Chapter 17
Seventeen
Now
CJ
I’m scrubbing off the last traces of my server camouflage makeup when there’s a knock and the office door creaks open.
“Hey,” I say. "Thanks for helping m—“
The words die on my lips because that’s sure as hell not Liv or Becks here to help with my zipper.
My best friend did me so dirty.
“Um.” I clutch the makeup wipe to my chest, which is still covered in the cursed elf sweater. “Where's the nice Jones?"
"Hollis is busy," Wyatt says.
"The nice girl Jones," I amend testily.
"Are you saying you prefer one of my sisters over the other?"
"Actually,” I toss the makeup-streaked cloth into the wastebasket next to the mirror. “I changed my mind. I’ll just stay an elf until I die.”
He wanders into the room like he owns the place and runs his thumb along the frame of the nearest painting, leaning close to peer at the watercolor lilies.
“Becks was clearing tables,” he says. “So was Drea.”
“And Liv?”
“Didn’t seem to be up to anything in particular.” He ambles to the desk now, rotating the pencil cup, then spinning it back into its original position. “But far be it from me to argue with my future sister-in-law when she makes a request.”
“Gee, what a nice guy.” I grab my micellar water and turn back to the mirror. While I attack the remnants of my clumpy mascara, I remind myself not to get weird about Wyatt seeing me without any makeup on. He almost certainly doesn’t care either way, so neither should I.
Once my skin is shiny, pink, and naked as the day I was born, I turn around… and nearly swallow my tongue.
“Who taught you how to sit?” I choke out.
He stares at me in confusion, but fuck. He’s invaded, conquered, and thoroughly occupied the office couch, parking his fine ass right in the middle, resting his ankle on his knee, and sprawling back to stretch his arms across the sofa back on either side.
His tux jacket’s open, and his shirt clings to his stupidly attractive torso, from thick chest to trim waist. And all I want to do is crawl into his lap, pop open every button hiding that body from me, and lick my way down, then back up, then down again.
It’s too much for my poor brain, and I whip around to face the wall, praying he didn’t hear my whimper.
“CJ?” he says in a low rumble. “What’s got you turning red?”
My eyes snap to the mirror, and of course, he can see my reflection from the couch. Oh god.
“Nothing,” I reply quickly.
“CJ.” He says my name again, his voice full of command. When I turn around again, he crooks a finger at me, and I swear, I almost come on the spot.
My swallow’s audible as I cross the small space and he straightens from his sprawl on the couch, dropping his crossed leg and spreading his knees wider.
“W-what…” I wet my lips and try again. “What do you want?”
He shakes his head. “Not what I want. What you need.”
His fingers catch the edge of my elf skirt and gently tug me forward until I’m standing between his thighs. I haven’t turned on the overheads in favor of the lamps in the corners of the room, and his eyes glint in the soft light.
“I've seen how much trouble you have with wardrobe changes.” Before I can respond, one of his hands is on my waist; the other brushes up my side to catch the zipper tab under the arm of my sweater.
Our gazes lock, and I whisper, “This isn’t what I needed help with.”
“No?”
I shake my head. “My party dress.” I gestured weakly over my shoulder to the garment bag hanging on the coatrack. “Zipper.”
“Ah. So you don’t need my help taking this off?”
I shake my head, still unable to pull my eyes away from his.
“Then I guess the question is, do you want my help?”
Yes. No. Fuck if I know.
While I’m staring at him in frozen uncertainty, he stands, and I’m forced to lift my chin up to maintain this breath-stealing eye contact.
His finger still toys with the zipper as he asks, “Ready?”
That’s what he says, anyway. But I hear what he's really asking: Am I okay with him undressing me? My heart gives a little squeeze at the way he’s checking in.
"Yeah," I say, my voice huskier than I intend it to be. I clear my throat and say more clearly, “Yes.”
His mouth curls even more as he slowly drags the zipper down, and I’m very aware that he can feel the tremor that runs through me at the contact.
Although his eyes are steady on mine, something’s off.
They don’t burn the way they did last December in my office.
I don’t even see that light that fills them when we’re hating one another at the top of our lungs.
I can’t read anything there, in fact, and it snuffs out the fire that’s been sweeping through my body.
”What are you doing, really?” I ask.
“I told you, Liv sent m—”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.” His smile doesn’t waver, and I give a strangled scream. “Stop hiding behind that smirk! You ran out of that kitchen just now to get away from me, and you ran after Reese and her new man right before that.”
