Chapter Wendy
Wendy
Peter Pan.
Seeing him again after all these years is positively surreal.
So is sitting in his office of a place he built with the knowledge he gained from his illegal work as a child. Probably not many success stories like that out there, and yet, here he is.
Wearing a grease-streaked wifebeater and a pair of coveralls hanging from his trim waist, he settles his muscular frame—big enough to belong to a heavyweight fighter with extensive tattoos to match—into his worn leather desk chair. He looks so different, nothing like the boy I once knew, and yet…
He looks everything like him. Same messy blond hair, same crystalline blue eyes promising adventure, and the smirk that was both innocent and mischievous at the same time.
Though, with the way he’s looking at me right now, that smirk doesn’t seem quite as innocent as it used to.
If he keeps that up, he’ll burn the clothes right off my body, and this meeting will get decidedly less professional, really quick.
Leaning back in his desk chair with his hands threaded over his flat stomach, Peter studies me like I’m a museum artifact. It takes every ounce of my self-control not to fidget in my seat across from him.
“LB Automotive, huh? That’s clever,” I say with a nervous smile. “Are all the Lost Boys here?”
“No, Hook has his own crew across town. It’s just me, Si, Carlos, Thomas, the twins, and Nick.”
“And Tink,” I add.
He nods. “And Tink.”
“She looked just as happy to see me as she ever did, if that wicked glare was anything to go by.”
“You know Tink. She’s always had a problem with mothers.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not anyone’s mother, Peter. I never was.”
“But that’s not what we pretended, was it?
” He asks the question like it’s a demand for admission.
For me to admit to the silly scenarios we played out as children.
Scenarios that turned more real with every passing year until, eventually, we acted like a true married couple in all the ways that mattered.
Heat swirls in my belly and settles into my cheeks. If I don’t change the subject to something more innocuous, he’ll be able to read my every thought.
“I’m proud of you, Peter. Despite all the odds stacked against you, you came out on top.”
“You doubted I would?”
“Of course not. You know I always believed you could.”
A hint of sadness flickers across his face before he sets his jaw, and his walls come down. “Just not if I stayed in Neverland.”
The barb stings enough that I wince, but it’s okay. I deserve to share the pain.
“Sorry,” he says, blowing out a breath and leaning forward to brace his forearms on his desk. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, it’s okay. I never should have asked you to leave. I was being selfish, wanting you to come with me.”
“No more selfish than me wanting you to stay.” Peter stares into my eyes like he’s trying to see our past in their reflection. “But I didn’t belong in your world any more than you belonged in mine. You leaving was for the best.”
“It didn’t break our hearts any less, though,” I say softly.
He gives me the signature Peter Pan half-shrug. “Broken things can be fixed; I do it every day. All you need are the right parts, a good set of tools, and the desire to get a little bit dirty and a whole lot sweaty.”
The crooked grin and wink he flashes me is all mischief, and I hope the flush I’m feeling isn’t visible above the scoop neck of my top. But then he chuckles, the sound deep and husky, and I know I have no such luck. “It’s good to know some things don’t change. Still as proper as ever, I see.”
I narrow my eyes at him and lie through my teeth. “I’m not all that proper, Peter.”
He arches a dubious brow and leans back again. “No? Then why don’t you come over here and show me just how not proper you really are, Wendy.”
I should’ve known he’d call my bluff, he always did. Dang it, why do I keep blushing like a schoolgirl with a crush? It’s been ten years and half a dozen relationships since I’ve seen this man. Any butterfly-flapping, skin-tingling, or spark-igniting feelings should be long dead and buried by now.
But those half a dozen relationships were never anything to write home about in the bedroom.
Not that I would have ever written home about my sex life—oh my God, my parents would have had heart attacks, not to mention, I would’ve died of embarrassment—and these…
these feelings that I’ve always had for Peter, make everything I’ve ever felt for another man pale in comparison.
“See?” he says, pulling me from my musings. “Wendy Moira Angela Darling, ever a lady. That’s okay, Wen. Your properness is one of the things I always liked about you.”
