My eyes roll at the same time I shove my mailbox key into the lock. “Mamma, I really really am all flowered out. Can you please talk about something else? Qualunque altra cosa.”
She lets out a happy chuckle. “Scusate, sweetheart. I’m just so excited Paxton is getting married.”
A deep sigh shoots out of me. “I know.”
Her and Papà both are thrilled that my big brother is getting married, that they have a new daughter in law and grandchild to spoil. They’re thrilled they get along with Ryann’s parents. Thrilled that they’re being included in the process. And of course, thrilled at the family Christmases and vacations now possible. They’ve both also managed to use those topics as ways to criticize me for still not being active enough in this growing family. Mamma leaps on every opportunity to compare our fractured relationship to the perfect one Ryann shares with her mother. Papà brags about how proud he is Ryann’s making an effort to learn more Italian and teach it to her side while chastising me for not using it enough. They have all the time in the world to bitch about what I’m not doing, but have either of them expressed pride or even acknowledged the possible deal I may have with one of the biggest undergarment companies in the entire world? No. But that’s no surprise considering neither of them seemed excited when I had a fashion show or was asked to design a special lingerie set for a Duchess. I’ve accepted that they’re more invested in Paxton’s world than they are mine. I understand I’m partially to be blame. It’s not like I was hell bent on bridging the gap that was created. Then again, they were always more engrossed in what big brother wanted to do and where he was going than they were with their girly girl.
“How are you?” Mamma finally manages to ask.
Grabbing the junk mail out of the slot, I reply, “I’m fine.”
“Did you have a busy day?”
I shut the box and lock it. “Extremely.”
“Wanna tell me about it?”
“Not really.”
Perhaps had she asked me twenty two minutes ago when she first called I might still have the energy or attention for it. Not now. Now, all I want is dinner and a foot rub while watching Baking Battle. Wyatt loves that show. He basically becomes a kid watching his favorite superheroes on T.V. It’s adorable.
“Oh,” Mamma says, no surprise in her voice. “Alright then. Anything new going on? Is your store open yet?”
“May.” I prepare to move towards the elevators on the far end of the lobby when something dashing by catches my attention. “The grand opening is in May.”
“But that’s when your brother is getting married.”
“I’m aware,” my frustration is mumbled mere seconds to me spinning around to grab a solid look at the figure that seems to be fleeing the building. “It’s not like it’s the same weekend.”
“Thank God for that.”
Instead of retorting to the comment, I allow my gaze to skeptically stare at the scrawny man in the baseball cap who is attempting to make a swift exit. His face is hard to see but there’s something about him that feels eerily familiar. Something I tell myself now only belongs in my nightmares because my demon is dead.
He’s been dead.
And people don’t come back from the dead.
“Julez?”
My mother’s voice causes me to shake away the eerie feeling. “Yeah?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Um…I’m sorry, Mamma. I didn’t.”
“Are you okay?” The concern in her voice growing. “Something wrong? Do you need help?”
“I’m um…I’m fine,” I quickly brush off. “Thought I saw someone I knew in the lobby. That’s all.”
There’s a minor pause before she inquires, “Someone…from work?”
Not wanting her to worry, especially since there’s no need, I spin the truth, “Someone I went to school with.”
“Was it Annette?!” She gleefully questions. “According to Anna her and her husband just moved back to town. They wanted to start their family here.”
The mention of families leads the conversation a direction that never fails to pain me.
“I hope someday when you’re ready, you decide to do the same thing.”
My hand curls tighter around the mail as I walk to the elevator. “What’d you say earlier? Sorry again that I missed it.”
“Oh! I just asked, do you think you’ll be bringing a date to the wedding?”
Annoyed to be back on the topic already, I expel another exasperated breath. “No idea.”
Technically he’ll already be at the wedding, but I’m pretty sure that’s just splitting stitches at this point.
“Mamma, I hate to do this…”
Lie.
“But I really have to go. Work’s calling.”
Another lie.
“We’ll see you for dinner on Sunday?”
“I’ll try.”
Three lies, and I’m out.
We exchange quick I love yous, and the call is thankfully ended.
By the time I reach my floor, my rattled nerves have shaken me up so much I feel like I could vomit, however, the moment I open the door to my apartment the irritation vanishes.
“Welcome home, Sweet Cheeks.”
A wide grin helplessly hops onto my face.
This is what Wyatt does that no one else can. There’s something about his fun loving, good hearted presence that washes away anxiety. Fear. Hopelessness. He doesn’t even have to do anything more than be near.
It’s amazing.
It’s incredible.
It’s…terrifying.
I’ve never known another human being who was able to put me at ease like he does. Paxton’s the only one who’s ever come close, and I’m fairly certain that stems from childhood dependence upon him.
