Chapter 29 Blake
BLAKE
I COME DOWNSTAIRS THE NEXT morning to find breakfast on the eat-in counter. And not just any breakfast. A stack of golden, steaming pancakes ringed by fresh berries and a drizzle of syrup. Beside the plate is a mug of coffee, a tall cup of OJ, and a candle.
“What is this?” I exclaim.
Wyatt looks up from the stove, spatula in hand.
“Happy birthday,” he says gruffly.
Joy explodes in my chest. This is… I can’t even… Embarrassment floods my cheeks when my eyes well up. Oh my God. I cannot cry. That’ll only give the impression that I’m starting to see this thing between us as something more.
And I’m not.
Not really.
No matter how much Annaliese teases me, I am not in love with him. The only reason I’ve got tears in my eyes right now is because I’m touched. This is a sweet, thoughtful gesture, and I’m touched. That’s it.
Despite my vehement internal monologue, my heart flutters treacherously, and I’m blinking a bit too fast as I approach the counter.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I tell him.
“Of course I did. It’s your twenty-first birthday. Now sit down and eat.”
I plop down on a stool and reach for the fork, but before I can cut into the pancakes, I notice they’re dotted with tiny dark-brown spots.
A frown furrows my brow. “What are these dots?”
Wyatt gets a sheepish look. “Um. Freckles. Chocolate-sauce freckles.”
It takes every ounce of emotional restraint not to blubber like a baby and soak my breakfast with tears. But this might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.
Noticing my expression, Wyatt grumbles under his breath. “Don’t make a thing of it, Logan. It’s just a birthday breakfast.”
I can only nod, because my throat is too tight to release any words.
His gesture stays with me all morning, circling my heart in a warm, gooey aura of pure joy. And my spirits only soar higher when I’m upstairs changing into my bathing suit and a much-awaited email arrives.
1 NEW EMAIL
Dear Ms. Logan,
Attached are the documents you requested. You can also access them via this link. Please consider this ticket resolved.
For future, please deal directly with me regarding these types of requests.
Cordially,
Mary Holmes
“Holy shit,” I exclaim, racing outside.
I run to the railing and peer over it. Wyatt is on his usual lounge chair but without the usual cigarette dangling from his mouth. We haven’t been to town in a few days, and I think his pack ran out and he’s too lazy to replenish.
“Guess what!” I bound down the steps to the dock. “The records office finally sent me the documents I’ve been harassing them about.”
“Is this the office that burned down and all the records were lost?”
I grin. Half the time, I wonder if he’s actually listening to me or just making up more song-worthy situations in his own head. “It didn’t burn down. The catalog was digitized, but there was a data breach, and everything got erased.”
“Oh, right. That was it. My reason was better.”
“Your reason was fiction! Anyway, they luckily didn’t destroy any of the originals, but it’s taking them forever to redigitize, and the woman who runs the department was refusing to dig through the boxes for me, remember?”
“Right. So she finally caved?”
“Oh. No,” I say dismissively. “I convinced one of her staff to do it, and now she’s pissed. Her email was passive-aggressive to the max. She signed it cordially. But she still sent the documents. On my birthday too! It’s, like, the best present ever!”
His lips twitch. “I mean, I thought my freckle pancakes were pretty good.”
“They were also the best. But listen to this…” I pause for dramatic effect, which summons that smile he was fighting. “Raymond Loughlin did hook up with Darlie’s sister, Dolly. In fact,” I say triumphantly, “he married her!”
“No shit.”
“Yes. Their marriage certificate was filed in a county on the California side of Tahoe. They were married six months after the date on Darlie’s death certificate.
Which is close enough to when Raymond was with Darlie that it stands to reason he and Dolly really were having an affair.
” I’m brimming with excitement as I pace the dock.
“And I also have a purchase agreement for a house in Reno, but then they sold that and listed their forwarding address as a place in Albany. Do you know what that means?”
“Do I want to know?”
“The game’s afoot!” I declare. “And it’s going to New York. Digitally anyway. I’m moving my search efforts to New York.”
“Gonna flood all those unsuspecting counties with your information requests?”
“Oh, fuck yes. I need to grab my laptop—”
I stop when I notice a familiar boat approaching. Perfect. It’s the Spencers. At least they’ll appreciate these new developments.
“Guys,” I holler. “I might’ve tracked down Dolly!”
“How the hell did you do that?” Big Spencer asks after they cut the engine ten feet from our dock, their boat bobbing in the water. “Mary at the records office refused to budge no matter how much we flirted.”
