Chapter 6 Carissa
Chapter six
Carissa
What the hell is this?
No matter how much makeup and how many ridiculous layers of clothing, no matter the wig, the hat, and the fake beard—no matter what—I’m always going to know it’s Wilder standing at my front door, ringing the bell, and if I know, then…
I race from the kitchen, where my phone dinged with the notification that someone was on the doorstep, straight to the front entrance. I whip open the door like a hurricane-strength wind is snatching the damn thing, nearly tearing it off its hinges, and tug him inside.
My first reaction should be fury that he’s here when I was pretty darned specific about this being the last place he should show up, but how can I muster annoyance or anger toward a man dressed in a green and red plaid blazer, a velvet top hat, thick black-rimmed glasses, a footlong fake beard, red leather pants tight enough that grease was probably involved to get them on, snakeskin boots, and a long black wig to top it all off?
I release Wilder’s bicep as soon as I have the door shut and locked, as if there’s a herd of rabid fans chasing after him. I do race to the window and part the blinds to look outside, but there’s no one that I can see.
My fingers might also need a second to recover from being wrapped around Wilder’s arm.
Even if I didn’t touch his skin, I still touched something that’s in contact with his skin, which means buzzing.
A whole lot of bees sewn under my skin in a disturbed hive with a massive bunch of lip-licking, honey-eating predators salivating close by type of buzzing.
I suck it up and pretend like my whole insides haven’t gone straight-up livewire. It’s a lie. My face is hot. My nipples are hot. My stomach hurts from the sudden fireworks exploding in my ovaries. And my panties are wet, which I’m pretty sure doesn’t go well with electricity.
“Are you insane?” I hiss, summoning some indignation just because I should have a right to feel it. “What are you doing here?”
If I’d known he was coming, I would have said no, obviously, but I also would have worn something other than old jean shorts and an oversized black T-shirt with a dancing pickle riding an eagle soaring between the clouds, yelling, “Surf’s up, dude!”
As if to back me up, Woof Woof Dog paces into the room. He’s an Old English Sheepdog. My mom rescued him two years ago. She was lonely with me being gone on tours all the time, and she claimed the cats were lonely too. At least that’s what she says every single time she adopts another pet.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe she’s a therapist, but the cats and the dog are family. I’m never going to give her a hard time about them. I adore them.
Woof Woof Dog stands there, more hair than beast, more mop than hair.
He can smell Wilder, so he stares in the right direction.
I’m just not sure he can actually see him.
His ponytail fell out half an hour ago in the backyard, and I haven’t been able to get him to sit still to tame it back again.
He sniffs, goes rigid, and lets out a tremendous bark followed by an explosive fart.
Wilder’s mouth drops. “Did your dog just fart at me?”
“He farts a lot in general. Don’t take it personally.”
“Is he… friendly?” Wilder asks.
I’ve never seen anyone look more uncertain.
“He is,” I reply. “He’s just not that into men. He used to belong to an old lady who had had him since he was a puppy. She’s the one who named him. Woof Woof Dog. I have to say, it’s the best name I’ve ever heard.”
Wilder gives me the polite look of someone who isn’t so certain, but would never say so. “The stick thing out front makes sense. I love that, by the way.”
“Oh! The stick library. Leave a stick, take a stick. Woof Woof Dog is a stick thief. I felt so bad that he’d gathered up all these sticks from all over the neighborhood.
What if those sticks belonged to other dogs, and they were missing them?
I had to create something to give back. I didn’t want him collecting up a bunch of bad karma. ”
Wilder blinks at me, trying to gauge if I’m serious or not.
I am. It’s exactly why I made the little building out front by the start of the sidewalk.
“When Woof Woof Dog’s original owner had to move into a care home, she couldn’t take the dog with her.
He had to go to a shelter, and it was incredibly traumatizing.
My mom volunteers there, so she helped with his intake.
He was so shut down that he was deemed unadoptable.
She took him home. She couldn’t let anything happen to him.
She got in touch with his old owner and visited her until she passed away a few months ago.
My mom took Woof Woof Dog every single time she went, and they’d wheel his old owner out so she could see him. ”
He blinks, then blinks again and again behind those thick-rimmed glasses. “That’s very kind of your mom,” he says, obviously touched.
It was. It is. My mom is one of the best people I know.
