Chapter 26 Wyatt
WYATT
IT’S RAINING TODAY, SO BLAKE and I spend a lazy afternoon in the great room.
My fingers wander over the piano keys, laying out the chords.
Nothing fancy. C major to E minor, a quick pivot to G major, dancing down to D.
It’s a soft, sweet love song from Blake’s dock playlist. She put it on yesterday, and it’s been stuck in my head ever since, so last night I carried Mom’s electric piano upstairs from the basement and set it up by the windows, because I enjoy looking at the lake while I play, and the acoustics in this room are surprisingly decent.
The chords spill into each other like watercolor on canvas. I like this song. And it isn’t Mollie May, thankfully. It’s Crystal Soto, a young singer who sort of came out of nowhere last year and skyrocketed to fame.
On the couch, Blake is slouched on her back, reading on her phone. She’s got one knee up and her other leg crossed over it, drawing my gaze between her legs like a magnet. I glimpse the shadow of her pink panties beneath her thin white shorts, and my mouth waters, distracting me from the song.
After nearly two weeks of fooling around, my desire for her hasn’t dimmed one iota.
I keep waiting for it to fade. Because it always fades.
But I want her all the damn time. Can’t even be in a room with her for more than five seconds without needing to kiss her.
And once her lips are on mine, I can’t stop myself from touching her.
From sliding my hands all over her body and exploring every perfect inch of her.
I should just fuck her. She’d be into it. I’m the one resisting, though. I’ve been telling her it’s because you can’t sleep with your muse, but at this point we both know I’m feeding her a load of bull. My inspiration hasn’t waned in the slightest, and we make each other come on a daily basis.
But while I’m confident that sex won’t silence the music, it will complicate things. I know the moment I bury myself inside her, I’ll want to stay there forever. I’ll never want to stop, because she’s quickly becoming an addiction.
I tear my gaze off her and continue playing, trying to figure out how Crystal Soto transitions into the bridge.
I think I’m missing a chord maybe. It takes a few attempts to get it right, and then I start the song from the top, because I’m the kind of perfectionist who needs to play something right the entire way through.
I’m at the first chorus when I realize Blake is singing along. It’s barely audible, but the sound of her soft, pure soprano is so unexpected that I stop mid-chord.
Her gaze flicks toward me. “Why’d you stop?”
“You can sing.” I stare at her in shock.
She quickly shakes her head, cheeks reddening. “No, I can’t. That wasn’t even singing.”
“That was totally singing.” Excitement tickles my chest. “Do it again. Sing with me.”
“Oh my God. We are not singing a duet.”
“Oh yes, we are. Come on.” I crack my knuckles, and she laughs at my antics. “I’ll sing the first verse, you come in for the chorus, and then you take over verse two.”
“Wyatt—” she protests, but I’m already playing the intro again.
My voice is a bit raspy as I sing the verse.
I don’t know why this thrills me so much.
Lots of people can sing. It’s just… Blake isn’t an attention seeker.
She isn’t the first to sign up for karaoke like Alex Tucker or belt out show tunes like Stella Davenport after you get a few beers in her.
The fact that Blake even feels comfortable singing around me does something fierce to my heart.
When I hit the G major of the chorus, her voice slips in, reluctant at first, but it’s so sweet, bringing a smile to my lips.
I join her, letting the high notes ring so her voice has somewhere to land.
And it does. She’s perfectly in tune, carrying the melody like she’s the one who wrote it, and I tap into the harmony on instinct, our voices twinning.
Fucking magic. There’s no harmony in the original, but here, with nothing but us and the piano, it’s perfection. Her light, airy voice balances my deeper tone, and the song suddenly isn’t a cover anymore. It’s ours.
As the final chord fades to silence, our eyes lock, and I shake my head at her.
“What?” she says, sounding insecure. She pulls her knees up to her chest, hugging them.
“That was amazing.”
“It was fun.” She smiles at me over her knees, that gorgeous smile that utterly devastates me, and for a second, I have to look away.
Everything about her gets to me. Her smile.
Her voice. Her energy. I want more of it.
More of her. I want her to show me every part of herself, shed every last layer and let me look inside.
And the fact that I’m thinking any of this while we’re fully clothed scares the shit out of me.
Feelings like that aren’t casual. They’re dangerous, because if she lets me in the way I’m craving to be let in, I’ll have to do the same.
I’ve never been in this position before—I’m never the one who wants more—and I don’t like it one damn bit.
Yet that doesn’t stop me from sliding off the piano bench and climbing onto the couch with her.
She giggles when I lie directly on top of her, propped up on my elbows so I can peer down and kiss her.
She kisses me back, but I nip at her lip when she tries to slip me some tongue.
“Don’t start something we can’t finish right now.”
“Why can’t we finish?” she asks mischievously.
I give her another soft peck before sliding lower so my head is resting on her chest. “Because I’m taking a nap. You kept me up all night.”
“You wouldn’t have been sleeping anyway.”
That’s where she’s wrong. About a week ago, something miraculous happened. I discovered the cure for insomnia.
It’s called Blake Logan.
If she’s in my bed, I sleep. At first, I thought it was a fluke. That her blowjobs are just so goddamn good that they short out my brain and send me into a post-BJ coma.
