Chapter 13 #2
Leo stands over the stove, stirring a steaming pot of what I assume must be marinara sauce based on the garlic and oregano smell in the room and the box of spaghetti beside him on the counter.
“I offered up the bottle because I knew once she finished her first glass, there’d be no chance she’d try to take over dinner prep. ”
“Mom knows she’s a terrible cook at this point. Why does she keep trying?” Willow asks, smiling as she shakes her head.
“People-pleasing tendencies. I’ve been trying to break them for about thirty years—” Leo turns, startling when he catches me in the doorway.
I realize I’ve been standing here, staring at them, with no attempt at making my presence known.
“Fuck, Wes. You scared me.”
“Sorry.” I wince.
Willow lifts her head, smiling wider when she spots me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I wave awkwardly. “Sorry. I know you said seven, but Carter wanted to come by early, so . . .”
“Not a problem." Leo grins, dimples appearing on either side of his cheeks. A perfect match to Willow’s. “I’ll put you right to work.” He nods toward a bundle of lettuce on a cutting board beside Willow. “Can you make Caesar salad?”
I nod, stepping up beside her. There is a bottle of pre-made dressing beside the lettuce, but when I check over the ingredients, I frown. “Uh . . . would you mind if I took a shot at making my own dressing?”
Willow pauses, holding a ball of ground meat in her hand as she lifts her head and raises a brow at me. “You can make homemade salad dressing?”
“My mom was a cook.” I shrug. “I’m not terrible, I suppose.”
“Well, we sure as fuck can’t cook in this house, so I’m sure whatever you come up with won’t be worse than this sauce I just made,” Leo says, and as I glance at him over my shoulder, he tastes the marinara, wincing when it hits his tongue.
“I could probably help with that too.” I laugh. “If you’d like.”
“Have at it, kid.” He tosses the wooden spoon on the rest. “I’m going to get wine-drunk with my wife.”
“Oh! I have something for you.” After her dad leaves the kitchen, Willow leaps over to the sink, washing her hands before opening the fridge and pulling out a small, white paper box. “They’re fresh. Dahlia made them this morning.”
She extends the box toward me, popping open the lid to reveal four square pieces of bright yellow lemon bars, finely dusted with powdered sugar.
“Oh. I . . .”
Willow pouts, plucking a square from the box and nudging it at my lips. “Please, Wes.”
I could be deathly allergic to lemon, and even then, those wide blue eyes and puffy pink lips would convince me to risk it all. Dammit. I open my mouth slightly, just enough for her to slide half the dessert inside, allowing me to take a bite.
It’s flavorful and soft and crumbly. The perfect balance of sour lemon and sugar.
She grins when a moan slips past my lips. “See? I knew I’d convince you that you like sweets.”
“It’s not sweet. It’s tart.” I wink, tossing her a closed lip smile as I finish chewing.
She pouts again, brows knitting. “Whatever,” she huffs. “You still like it.”
A laugh escapes me, and she takes the opportunity to shove the remainder of the lemon bar into my mouth.
She pushes a little too far, the tip of her finger hooking behind my bottom teeth.
Willow gasps as I close my lips around it, licking the sugary residue from her skin.
Her blue eyes flare, and if I’m not mistaken, her pupils expand as I pull back and her finger pops out of my mouth.
She stares at me with her full lips parted, rapid breath bursting out of them in sync with her expanding chest. I drag my gaze up the column of her throat, watching it move as she swallows hard before I reach her eyes again.
“You’re right, Wills. I do like them. Thanks for thinking of me.”
She blinks, dumbfounded, and a surge of pride floods my chest.
This is flirting. I’m definitely flirting.
I don’t flirt. I’ve never wanted to. I’ve never cared.
I’ve never had to bite my lip to stop a smile after watching a woman’s eyes widen at my touch.
I’ve never felt the urge to jump up and down after making someone blush the way Willow is right now.
I’ve never had my insides twist and lock and expand at the sound of a laugh the way they do when I hear Willow’s.
Like the very tides themselves are cresting and breaking and crashing inside my body at her command.
Like she’s the moon.
And fuck. I should not be feeling this way.
I shouldn’t be acting like this. I don’t know what came over me just then, and I’m sure all the playful courage I’m feeling right now will fade any second.
Maybe it’s the fact she thought of me enough to buy me pastries, that she was comfortable enough to shove them directly into my mouth.