I arch a brow. “Then why were you always trying to get me to break the rules?”
Smiling wide, he leans back far enough to pop his feet onto the corner of his desk, lacing his fingers behind his head, which—Heaven help me—makes the muscles in his upper arms bulge deliciously.
“I’m pretty sure it’s Rule #1 in the Bad Boy Handbook: Find a good girl and convince her to break the rules.
It might be the only rule, actually. And I excelled at it, if I do say so myself. Which of course, I do.”
Rolling my eyes, I change the subject before his ego gets too big to fit through his office door. “Well, I’m not here to break any rules now. I’m here to hire you to rebuild a classic car for me.”
His eyes narrow slightly, and his feet hit the floor. For several seconds, he just stares at me. “I didn’t realize you were here on business.”
That pulls me up short and twists the metaphorical knife I’ve lived with for ten years.
The day I left Peter—chose to leave Peter—felt like I’d plunged a blade into my chest. I kept telling myself I’d come back, but between college and internships that demanded all my free time, months turned into years, and eventually, I was too scared to come home.
I’d convinced myself that maybe Peter had only thought he loved me because he’d never known another girl who wasn’t his pseudo-sister.
Or maybe he’d moved on and found someone else to share adventures with and dance beneath the stars.
It was cowardly, I know, but girl logic doesn’t always make the best sense, and my heart had decided not knowing was better than breaking all over again. So I stayed away…until now.
Tilting my head, I ask carefully, “Why did you think I came?”
Something runs through his mind; I can see it just barely there, and then he closes down all over again.
Pushing to his feet, he moves to lean on the wall, crossing his arms as he studies me.
“I didn’t really give it much thought. But business purposes are just as good a reason as any other. Tell me what you need.”
Dark clouds hang over us, fat and heavy with all the things we’re not saying. But neither of us are ready to incite that storm, so I push it back and focus on my immediate concern. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the annual Love for Littles event.”
“You mean the ritzy party that London’s elite uses as an excuse to get dressed up and throw their money around for charity?”
“Yes, I mean the huge fundraiser gala that raises hundreds of thousands of dollars every year for the Children’s Hospital of London,” I tactfully correct.
“This year, the proceeds aren’t only going to the hospital but also to a non-profit organization that helps children in foster care, so it needs to be bigger than ever. ”
“Huh,” he says, rubbing his chin. “I’m surprised the hospital board is willing to share, even if it is another good cause for kids.”
“Truth be told, they did need a little convincing, but the new social worker at the hospital also runs the Lost Ones of London, so he had some pull.”
I make sure to leave out the minor details that L.O.L. is my mother’s foundation, which is run by Michael, who also happens to be the hospital’s new pediatric social worker. The last thing I want to be accused of is nepotism.
“Okay, so what does this event have to do with you?”
“Right, sorry. The event planner who organized it for years moved to California to become a wedding planner to the stars or something. It wasn’t easy, but,” I pause for dramatic effect and for the mental squeal I still do whenever I think about my hard-earned victory, “I won the account.”
Peter stares at me expectantly, like he’s waiting for the punchline. “For…your financial firm?”
“Oh! I forgot that you— Sorry, no, that’s not what I mean.
I actually quit being a financial advisor about a year ago and started my own event planning business.
See? A proper girl would’ve stayed in the career she spent years in school and paid a sickening amount of money for, even if it was stressing her out to the point of chronic migraines and severe anxiety. ”
He frowns, his brows crinkling together. “I don’t know, sounds like you made the right choice to me.”
Yeah, tell that to my father who’s convinced I’m throwing away a solid career in financing to be one step above a children’s party clown. Just because I’ve never done anything larger than birthday parties and baby showers doesn’t mean that’s all I’m capable of.
Landing this account means the world to me.
It’s my chance to make a name for myself in this highly competitive industry.
My chance to prove that I have what it takes to organize large-scale, big budget events.
And maybe more importantly, my chance to show my dad that following my heart—instead of continuing down the path he paved for me—wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life.