“He doesn’t have a lot of contact with men. It’s not that he doesn’t like them. He’s just unsure. Especially when you’re the one coming into the house. He’s better on walks or in the park or whatever. Men are in their natural habitat there.” For the love of lemon trees, did I really just say that?
“Men are in their natural habitat at the park?”
“You know what I mean.”
“At the dog park?”
“I did not say that. Or think it.” I’m getting flustered. I dig my hand into Woof Woof Dog’s shaggy, frizzy hair and scratch between his ears. His long pink tongue lolls out. I shouldn’t be the one flustered. I didn’t disobey someone’s express wishes.
I’m not the one wearing a fucking top hat.
I’m not the one who looks sinfully delicious in a top hat. Damn it.
“Why are you here?” I ask again. And I’m interrupted again by three cats careening down the hall.
They start from the bedrooms, so they really get going, and they come racing down to the door on the hardwood, but they have zero traction, so they all skid out, one after another.
Murphy, the hairy tuxedo cat, slams into the back of Pumpkin’s arse, who slams headfirst into Maggie’s rather rotund back end.
She turns around and hisses at the boys.
She’s a fifteen-year-old gray senior cat, and she likes to keep the boys in line.
Pumpkin can’t help himself. He’s an orange cat, and the whole world knows about them now.
Murphy tries to be good, but he’s the youngest at just a year old, and he pretty much follows Pumpkin’s lead, and Pumpkin may or may not have absolute menace in him.
Maggie hisses at Pumpkin, who smacks Murphy for no reason. Then Maggie takes off, Pumpkin chases after her, and Murphy brings up the rear of the feline tornado on its way to tear the living room apart.
Wilder grins. Not his smirky grin, but a full-on dimple grin.
In that fake beard and wig, his beefcake factor is way beefed up and off-the-charts cakier.
It’s no wonder my hormones stand zero chance.
Did I mention what those glasses do for his gorgeous eyes?
This is unfair. He has an unfair advantage just by existing.
It’s pure hormone homicide when he sweeps off that top hat like a nineteenth-century gentleman and bows from the waist.
Woof Woof Dog growls but also waggles his fuzzy bottom and shuffles his Bigfoot-inspired paws.
“You thought this would be a good disguise?” I aim for contempt but fail horribly. His disarming, charming grin makes it pretty much impossible to be scowly.
“I did, yes. You have a dog. And cats.”
“You thought you wouldn’t draw any attention wearing something like that? Sonoma is a small town. If someone shows up looking like they’re going on stage for some kind of wild play, people are going to notice.”
“It’s the middle of the day. I figured a good portion of the neighborhood would be at work.”
I sigh. “Did your driver recognize you?”
“Not a chance.”
“Not a chance or not a chance as in they pretended not to while secretly taking photos and posting them all over the internet?”
He shakes his head, causing the long wig and beard to dance in tandem. “No one recognized me.”
“I did. In one point eight nine two seconds in the tiny notification square that comes up on my phone screen.”
He wriggles his toes. “I think the boots are great. And the pants. I might make them both a wardrobe staple.”
Staring at those pants is like looking directly into the sun.
They’re not just a bright, shiny red—the universal color of smashing.
Good god. Are you seriously going there?
We do not smash our boss. We pass our boss.
Yeah, well, he’s not our boss anymore, is he?
It’s the pants. They put evil ideas into my head.
And my vagina.
Maybe.
Definitely.
They’re tight, riding low on Wilder’s muscular hips so his entire Adonis V sticks out. And his T-shirt is so tight that all his abs are outlined against the fabric.
But alas, those pants.
Other things stick out against the tightness.
Knob.
Erm. That is my most professional, medical, and educated way of putting it. Probably a good deal of crack in the back too.
Fuck. Me. Sideways. All ways. Always.
Even in the wild getup, it’s still Wilder underneath that. He’s here. He came to my house. It took him eight days, but he’s. Still. Here. He took the time to don a wig, somehow attach a fake beard, and put together this wild outfit made out of clothes that I know for a fact he didn’t already own.
Do I know that for a fact?
Yes. I’ve been up close and personal with Wilder’s wardrobe for the past half a decade. I know for certain he isn’t a snakeskin, red leather, plaid person. Certainly not all three together.
It shouldn’t, but my body goes from shivery to pinchy, specifically in the chest and eye area. A small whimper escapes the confines of my throat.