—19— Wyatt #2
Is it too soon to sleep over at one another’s house? Or is Diego too afraid Mrs. “Patty” Parker will spot us from halfway down the street and share the news with her Thursday afternoon book club?
For some reason, that thought lingers with me long into the next day. I’m at the counter of the flower shop picking at my nails, a dozen tasks I could be getting done, but all I’m doing is staring ahead thinking about the most absurd things.
Like Diego and I holding hands.
Taking a walk together around town.
Him showing up at my doorstep with a bouquet of flowers.
Suddenly I burst out laughing. Uncontrollable laughter. I can’t stop myself for a solid minute, even covering my mouth.
Good thing I have no customers right now. They’d probably think my last screw hit the floor.
Then I wonder why I found that so funny. Is it such an absurd thought? I made us dinner last night. He enjoyed it and didn’t kick me out. Just because he doesn’t show his feelings doesn’t mean he has none, right? What if this is normal for him? What if he doesn’t do relationships?
I can handle that, right?
This can just be a casual thing.
A casual getting nailed by my former neighbor’s hot nephew thing.
Then I think about what Nadine said yesterday while we were busy not discussing her garden. How if Diego is anything like his aunt and uncle, then he’s fiercely loyal too. Absolutely nothing he’s done provides evidence to the contrary.
So what is this between us? A casual thing? Or a serious one?
Can something casual … also be serious …?
Jacky-Ann stops by just before closing to pick out a birthday gift for Nadine’s husband Paul, but can’t quite make up her mind, and everything I suggest is “totally lovely but just not quite right”.
Also, the gift isn’t from Jacky-Ann. It’s from Nadine.
Nadine is way too busy planning Paul’s surprise birthday dinner taking place out on his brother’s ranch to get him a gift, too, and she was totally planning on asking me about it yesterday but naturally forgot.
A potted citrus tree is almost the clear winner until Jacky-Ann sighs and says, “It’s beautiful but feels like homework to deal with, doesn’t it?
Like we’re giving him chores.” We pivot to a potential custom handcrafted orchid arrangement.
Elegant. Just a tad pricy. Something a mayor would totally get her husband.
But when we get to the register, she says, “But it’s so fragile.
What if Paul kills it? What’ll Nadine think?
Is that symbolic in the wrong way?” So we try a curated birthday bouquet in his favorite colors.
“Too casual.” We try a small flowering bonsai.
“Paul’s gonna think Nadine gave him a tiny tree and is tryin’ to say somethin’ about somethin’. ”
After keeping me forty-four minutes past closing, she settles on a garden-themed coffee table book and a jar of artisanal honey.
“Nadine’s been trying to get Paul to read, and who doesn’t like honey? That’s one thing we could use more of in this town. Honey! Bees! This is just perfect. Perfect, perfect, perfect … I think.”
Then she adds the birthday bouquet back in.
And a second jar of honey.
I suspect she’s getting the second honey for herself.
By the time she goes, I’m rubbing the back of my neck like no one’s business, working out a crick. I lock up and drive home while fighting off a stubborn yawn, then seem to hit a crowd of people trying to cross the road at every intersection.
Pulling up to my house, I see Diego under the hood, working hard. He doesn’t look up when I park my car and get out. I quietly approach, still rubbing my neck. Still doesn’t look up. I stand right by him, watching as he tinkers away.
Then, after a minute or two: “Hand me the—”
I’ve already got the wrench, setting it onto his outstretched palm. He looks up, appears surprised for the teensiest fraction of a second, then goes right back under the hood.
“Didn’t think you even noticed me,” I tease.
“How can I not?” he mumbles.
And doesn’t explain what he means.
Was that a good thing? Or a diss? Did I clomp over the grass or something?
Or does he mean he always notices me?
“Something wrong?” he asks.
It might be the first time he’s ever asked something sensitive about me. How I’m feeling.
I’m pleasantly taken aback.
Then, annoyed, he adds: “You keep rubbing your dang neck.”
Oh. “I was just … well …” I drop my hand. “It’s this lady at the flower shop. Jacky-Ann. Housekeeper-slash-honorary-member of the Strong family. She …” Suddenly I don’t need to chew his ear off about it. “I’m just working out a bad crick is all.”
He comes out from under the hood, wipes his hands off on a rag over his shoulder, then nods. “Lemme see it.”
“Nah, it’s okay, I’m fine.”
“Wyatt.”
“No, really, it’s just a—”
He stands right in front of me. Places his hands firmly on my shoulders. Squeezes deeply.
I stare at him, inches from his face, surprised.
I don’t know why he’s massaging my shoulders from the front like this. Shouldn’t he have turned me around?
But the way his fingers find the strength to dig into me this way. And how, regardless of what I think, he’s totally hitting the spots in the base of my neck and shoulders that were giving me trouble. And the more he kneads my neck, the more I seem to fall toward him, putty in his big hands.
The stresses of my day are gone.
Don’t even remember what Jacky-Ann finally settled on.
No longer wondering what Nadine secretly thinks of me and my “connection” with my former neighbors’ nephew.
Couldn’t care less whether Cash decided to come in to whine about his Nico or the what’s-her-name caught between them.
I just stand here, trying not to let my eyes rock back, staring into Diego’s stern, iron-hard gaze as he works my sore neck and shoulders into a soup.
I drown in his intoxicatingly manly aroma, full of grease and irresistible sweat.
Even his hands, despite wiping them off, are still gritty with his work, and I can’t explain it, but it’s so fucking hot to feel them pressing against my skin, thumbing into me, like some magic, loving kind of exfoliant.
Extracting all my bad.
Fill me with all his good.
Massaging me into sweet bliss in the process.
“Do you charge by the hour?” I ask.
His face tightens. “You can’t afford me.”
“Probably not. This a trial run, then?”
“Maybe.”
He’s so sexy when he shows me his sense of humor.
Even when his handsome face remains as blank as a stone and indicates in no way whatsoever that he’s actually joking.
I feel privileged to likely be the only person on the planet to see this side of him. I have a feeling he shows it to few others.
If anyone at all.
“Do you have a full-body package?” I ask.
“Fuckin’ horn dog,” he grunts back.
I drop my jaw, acting offended.
He grabs me around the waist, flips me over his shoulder with stunning ease, and carries me straight into his house as I laugh out in protest.
After the caveman haul, I’m set down on the edge of his bed with unexpected tenderness.
Then he proceeds to slip my shirt off my body, undo and remove my pants, tug down my underwear, and lay me on my back.
Then Diego stands before my naked body like a mountain, comically tall, shadowed on one side, stripes of glowing light cast over the other from the blinds.
The mountain sheds his sweaty tank top. Kicks off his pants like they piss him off suddenly.
Never once smiling. Naked now, just as I am.