“Because you are terrible at flirting,” Little Spencer informs his partner. “Like, god-awfully bad.”
“Oh, and it worked when you tried with her? Do we have those records, Spencer?” Big Spencer lifts a hand to his forehead and mimes searching for something. “I don’t see those records anywhere.”
Little Spencer has the decency to look abashed. “Fine. We were both abysmal at wooing Mary.”
“Nobody can woo Mary,” I assure them. “I recruited her underling Kyle.”
Big Spencer heaves a sigh. “Of course it’s a Kyle. Kyles are so dumb. They’ll do anything for pussy.”
His partner snorts. “Says the gay man who has no idea what straight men will do for pussy.”
“I’d dig through a few dusty boxes for pussy,” Wyatt offers, and I turn to glare at him. “I mean, not any pussy,” he amends. “Yours, obviously.”
The Spencers howl with laughter.
I spend the next few minutes filling them in on everything I managed to uncover this week while Little Spencer gasps and oohs at the appropriate moments and Big Spencer nods along and not ironically.
As Little Spencer and I dissect the Raymond and Dolly marriage bomb, I notice Wyatt smirking at us, but there’s also an odd gleam in his eyes.
“What?” I grumble at him.
He pushes his sunglasses onto his nose. “Nothing. I just find you guys entertaining. I feel like I’m watching a talk show with two overly enthusiastic morning hosts, only they’re not annoying.”
Little Spencer gasps again. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Ever?” his partner says dryly.
“Well, today.” He spins back to me. “You should come on the podcast!” Another gasp flies out. “You should be my cohost!”
“Uh-huh, okay.”
“I mean it,” he insists.
“I don’t think I’m interesting enough to be on a podcast.”
“You wouldn’t be talking about your own life,” Wyatt points out, and I can’t believe he’s entertaining the idea.
Any venture with the Spencers feels like it would be exhausting.
“You’d be discussing actual topics. You know, like hauntings and vampires or whatever the hell your thing is about.
” He directs the last part at the Spencers.
“I don’t know,” I say, shrugging.
“At least agree to a guest appearance,” begs Little Spencer. “We can record an episode for the Darlie mystery. And if we have crazy chemistry, then maybe we’ll do more.”
“Sure, I’d do that,” I say, because why not. I wouldn’t mind chatting about Darlie.
But I have no intention of making it a regular occurrence, especially since the podcast has a video component.
Next to Spencer’s larger-than-life personality, I’ll probably come off as the most boring, unimpressive person on the planet.
Plus, the idea of being on camera and uploading it to the internet for all to see makes me break out in hives.
I feel more comfortable in the background.
The support staff, if you will. Not everybody needs to be the CEO.
Little Spencer breaks out in a broad smile. “Excellent! What are you two up to tonight?”
“Oh, I can’t tonight. I’m going out to get drunk.”
“No, she’s not,” Wyatt says immediately.
I ignore him. “Today’s my birthday,” I tell the Spencers. “Guess who’s twenty-one, gentlemen?”
Their faces light up.
“It’s your birthday?” Little Spencer’s outraged gaze shifts to Wyatt. “And you’re not letting her celebrate?”
“She can celebrate here,” he says firmly. “At the house. I already told her she’s more than welcome to invite whomever she wants and drink whatever she wants. In the house. Where I can keep an eye on her.”
“First of all—Daddy,” Big Spencer says in a sultry voice.
Wyatt rolls his eyes.
“Second of all,” I interrupt, “I don’t need you to keep an eye on me. But if you insist on it, you can keep an eye on me in a bar,” I finish sweetly.
“Yeah, but then that means I can’t drink. I’ll need to stay sharp to make sure you’re okay and that nobody’s taking advantage.”
“Got it. So I can’t go to a bar because you want to drink on my birthday.”
“Exactly,” Wyatt says. Then he sighs. “Okay, I just heard it out loud. Let’s go to the bar.”
And that’s how we end up at a karaoke joint in town later, watching Big Spencer and Little Spencer perform a duet of Mollie May and Stylo Lewis’s latest collaboration—with both of them singing Mollie May’s part.
“How is this song so good?” I shout over the music. The melody is so catchy that I can’t stop dancing along. I have both arms thrust in the air, one hand gripping my third fruity cocktail of the night. I’m more than a little tipsy. Veering into very drunk territory, in fact.
“My mom wrote it.” Wyatt leans in so I can hear him better. I think he’s on his way to drunk too, because his green eyes have taken on a hazy glow.