“Quick note, before I forget, I’m having maintenance come by the apartment tomorrow to change all the locks and add a deadbolt.”
The announcement pushes my back against the door. “Why?”
“Was talking to Alyssa from three doors down earlier today. She mentioned that there had been several break in attempts throughout the building and some other suspicious activity.”
“What?”
“Yeah, broken security cameras. Couple people on the floor below having their front door locks jimmied with. At least four people had their vehicles broken into, which brings me to my next point, I’m also gonna start paying for you to have your own spot closer to the security booth. I already hate you walking in a parking garage by yourself, but with all this shit going on, I would prefer you having a safer location.”
Unlike Paxton his over the top safety measures at least make sense.
I lock the door and head towards the open kitchen where he’s busy working on dinner. “I get the feeling none of the shit you mentioned is up for debate?”
“Nope.” His blue eyes meet mine. “Rather extra safe than sorry.”
My mouth tries to form a smile.
That was pretty much the motto of my high school existence.
It’s the last thing I wanna hear, just like going back to a life of living in solitude is the last thing I wanna do.
“Julia,” he softly starts, “just let me have this, okay? I know it seems a bit over the top, and maybe it is, but I’d never fucking forgive myself if something happened to the woman I’m crazy about.”
A grin successfully slips onto my face.
“If it makes you feel better, Alyssa managed to talk me out of adding bars onto the windows.”
I shake my head, irritation returning. “I refuse to live anywhere with bars on the finestre. That’s not being cautious anymore. That’s being insane.”
“People have a tendency to get that way when there’s something they are hell bent on protecting.”
“Or when they start living their life in fear.” The mail plops down on the counter top beside me. “And I will not live my life like that again. It’s one thing to look over your shoulder and double check to make sure the doors are locked, but shit like bars on the window are the beginning of a very slippery slope, I will not engage in. Sono stato chiaro?”
Wyatt quietly replies. “Crystal clear.”
“Buona.”
There’s no way in hell I’m going backwards when I’ve made this much progress forward. Vandalism and burglary are unfortunately a very common part of living downtown. I refuse to believe that these cases are all part of some bigger plan of someone out to get me.
No.
The one person who wanted me that way is dead.
I didn’t see him when I went to grab an afternoon tea yesterday.
I didn’t see him in the lobby of my apartment complex this evening.
I didn’t see him in the lobby at the hotel the night of my brother’s engagement party.
He’s gone, and I’m going to continue to live like it.
Wyatt takes a few steps my direction. “How was yoga?”
“It was hot. That whole concept of no a/c while bending into a pretzel was totally created for skinny people.”
His light laugh sparks mine. “I don’t know, Sweet Cheeks. You bend into a pretzel pretty easily.”
“We also have a/c whenever we’re fucking.”
My body instinctively closes the distance between us, and he presses his lips firmly against mine. One hand gently glides to my cheek at the same time our tongues engage in a brief reunion.
When he pulls away, he sweetly coos, “You’ll always be my favorite flavor.”
“And you’ll always be mine.”
Wyatt hums and steps back to the panini press he had been guarding when I walked in. “How’s Meena doing?”
“Good. Hate how she’s basically a Jedi.” I push up my falling glasses. “Not only has she taught her body to become one with The Force, she managed to mind trick me into confessing I was dating someone, although I didn’t specify who.”
“That’s still a win.”
Originally, yoga with Meena was my way of trying to bond with my boyfriend and brother’s group of friends. She invited me to tag along one day, and they both begged me to take the offer. We’ve started to develop our own casual friendship, which is nice. I like not having to make new introductions every time I join a fitness class. Plus, it’s fun to have someone to girl talk and shop with that’s close to home. She loves asking me lingerie advice, which always has a way of making me feel special.
His follow up question is asked just as I drop my purse on top of the tiny mail pile. “How was the doctor?”
“Productive as always. Birth control shot given and blood test results should be in tomorrow afternoon or the following day.”
There’s not a single doubt in my mind that it’ll come back clean. Despite all the stories I’ve heard about Wyatt and his womanizing ways, many of which come straight from the source, I trust him. He’s never given me a reason not to.
“And work?”
“Exhausting,” I confess at the same time I hop onto the counter space beside my stuff. “Coming in late never starts the day off on a good heel.”
A small smirk snakes onto his face at the expression.
We both have strange ones…
Relieved and thankful he inquired about my day in a genuine fashion, I return the gesture with slightly more concern, “What’s going on with you? You know, besides being a little worried the apartment building is under attack.”
He snacks on a piece of green bell pepper to prevent himself from answering.
