Chapter 10 Carissa #3
I can’t even begin to fathom what Wilder feels.
He’s used to dealing with a lot all at once.
His life rushes by at the speed of light.
There have been so many days when I haven’t envied him at all.
All the press, the interviews, the meetings, the crowds, the rehearsals, the photoshoots, more press, stuff for magazines, more interviews, and then shows, shows, travel, shows, shows, fans, and more shows.
Maybe he’s doing so well with this because he’s used to having to process life at a superhuman level.
He shifts, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. It takes everything I have not to sink into him. But it only lasts for a second before I sink. Hard and fast. I rest my head against his shoulder. Before I can stop myself, I say the last thing I should be letting out.
“If you want to stay, we can talk. After dinner, or… for the night…”
Mom raises an eyebrow at me. That’s no small thing, coming from her. She might as well have lit a round of fireworks that explode all over the house in every direction.
Even Woof Woof Dog raises his head from his place by the kitchen island. He always gets fed as we sit down for dinner, and so do the cats, in the other room, so no one has to sit and watch us eat or be obnoxious about waiting their turn.
He shoots my mom a doggy what the fuck stare, waggles his bushy brows, and flops back down in a pile of hair.
I love that our dog resembles a well-used mop.
One of my mom’s friends was over one night having some wine and talking about books, and she pointed it out.
It was one of the odd nights I was here.
I was having wine too and talking about books with them, and for some reason, that statement made me laugh way too hard.
I might have snorted wine out of my nose and been semi-mortified for life.
Just saying.
Wilder’s eyes rake over my face, searching. “You’d be okay with that?” This time, he’s looking at me and asking me, but he’s also asking my mom too.
“We’d be okay with that,” I answer for both of us.
It’s been a long time since I’ve spent the night with anyone, but I used to.
I don’t do one-night stands, and if I were dating someone, Mom never made me uncomfortable about that.
Even in high school, she told me that she’d rather I was here, in her house, in a familiar and safe place, than out in god knows where and putting myself in potentially dangerous situations because I felt like I had to sneak around.
I squeeze Wilder’s thigh under the table, and he offers me a small smile. It’s not his usual bright, dazzling, wars are fought over, heart-stopping, show-ending, orbit of its own smile, but it’s every bit as real. And it makes me want to hug him even harder.
If only Jackson Wilder were mine. In the past, I’ve wished that I could throw my arms around him and hug him hard.
That I could wrap him up with my body and offer to defend him from the world, or at least stand by his side through the worst of it.
And tell him he can cry when it gets too much, or that we’ll go find a punching bag or go for a long run or do some particularly punishing Pilates together.
I want to share books, songs, jokes, and memories with him.
I wish he were mine to love, but to have that wish become a reality, I know I have to change what I think and what I want.
I need to compromise. I can’t just expect him to hide or to hide me or us.
I know if we were to explore this and see if something, whatever we determine it could be, could work, it can’t always be in the dark. Because it’s not fair to Wilder.
All the nonsense in the kitchen hits me so hard when I think about Wilder spending the night. Even in a completely chaste sense of the word, it’s a big deal.
One time only. No tomorrow. Goodbye.
Ha fucking ha.
I knew that was a joke I was playing on myself, but I couldn’t have realized what a freaking joke it even was.
Even if I haven’t spent years loving Wilder, I should have known that a single kiss, a single touch, a single…
anything, and my heart would be a total goner.
I’m falling for Wilder all over again, in a completely different way.
I’m not living this out in my head.
“Putting that fake beard and whole get-up back on is fairly time-consuming and inconvenient,” Wilder points out playfully, lightening up the heavy conversation and atmosphere in the kitchen.
“Staying would be far more convenient than going and having to put it all back on tomorrow to come right back.”
Slain. That’s me, right here. Fully. Slain.
He wants to come back tomorrow? To see me? To hang out? To chill?
To eat my asshole again?
My nipples harden, and my vagina clenches.
I quickly get my derailed thoughts back on the rails before my face shares everything I’m thinking and my skin gets a very obvious sexy serotonin glow.
“We have late-night teatime,” Mom supplies helpfully after Wilder and I both go quiet, lost in our thoughts and suddenly both shy.
I don’t recall ever seeing Jackson Wilder speechless.
Or shy.
It’s adorable on him.
It’s just plain awkward on me, but he still looks at me with all that softness melting over the hard planes of his face. Seeing me fully, properly, and differently all over again for the first time.
“Tea would be nice.” I’ve never seen this man drink tea before. Ever.
Whether he adores tea in the quiet moments when there’s no one around, or whether he just wants to try it for the first time, it’s a reminder that there’s so much more to him that I don’t know either.
His arm is still wrapped around me, and his hand squeezes my shoulder. My mom smiles at us encouragingly, like she’s going to ship the hell out of us if we want there to be an us, despite her reservations and worries.
The three of us are quiet, but for just this moment, it’s comfortable. Peaceful.
Then the sneaky warmth creeps up and suffuses my chest again.
Right now, sitting around this table, Jackson Wilder isn’t the Wilder. I’m not five years older than him, he’s not my boss, there’s no history, and nothing is complicated.
Even if it just lasts for a few seconds, I’m going to enjoy the heck out of this.