I don’t stand this close to people. I don’t hold casual conversations about my truths and my fears. I don’t look forward to seeing anyone the way I do when I run into Willow. I anticipate her presence everywhere, all the time.
She’s off-limits, and it can’t ever go further than this. I’m painfully aware of that, but I guess for one brief moment, I wanted to pretend I could be playful and flirty and charming with a pretty girl whom I somehow make laugh, who somehow makes me feel like I matter.
Though, the longer Willow goes without responding, the more fleeting this newfound courage seems to be.
Shit. Maybe I crossed a line.
You sucked on her finger.
Yeah. I definitely crossed a line.
“I’m sorry,” I rush out. “Was that—”
Willow grabs my arm, using both hands to guide mine into the box of lemon bars.
She grasps my finger, swiping it through custard before lifting it to her mouth.
She flicks a brow at me, running her tongue up the length of my finger before wrapping her lips around it and sucking the lemon filling away.
And I’m hard.
“Ah,” I whimper. Whimper. Because she’s still touching me. She’s still smiling at me. Licking her lips with the same tongue that was just on my skin. Batting those unbelievably massive blue eyes with an innocence that’s somehow the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
“I can play too, Wes.”
Now I’m dumbfounded. Slack-jawed and staring.
Willow’s sultry blue eyes scan my body, and I curse the thin shorts I’m wearing as her gaze glides down my face and over my chest. I spin around, bracing my arms on the counter, turning my back to her.
“Yeah,” I say through gritted teeth. “Well, good game.”
Her laugh rakes along my bones, and I wonder if it’s possible for a simple sound to set one’s blood aflame.
“Weston, would it be inappropriate for me to ask you to make dinner every night?” Darby asks, twirling spaghetti around her fork.
“It’s what I miss most about having him at home. That’s for sure.” Carter nods.
“Rude.” I laugh, pointing my fork at him before turning to Darby. “And of course. I’m here to help with whatever you need.”
“Correct answer,” Leo responds. “But we won’t be asking you to do that. Weston’s here to surf.” He eyes me. “Right?”
I nod rapidly, going back to my food.
The remainder of the meal passes with comfortable conversation, and far too many stolen glances at Willow, who blushes every time she lifts her head and finds our gazes clashing. As if the room is in orbit, and we’re each the other’s center.
I can still taste her skin on my tongue. Still feel her tongue on my skin.
It was so simple—innocent, really. Yet I fear I may spend the rest of my life playing that interaction on a loop.
“Wes, I need to clear the table and do the dishes, but when I’m finished, why don’t we chat in the office?” Leo says, sliding out of his chair and nodding toward the kitchen. “Down the hallway, you’ll see it to your left just before you reach the back door.”
Willow’s head snaps up, eyes meeting mine before drifting to her dad’s. His gaze is pinned on her before it slides back to me, and though he offers me a smile, it feels laced with something harsher.
Fuck.
He saw us in the kitchen earlier. Heard us. Maybe he noticed my hard-on.
Are there cameras in here? I swivel my head, searching the room. I don’t see anything, but there is no way to be sure. When my eyes find Willow again, she only shrugs, smiling softly before excusing herself from the table.
I rise from my seat, slowly making my way down the hall. My footsteps echo with every stride, sounding like a squealed fuck, fuck, fuck with each press my heel makes into the floorboards.
I find the door Leo spoke of, and if I hadn’t been searching for it, I’m not sure I ever would’ve.
I slide open the barn-style door, painted the same shade of cream as the wall, revealing a small corner room.
Built-in, ceiling-high bookshelves line the entire space, with a corner nook beneath one window and a small desk between the shelves under the other.
The room is painted sage green, with accent wallpaper dotted with yellow flowers.
A small couch sits on the one bare wall beside the door.
I slip into the room and shut the door behind me, leaving it cracked just a sliver.
Circling the space, I think it almost more resembles a reading nook or home library than an office.
There must be hundreds of books, the entire room is lined with them.
Almost every space on every shelf is taken up by spines, with the exception of a few knickknacks and framed photos.
One picture in particular pulls my attention.
Leo and Darby ankle-deep in the waves, younger than they are now, on the beach I recognize as Celestia Cove.
They’re both crouched over a baby Willow as she sits cross-legged on a green surfboard.
She can’t be more than a year or so old.
Pudgy fingers wrap around each of her parents' pointer fingers, and she’s laughing with her eyes closed.
I guess she wasn’t lying when she said she’d been surfing longer than she’d been walking.