“You only break out the panini press when you’re pissed off about your parents or a blogger you swear doesn’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Sometimes they don’t.” His argument is proceeded by him leaning his back against the side of the counter. “Sometimes some of the shit they bitch about is just a matter of preference.”
“Did Tabby send you a bad review from someone?”
“No.”
“Did you find one on your own?”
“No.”
“Then it’s shit with your parents?”
He hesitates to explain, which is when I hold out my hand for him to take. Wyatt allows me to pull him closer, and once he’s settled between my open legs, I run my fingers down his t-shirt covered chest in a soothing nature. There’s a distinct hum of mollification that I love knowing I can provide for him.
“What’s going on, Wy?”
“They video chatted me a couple hours ago.”
“And?”
“And the experimental drugs my mom’s been taking aren’t helping.”
My jaw cracks open.
“Nothing is helping. And the cancer has reached her brain.”
A gasp is knocked out of my lungs. “Wyatt, I’m so sorry.”
He shrugs. “Don’t be. They aren’t. All they do is see this as another opportunity to guilt me into doing something they want.”
I nibble on the side of my bottom lip.
“They didn’t call to ask me did I wanna come see her, or to tell me she wanted to see her only son. No. They called to tell me I’m needed for press shots. That their PR puppets want us photographed together going to and from the doctor. Outside the hospital. Crying over what is sure to be one of our last meals as a family. They want me to come home to play the part of the melancholy son because apparently, this type shit is great for business. After all Gym Life has always been a family driven business.”
Disbelief drops my jaw again. “You’re fucking kidding.”
“Wish I was.” He shakes his head. “Even with death on their door step they can’t just let me be their grieving son. I have to be…the part they want me to be.”
My hands land on his tense shoulders and begin to give them a gentle squeeze.
This is one of those things no one else knows. Before me when the stress of his parents would get to him like this, he’d drink until he could barely remember his name and find a bed not his own to fall into. He found it easier to drink his problems away than to share the burden with his bros who I don’t doubt would be there for him. Part of me believes that’s just his pride blocking his view. He’s always been known as the cheery, carefree playboy without a real problem in the world. I think holding onto that façade helps him feel he’s holding onto Wyatt, the Charming Chef, instead of Wyatt Kutner, the son of a fitness empire.
“Are you gonna…go try to visit her?”
He shakes his head.
“Wyatt.”
“Don’t start, Julia. Just let it go.”
It’s my turn to shake my head. “No. You push, and you push, and you push for me to work on shit with my family, and I am-”
“Your family also loves you. Wants you in their lives for something other than business purposes.”
“True.”
He flashes me a condescending smirk.
“But, I think you need to go, and make peace with your parents. Not for them, but for you. The last thing I want is for her to die, and you to have to live with this regret of not saying whatever it is you have to say or simply just saying goodbye.”
“You know that shit’s not easy. You don’t ever tell your parents how they make you feel. How you hate the way they don’t care about you. How you hate the fact there are times it feels like your aunt is still more of a mother to you than your actual one.”
“This isn’t about me, Wyatt.”
“And I’m done talking about me, Julia.” His blue eyes glaze over in a way I hate. The hint of sadness mixed with resentment is always followed with him changing the conversation. He pulls out of my grip and crosses back to one of his favorite kitchen staples. “What do you want on your panini tonight?”
“What was the plan?”
“Bourbon glazed chicken, Swiss cheese, bell peppers, and some fresh pesto.”
“Sounds good.”
A smidgen of joy returns to his expression. “Did I ever tell you about the time I made paninis for the Duke of Glynoclaster at a pool party?”
Relieved to see the man I’ve fallen for in a more peaceful light, I enthusiastically demand, “Tell me everything.”
For the next few minutes, Wyatt recalls how he accidentally ended up at the party, drinking beers, and eventually cooking for Trenton Kenningston. We do our best to eat between bits of laughter. Grateful to have happiness back in his system, I encourage him to tell me more wild tales, desperate to keep his content climbing. He reminisces about eating June bugs in the desert with Tucker Frost, who is apparently related to the hotel chain I frequently use, and licking black ice cream off a Swedish pop star in California. Eventually, he directs the conversation to the food truck he’s been working with for the last two days. He discusses the ups and downs of the food truck life while I ask questions to gage his interest in possibly having his own someday.
After dinner we begin to wash dishes together. Despite my insisting to do it alone, Wyatt joins into help like he always does.
Of course, I don’t actually mean help so much as hinder the process.
I shake my head while grabbing the first object I’m going to scrub. “This is ridiculous, Chef.”
“The amount of dishes I dirty? Because I’ve explained that to you too many times, Sweet Cheeks.”
“No,” the pan plops into the water, “I was actually referring to the amount of dish soap you put in the water.”
