—19— Wyatt
Wyatt
I think it’s Monday morning when I head over to Diego’s door, calmly knock, he answers, and I scrunch my face up and ask, “Did I leave one of my socks here?”
Diego shrugs. “Wanna check?”
“Thanks.” I head inside. And I check.
And an hour later, we’re naked on his bed again, his hand held tightly over my mouth as I moan against his fingers while he fucks me halfway to insanity.
Then we drop onto the bed, sweaty messes, both of us, and I spot my sock on the floor. Oh, there it is.
It’s Tuesday after work that I’m in my kitchen waiting on the microwave to ding with my ramen when someone’s at the door. I answer. Diego in a sexy, grease-stained t-shirt and his work pants, face half-scowling. “Is it bad if an orchid leaf turns yellowish?”
“Let me see,” I tell him, ditching my ramen, then follow him over to his house.
And into his bedroom.
And out of his clothes.
And mine.
Then his back slamming against a dresser and sending a lamp tumbling to the floor that neither of us notice as we grapple with each other’s bodies, lips locked, hands everywhere.
And an hour later, finishing on the floor, out of breath, staring up where I spot a tiny crack near the ceiling fan.
The orchid’s fine, by the way.
Wednesday morning, Diego arrives at my doorstep, insisting he needs to check that my “wonky shelf” in my greenhouse is still level to protect Rapunzel from letting down all her hair. Shelf is fine, it turns out, same as it was before.
So I ask him if he’d like to stay for a bite before work.
He stays for so much more.
I’m nearly an hour and a half late to the flower shop, where I find Cash leaning against the door with a frown. “What happened? Did one of your plants grow hands and pin you down to the bed to sleep in so late?”
I wipe a bead of sweat off my forehead and smile. “More or less.” Then I let us in, Cash giving me a funny look.
I close the shop at lunchtime and run to the Strong ranch to have my gardening consultation with Mayor Nadine.
It looks very different when there’s not a big event or party being hosted here; no explosions of lights and over-the-top decorations, nearly calm, peaceful, a total countryside utopia complete with a long fence-lined pathway leading to a pond around which Billy and Tanner’s little house is situated.
For over an hour and a half (longer than Nadine insisted our meeting would take) we sit at a table by one of her back windows overlooking the garden, and I enjoy a glass of the best damned sweet tea I’ve ever tasted, while she forgets what she called me over for, rambling about everything that’s bugging her, from her husband’s birthday tomorrow to her mother-in-law flying in and wanting to stay for three weeks instead of three days.
“It’s not that I don’t love the woman for bringin’ the man of my dreams into existence,” she says flatly, “but every time she stays here, I swear I lose half my hair tryin’ to keep her entertained.
I’m best as a short-term hostess. Party.
Event. In and out. How do you keep a smile on your face that long before it just falls right off? ”
I suddenly think of Diego’s remark about my plastic smiles in our thunderstorm room. “Showing others your kindness isn’t the worst thing,” I murmur half to myself.
She pauses between sips of tea. “I suppose not.” She smirks. “Assumin’ others deserve a lick of it,” she adds, then goes for a sip.
My eyes drop to my own glass.
“Goodness, listen to me goin’ on and on.
How’ve you been? I don’t know the last time you and I have had an actual chat since your parents went on their road trip—Is that what we’re callin’ it?
A road trip? Never mind. You’ve been carryin’ the burden all by yourself of that little shop, haven’t you?
Runnin’ a business ain’t easy. I already lost one.
Cold Spoon, remember that? No, I do not blame sweet Billy or his lovely T&S’s, everyone always asks, nope, not even a little.
Runnin’ my Nadine’s out in Fairview ain’t a walk in the—Goodness, I’m talkin’ about myself again after just askin’ how you are!
Tell me. I’ll shut up. Promise.” She sets down her tea and leans forward.
“How’re you copin’ with the Valdezes leavin’? ”
I fumble with my glass. “I’m … It … takes a bit of adjusting.”
“Heard their nephew’s lookin’ after the place ‘til it’s sold?”
I swallow hard. “He sure is.”
“You two were at the Ball together.” She smiles. “Heard about it from my assistant Malcolm. Oh, shoot, that isn’t what I’m callin’ him anymore. What’s his new title?” She gives up after two and a half seconds. “It just warms my heart seein’ fresh faces connecting in town, gettin’ closer.”
If only she knew how close we were getting.
How much we’re connecting.