“Seriously?” I exclaim.
Then I wonder why I’m surprised. It’s Hannah frickin’ Graham.
The woman is downright remarkable. She can sing circles around most people—her performance at Gigi’s wedding didn’t leave a dry eye in the house—yet she chooses to remain behind the scenes and just write banger after banger for other people.
Hannah claims she doesn’t like the stress of performing, but I can only imagine the level of stardom she would’ve reached if she’d chosen to write and perform her own music.
“Your mom is incredible,” I tell Wyatt.
“I know.” He takes a quick sip of his beer, his features straining. “Goddamn it.”
“What?”
“Just realized my sister was right. I need to be nicer to Mom. I’m such a prick when it comes to this music thing. She doesn’t deserve me snapping every time she tries to help me.”
I mock gasp. “Oh my God! Wyatt! Is this growth?”
He sighs. “I think it’s growth.”
The song ends, and the Spencers amble off the stage and rejoin us.
We do shots because Big Spencer orders a round for the birthday girl, and then we do more shots because Little Spencer orders a round for the birthday girl, and then more shots because Annaliese arrives and buys another round.
And then Eddie decides, yes, he too must be part of the shot buying.
By the time Wyatt and I pile into an Uber and head back to the lake house, we’re both annihilated. So plastered that neither of us can see straight, speak without laughing, or sit in the back seat for more than three seconds without sucking each other’s faces off.
I feel bad for the driver, or at least I would if I was capable of feeling anything other than horny, because anytime Wyatt is kissing me, I can’t concentrate on anything but the ache between my thighs.
It takes us three tries to punch in the gate code.
We stagger out of the Uber a few minutes later, and then it takes us four tries to get the alarm code right.
Finally, the front door swings open and we stumble inside, laughing our asses off.
Which lasts about two seconds because suddenly we’re kissing again.
Wyatt pushes me up against the wall, his greedy mouth latching on to my neck.
My head spins as he kisses and explores my heated flesh, dragging his tongue up the side of my throat.
When he reaches my ear, he growls, “Need to fuck you.”
Somehow, we make it up to his room, which smells like fresh citrus and pine cleaner. “The house mouse was here,” I mumble between kisses. “I mean mouse. No, I mean man. The houseman was here.”
“Harry,” he mumbles back. “I mean Herny. Horny?”
Laughing hysterically, we fall onto the bed in an alcohol-induced sex fog, and then he’s peeling off my tube top, my shorts, my underwear, his pants. It all comes off and he’s kissing his way down my body until his mouth finds me. Devouring. Licking and sucking and moaning against my clit.
“I could eat this pussy for the rest of my life,” he mutters as I rock my hips against his eager mouth.
It takes me a record-breaking two and a half minutes to come, the unexpected orgasm blowing through me in a gust of ecstasy that makes me tremble. With one last lick and eyes burning with satisfaction, he climbs up my body and pushes his cock inside me.
When he fills me to the hilt, his groan is one of relief and utter appreciation. “So tight, baby. So perfect. Want to be in here forever.”
God, I want him here forever too. I wrap my legs around him, my heels digging into his ass.
“Faster,” I beg.
He quickens the pace, plunging into me, over and over and over again, while I rake my fingernails down his back and sink my teeth into his shoulder. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m like a feral animal. I think I drew blood with my nails.
Wyatt grunts in pain, and then he’s grinning down at me, grabbing both my hands with one of his. He locks my wrists together and thrusts them over my head.
“Enough of that,” he chides.
“Can’t handle a little pain?” I taunt.
“I can handle pain. Just rather make you scream.”
He withdraws until only his tip remains at my opening while my pussy tries to cling tight and not let him escape. Then, without warning, he slams back in and fucks me hard enough to make me see stars. The bed is shaking, headboard banging against the wall. It’s raw, unfiltered, pure animal heat.
“Why does this feel so good?” he moans in dismay.
“I don’t know,” I answer helplessly, and then I squeeze my eyes shut and come.
Wyatt curses as I spasm around him. “Oh Jesus. That’s gonna make me come too.”
He drives into me one last time, pressed deep inside as he finds his release. Groaning, he collapses on top of me, and I wrap my arms around him, and we both start laughing, because holy shit, that was intense.
I glance over at the clock, only to find there’s no clock. I blink, disoriented all of a sudden. Then I say, “This…isn’t the blue room. I think we’re in the mountain room,” and Wyatt laughs even harder.