“That’s enough soap.”
“You’re damn right it’s enough soap. This shit is now like a bubble bath.”
“Dishes deserve a bubble bath, too.”
Scrubbing the pan out, I continue to fuss, “Haven’t you ever heard a little goes a long way?”
“No woman actually feels that way about dick.”
In spite of my better judgment, I laugh. “I wasn’t talking about dick, dick, and you know it.”
“That’s a great amount of soap,” he counters, smile growing childish. “They need to be extra extra clean. Trust me. More is always better.”
“Bullshit. When I wanna add extra syrup to my Belgian waffles-”
“That makes them fucking soggy! You might as well just be eating butter and syrup at that point! If someone from Belgiam saw you eating that shit it’d start an international war!”
“Oh…” my face sneers in response, “strozzarsi con.”
All of sudden, Wyatt turns on the water faucet and splashes me with a sprinkle of cold water. “Dillo di nuovo. I dare you.”
I cock my head to the side and fling soap at him. “Choke on that instead.”
Soap and water land in the middle of his white t-shirt. He looks up at me with a devious look, and I’m not given any time to brace myself for retaliation. Wyatt scoops a handful of soapy water and tosses it down the front of my chest, soaking my tank top. He tries to dart away, but I nail him between the shoulder blades with more water. Back and forth, we fling the soapy water and the running water from the faucet at each other. We drench the counters, the floor, and our clothes. Our laughter spirals out of control in between making childish insults at one another in two languages.
Wyatt’s phone begins to ring across the bar, and he waves a dish towel around in surrender. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”
“Manners.”
“Please, smettere di sparare.” He tosses the towel at me to dry my hands at the same time he answers the phone. “Hey, bro, what’s up?”
I tip my head at him in question.
My brother’s name is mouthed and being in the playful mood that I am, I decide to keep the fun going.
“Yeah, I’ve got a minute.”
Wyatt keeps his attention on the slow prowl I’m commencing his direction. He tucks his free hand across his body and glares suspiciously. The moment I’m within reaching distance my fingers go straight for his belt. He jumps at the action and does his best to fend me off but is limited due to the caller demanding his undivided attention. It doesn’t take much to unbuckle the accessory or his jeans, yet he returns to resisting when I attempt to lower them. The struggle to flee continues until my hand successfully slides inside his boxers.
At that moment, a deep groan is grabbed and his body surrenders. “No…I’m…uh…fine. Just…something in my throat.” Wyatt meets eyes with me and flashes me two fingers in a pleading fashion.
I shake my head, tug the loose clothing down, and slip his dick out through the hole in his underwear. His hard cock grows harder in my hand. My attention drifts down to admire the pre cum coating my palm. I swipe it off the tip and smear it along his shaft. More stifled groans fester in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t dare to stop me or rush the conversation. With a wicked smirk, I meet his gaze once more and curl my fingers around his cock. They slowly glide back and forth while his head gradually begins to sag forward. I keep the stroking at a steady, tortuous pace. His hips eagerly rock towards me begging for more while his breath battles to remain even.
“Beg,” I whisper.
Wyatt’s eyes link to mine, and he mouths, “Faster.”
“Manners.”
“Per favore,” he mouths, more desperate than before. “Please, move faster.”
My hand slightly increases the speed, which immediately receives me another soundless sigh of satisfaction. Wyatt’s cock swells in my grasp, and I briskly pump, wanting him to reach the finish line before he hears the final click. His free hand finds its way to the nape of my neck and latches on. He squeezes furiously like he’s groaning through his fingers.
Like he’s growling.
Like he’s warning…
I jerk rapidly, ripping mouthed roar after roar from his parted lips. The quicker my hands move, the harder his chest heaves. The further his face falls. The closer my forehead gets to resting against his. My other hand swiftly descends lower and gathers his balls into my clutches. In a relentless repetition of strokes and squeezes, I snatch an orgasm out of Wyatt before he’s capable of stopping it. Cum shoots free on a groan guarded by gritted teeth. The hot reward seeps through my fingers, down his legs, and eventually drips onto his bare toes.
He somehow manages to end the call just as I’m lowering myself to clean up the mess. Wyatt begins to speak yet happily sighs the second my tongue begins to bathe his spent shaft. I lick away every ounce of evidence, including the few drops on his feet.
I’ve barely had time to get back onto mine before he starts yanking at my shirt.
Playfully, I question, “Shouldn’t we finish the dishes first?”
“I think you need a bath before they do…”
He captures my lips and shoves his hands inside the back of my yoga pants to grip my ass.
Who can say no to a bubble bath?
Better yet who can say no to him?
I damn sure can’t.
And that feels like something I should be more concerned about than I am.