But then one night last week, my dick didn’t enter the equation. I was too tired after frying my brain writing all day, so the only action in my bed was me eating Blake out for forty-five minutes. She came all over my face and curled up in my arms, and then we fell asleep.
Both of us.
Telling a girl “You put me to sleep” isn’t exactly a flex, though. I’m worried she won’t take it as the compliment it is, so I’ve been pretending I’m still not sleeping great. But this streak has held up every night. Even daytime naps don’t affect it.
“Are you really napping right now?” she teases.
“Mm-hmm.”
I press my cheek against her breast, sighing happily when she starts playing with my hair, and it isn’t long before I feel my breathing slowing, steadying, as her fingers softly stroke and lull me into slumber.
We’re fixing dinner later when my phone lights up, an unfamiliar New York number flashing on the screen.
Normally I don’t answer calls from numbers I don’t recognize, but this past month, I’ve been lunging for the phone no matter what.
It’s been weeks since my mom told me Tobey Dodson was going to call me.
To be honest, I’d given up hope, and considering it’s nearly ten p.m. on the East Coast right now, I’m expecting a telemarketer or attempted scam recording when I swipe to answer.
“Hey,” a baritone voice rumbles in my ear. “Is this Wyatt?”
My heart stutters. “Yes. Who’s this?”
“Wyatt, my man, it’s Tobey. Dodson. Got your number from Hannah. I hope you don’t mind that I’m calling?”
“No, not at all.” Now my pulse is racing. Blake glances over curiously, brow raised, but I step away from the pot of boiling spaghetti and duck out of the kitchen. “It’s nice to meet you. I mean, over the phone. It’s nice to phone meet you.” Jesus, shut the hell up.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” he replies, his tone sincere.
“I’ve been meaning to call you for a while, but I got called away on business in Tokyo.
I work with this sick K-pop girl group over there, and we had to re-record a few tracks for their new album.
Anyway, I’m stateside now, so I wanted to touch base with you. See what’s what.”
“Yeah, sure,” I say awkwardly. “So…um…what’s what?”
There’s a deep chuckle in my ear. “You tell me, my man. Hannah says you’re working on some new material?”
“Uh. Yeah. I am.”
“Love to hear it, if that’s something you’re interested in.
I was telling your mom, I’m obsessed with this track of yours—‘Silver’?
It’s the exact vibe I’ve been craving lately, you know?
There’s so much pop and bubblegum right now, market’s oversaturated with it.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my pop divas.
Been doing some great collabs. But I need to sink my teeth into something different, you feel me? ”
“I think so, yeah.”
“Figured we’d open up a dialogue, see if the chemistry is there. But I’m heading back to Tokyo this week until the end of the summer, so if your new material speaks to me, we realistically wouldn’t be able to get into the studio till September. That work for you or no?”
“It totally works,” I blurt out, then cringe at how overeager I sounded.
“Brilliant. In the meantime, send me the new shit. You good with critical feedback, or am I dealing with a diva over here?”
I laugh. “Nah, criticize away. Only makes me better, right?”
“That’s what I like to hear.” Dodson sounds enthusiastic as he says, “I’ll have my assistant send you all my deets. Email, phone numbers, whatever. And we’ll touch base soon, my man.”
He disconnects without a goodbye, leaving me a little dazed.
Did that really just happen?
I stumble back into the kitchen and collapse onto a breakfast stool. Blake is draining the pasta at the sink, but she sets the strainer down at my dramatic entrance.
“Everything okay?” she says.
With my head still spinning, I recap the conversation, and her eyes light up when I finish. She comes to the counter and flings her arms around me.
“Holy shit. Wyatt! This is incredible.”
I grip her arm, not quite hugging her back. I’m still too stunned. Noticing my frozen state, Blake pulls back and searches my face.
“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you happy about this?”
“I am. But…” I clear my throat because it’s coated with apprehension. “What if he hates my new material and decides he doesn’t want to move forward?”
“He won’t.”
“He might.”
“He won’t. You are beyond talented, which apparently everyone sees but you. But listen up, Graham—you are way too hot to be insecure.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m not insecure. I just…”
“Don’t think you’re good enough,” she finishes.
Yeah. I suppose so. Sort of. I know I’m good. I just always fear I can’t be great. And that’s a hard pill to swallow when everyone around me is. My mother. My father. My sister. All great.
“It’s the curse of coming from a family of overachievers, I guess,” I say wryly. A lump fills my throat. “It’s like… What if I can never measure up?”
“I feel that way too,” Blake reminds me. She pulls out the stool next to mine and sits, reaching for my hand. “Everyone else is destined for greatness, and I’m destined for a boring office job I hate and my dumb hobbies.”
“I mean, most people work jobs they don’t love. That’s just life.” I squeeze her hand. “But your hobbies aren’t dumb.”
“I research things for fun,” she grumbles.
“Yeah, and you enjoy it. Isn’t that all that matters? Who cares what everyone else is doing?”
“See, you keep saying that,” she teases, “and you tell me to never compare myself to anyone else unless I want to destroy my self-esteem. Yet you’re sitting here comparing yourself to your family.”
“Haven’t you learned by now that people are shit at following their own advice?”
Blake laughs. “We should make a pact. Promise to keep reminding each other not to fall victim to the trap of comparison.”
A warm sensation washes over me. “I like that.”
This time, when she loops her arms around my neck, I don’t resist. I just hold her tighter.