue, then eat dinner alone on the deck.
Blake pops her head out to say she won’t be late because Annaliese has to work early, then leaves me to enjoy my solitude. I will say, leaving Nashville was a solid decision. The change of scenery has rejuvenated me.
The change of scenery or the muse? taunts the annoying voice in my head.
“Fuck off,” I tell the voice. Out loud. Which is never a good sign. Usually once I start talking to myself, it means I’m nearing the delirium point of the insomnia cycle. Might be time to crack open a few beers.
I grab an IPA from the fridge and carry it outside, but the alcohol doesn’t stop the thoughts of Blake from surfacing.
Why is she so damn easy to talk to? I told her things last night that I’ve never shared with anyone else.
Like how a part of me is envious of the connection my dad and Gigi have.
It’s a bond I know he and I can never have, and that hurts sometimes.
I love my dad, but his brain is all hockey all the time, whereas my brain, as I told Blake, is chaos.
It’s music. It’s incoherent thoughts and snippets of inspiration.
It’s melodies, ones that speak through me, and others I can hear so clearly in my head only to never be able to recreate with any instrument.
It’s so loud inside my head, louder than someone like my dad, who has a one-track mind, can ever understand.
Hasn’t been that loud lately… that voice points out.
No, I realize, gulping. My head’s been quieter these past couple weeks with Blake here. You’d think all our bickering and arguing would create more tension and stress, more noise, but it’s had the opposite effect.
Blake isn’t even gone two hours, home before ten.
I’m lying on the couch when she returns, but rather than go up to bed, she plants herself in the dining room to work on the puzzle.
Usually we puzzle together, but I’m trying hard to maintain this space bubble right now, so I stay on the couch, scrolling on my phone.
But my gaze keeps unwittingly drifting toward the dining table, where Blake is scrutinizing a puzzle piece like it offers the meaning of life.
“What are you?” she mumbles, because she always talks to herself when she puzzles. “Are you sky? Or are you water? What in tarnation are you?”
I choke down a laugh, then get up to grab another beer from the fridge.
“That’s your third beer in an hour,” she remarks, and I don’t miss the disapproval in her eyes.
I suddenly remember what happened the last time I tried to conquer insomnia by getting loaded, and I find myself putting the beer back on the shelf.
“I think I’ll turn in,” I say without meeting her gaze.
I’m halfway to the stairs when her voice stops me.
“It was just talking.”
Her blue eyes meet mine across the room.
“We stayed up all night talking. It’s not a big deal, Wyatt.”
She says this as if I’ve never encountered a straight human woman in my life.
We stayed up all night talking. Yeah. Exactly. And that is a big deal. I recognize how big a deal it is, and I’m a man. So I can only imagine the fantasies swirling through her mind right now. She’s probably designing the wedding invitations in there.
But sure, if she wants to be dishonest, then so will I.
I shrug. “You’re right. It wasn’t a big deal.”
“Then why were you avoiding me today?”
“I wasn’t. Just thought we might need some space to do our own thing today. So neither of us would read too much into what happened.”
“You mean me,” she says darkly. “I’m the one who’s going to read too much into it, right? Because I’m some naive idiot who now thinks you’re in love with me because we spilled our guts to each other last night.” Her lips curl in a frown. “Trust me, I am well aware that you don’t want me, okay?”
Jesus.
My chest tightens.
I want you.
The confession burns my throat, but I refuse to let it escape. If I do, I’ll never be able to take it back.
“I know you’re not in love with me. And it’s hilarious to even think it, right?” Bitterness laces her tone. “So funny, right, Wyatt? Just like when I was sixteen and stupid enough to have a crush on you. You laughed then too.”
“Blake—”
“No,” she interrupts. “You don’t have to explain. I get it. I was a joke then, and I’m a joke now. It’s fine.”
Misery clamps around my throat. She thinks I see her as a joke?
At the table, Blake throws down her puzzle piece and pushes the box away. “You know what? I think I’ll turn in too.”
As she tries to bulldoze past me, I reach out and grab her hand, stilling her.
“You’re not a joke,” I say, my voice low, rougher than I mean for it to be. “You’ve never been a joke.”
She stares at me, eyes hard, then offers a tight shrug and brushes my hand off. “Could have fooled me.”
She disappears upstairs, and a moment later, I hear her bedroom door latching shut.
Fuck!
Since I got here, all I’ve done is piss her off and hurt her feelings. I should just go back to Nashville, let Blake enjoy Tahoe without my broody, complicated ass dragging her down.
We spend the rest of the night in our respective rooms. I shoot off some texts and watch a tutorial about classical guitar, because why not.
Around midnight, when I’m about to try to force sleep, I hear stomping in Blake’s bedroom, followed by stomping in the hall as she stomps past my door and stomps down the stairs.
Someone’s trying to annoy me, it appears.
I assume she’s getting something from the kitchen, so I tense up when I hear the sharp beep of the alarm disengaging. That sounded like the back door.
Where the hell is she going?
I stay in bed for a moment, telling myself she’s probably just going to sit on the dock and look at the stars again. But I hate the idea of her out there alone. Which is stupid, because she’s an adult, and it’s not like this lake is crawling with psycho killers, other than possibly the Spencers.
Still, I climb out of bed, because I know I’ll never be able to sleep now.
I quietly go downstairs. The back doors are closed, but the alarm is off, and the doors are unlocked. I step onto the deck, but I don’t see Blake down on the dock. All the loungers are empty. Worry pulls at my stomach, tugging harder when I suddenly catch a flicker of motion against the black sky.
At first, my brain can’t register what I’m seeing, but as I near the railing, there’s no mistaking her. She stands on the flat roof of the boathouse like a statue, arms at her sides, hair cascading down her back.
With my heart in my throat, I watch as she approaches the edge.