“The fuck I did,” he snaps.
“Okay.” There’s not an ounce of belief in my voice.
His carefully blank expression is gone now, thank fuck, replaced by the gathering storm I’m used to.
“How many times do I have to…” He jams his hands into his hair and stalks away from me, then turns and gets right back in my face.
“We broke up last May! I was recovering from surgery, and she moved out. Thank fuck for that, by the way. But she can’t seem to let go of anything about me that also involves you. ”
“Why?” I toss my hands in the air, and the chill hitting my ribs reminds me that I’m halfway out of this polyester prison thanks to Wyatt’s zipper work.
I yank it the rest of the way over my head and slam it to the ground, groaning in relief even though the sweater itself is unsatisfyingly silent when it hits the ground. “Thank fuck for that.”
Wyatt’s now-activated eyes drop to my breasts, and I groan again. “Nuh-uh. This is my least cute bra. Turn around.”
“No,” he says around a throat full of gravel.
“Wyatt!” I snap my fingers, pulling his attention to my face, and make a turnaround motion with my fingers. A muscle in his jaw jumps, but he does what I ask, although his eyes stay locked on my tits until the last possible millisecond.
“You’re going to stay facing the wall while we talk some things out, okay?” He starts to turn back around, so I add, “Either face away and talk to me, or get out.”
After a beat, he nods. “Okay.”
Once I’m satisfied that he’s going to obey, I settle on the floor and grab my makeup kit and light-up mirror from my bag to put my CJ face on while we have this out.
“Let’s start with why you and Reese broke up,” I suggest as I smooth on the primer.
“Let’s start with me handing out another slice of my liver,” he grumbles to the wall.
“I can also kick you out.”
“Fine.” His shoulders tense again. “After the surgery, when I really needed someone, she couldn’t handle it. Or maybe she could, but she didn’t want to. She was just so impatient for me to get back to normal.”
I might be a genius. It’s so much easier to have this conversation without looking at each other.
“What happened?” Based on what I’ve picked up from Liv and his sisters, and hell, from Wyatt himself, it wasn’t a smooth procedure, but I don’t know how much he’ll be willing to share.
“Mom had a metabolic liver disease and needed a transplant. I was a match.” His back quivers in a small laugh. “Holly was so pissed. He wanted to be the one to donate, even though we all joked that the scar would cut into his earnings as a dancer.”
I laugh too, but it dies quickly. The scar. Of course Wyatt has a scar.
“Anyway, the surgery went fine, but I had a longer recovery. The surgical site got infected, so I ended up in and out of the hospital. It was… not fun.”
I pause in the middle of dabbing on my foundation. “That’s why you were so thin last summer.”
He nods, his hands clenching and releasing.
“How’s your mom doing?”
“Great.” There’s relief in his voice. Joy, even. “She’s doing great. Expected to live a long, healthy life.”
“I’m so glad.” I only pause a moment before asking, “And you?”
“I’m good now too. Last year was the worst of my life, but this past year’s been better. Normal.”
“Other than you being single for the first time in ages,” I point out, my stomach swooping as I say the words out loud.
“That actually feels normal too.”
Maybe it’s because I’m so focused on not messing up my eyeliner, but my next question just tumbles out. “Why were you with her?”
He laughs. “God, you sound like my sisters. And my mom. And Hollis and Gabe.” Still facing away from me, he moves to the corner and props his shoulder against the wall next to the painting that caught his interest earlier.
“I kind of slid into it by accident. We had drinks one night, and the next thing I knew, we were celebrating our first anniversary.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets. “We always made sense on paper, and we have a lot of the same goals and drive. I convinced myself it’s what a mature relationship was supposed to look like. Calm and rational. Not…”
“Not what?” When did my hands start trembling? I set my mascara down until I can get myself under control.
“Not what I have with you.”
I suck in a breath, ready to yell or maybe cry, but he jerks his head to the right, not far enough to break our agreement but enough that I can see his strong jaw and furrowed brow.
“Let me finish, Parrish,” he growls. “What I felt for you was just… chaos. And terrifying. And not at all like me. You made me feel out of control that first night and then every time we met after. And Reese was the opposite of that.”
“Well, congrats. You spent the past half a decade with the anti-CJ.” My hands are steady now, and I apply the mascara to my lashes. Not a clump to be seen, so at least I have that going for me. “Face the wall again, please.”
He doesn’t immediately comply, so I sharpen my voice.
"I mean it. I’m changing clothes now, including my bra. Wall, and no turning around.”