“Now I don’t know much about the nephew,” she admits, “but if he’s anything like his Aunt Lottie and Uncle Marcos, he’s fiercely loyal, maybe to a fault, and will never let you down as a friend.
I was one of Lottie’s bridesmaids,” she then whispers to me, like it’s some long-kept Spruce secret.
“I won’t say much more than that, except that I wasn’t supposed to be, it was a last-minute thing, and I sure saved the day ‘cause otherwise there wasn’t anyone gonna be up on that stage on her side.
People need to learn the value of commitment and honor nowadays, ‘cause it’s in short supply.
Like your tea,” she adds, pointing at my glass. “I’ll refill you.”
And off she goes, leaving me thinking about commitment and honor. And fiercely loyal people.
And Diego’s hard, powerful eyes bearing down into mine.
And his warmth.
And that evening, I arrive home at the same time as he does, me in my car, Diego walking up the sidewalk.
I’d offered him a ride to work earlier this morning, but he made up something about needing to walk, maybe a kind of post-sex cardio, I have no idea, I didn’t think much of it.
And now, I’m watching him walk up his driveway to the front door of the house like he doesn’t see me.
He pauses on the porch, hand on the railing, and after a long moment of hesitation, he finally glances my way.
He says nothing. Shows nothing on his face.
Just his usual hot and detached glower while he eats me with his eyes for dinner.
Then he heads inside.
And leaves the front door open.
I swallow, depart my car, and head over without a thought.
He’s standing in the kitchen, leaned back against the counter. There’s a grease mark across his forehead. His work shirt’s already off, balled up in his hand like nothing, revealing his wrinkled tank top undershirt, his dark blue work pants still on.
The cocktail aroma of diesel fuel, grease, and Diego’s sweat is quickly becoming my favorite aphrodisiac.
He doesn’t even say anything. For some reason, I don’t either. I just shut the door behind me and come across the kitchen. Even in front of him, he’s just staring me down like a challenge, waiting to see what I’ll do, waiting for my first move.
I take a handful of his sweaty tank top, give it a tug, and bring our lips together.
Here we go again.
We finish in the living room. As per usual, he doesn’t make a big deal afterwards, padding over to the laundry room buck naked with his clothes balled up. I tried starting up a little conversation the last few times, but it always fizzles out fast.
He doesn’t exactly tell me to leave.
But doesn’t ask me to stay, either.
Tonight, I decide to stay. “I could make us a pretty mean salad with what you’ve got here,” I tell him. “Hungry?”
“Sure,” he says, now in just a pair of boxers, as he starts to set the table and get us drinks.
We eat in silence, though it doesn’t feel awkward or tension-filled.
He appears content. So do I. Neither of us seem to feel the need to fill the silence.
He catches my eyes a few times across the table.
I take another forkful into my mouth and wonder what he’s thinking.
His foot grazes mine under the table, then pulls back.
I gnaw on my lip, wondering if that was an accident, or if he’s doing that thing he always does, communicating in his oddly flirty ways.
It’s immediately after taking his last bite that he says, “Need a shower.”
I set my glass down. “Oh, uh … yeah. Me too.”
He gets up from the table and heads to the bathroom.
And leaves the door open.
This is starting to become his language.
He runs the water, strips his boxers, and enters the shower. I watch his blurred shape through the glass for a while, visible from here at the table. Then I get up, ditch whatever’s left of my own salad, and head to him.
Strip down.
Step inside.
Diego’s already facing me like he’s been impatiently waiting for hours. He wraps his arms around the small of my back at once, tugs me against him with urgency, and opens his lips onto mine. I barely catch my breath before he spins me around and presses me to the wall.
You can say we get a lot dirtier before we ever get clean.
“Thanks for saving me some money on my water bill tonight,” I tease later when I’m heading out the door.
“Not paying it anyway,” he says back, arms folded, leaning on the wall as he watches me go.
I lie in bed that night with a big smile on my face, thumbing through my phone as I hum to myself, clearing notifications.
I get another condescending email from Grant Bellamy, whose event is (finally) coming up soon, but for whom I will never do enough.
But tonight, I feel unspeakably immune to his taunting, even if it’s just a particular arrangement of words in an email, no actual tone of voice existing, only implied.
I set him aside for the morning and turn my face to the window.
All I see is the fence that separates our backyards, but I feel Diego as if he might as well be holding me from behind, clutched against his strong body.
Breathing in my ear.
I wonder if he snores.
Then I wonder if I snore.