The Someday Girl (The Girl Duet Book 2), page 18
Waiting has unequivocally ended.
I see an apology in his eyes — he cannot be tender. There will be time for that later. For the slow, passionate exploration of each other, over lazy Sunday mornings and sunny weekday afternoons. But tonight is for lust. Need. Desire.
Total, complete, unfathomable wreckage.
Our eyes never look away as he pushes into me with a single, savage thrust. He moves like a man possessed, eyes burning with fire, and I bow beneath him like a reed caught up in a river’s current, bent to his will. I am drowning in his eyes, reveling in the intimacy I see in their depths instead of running from it.
This is the undeniable consummation of a far-flung hope, the declaration of a long-suppressed wish never voiced. This is two people celebrating something that almost slipped away from them.
We find release in the same moment, clutching so tightly I’m sure we’ll both be bruised. I don’t care. He could break me in two and burrow inside my skin — it still wouldn’t be enough. I’ve barely come down from my spiral into bliss, but the need is still there, clawing at me.
Insatiable.
The hunger in his eyes tells me I’m not alone.
We don’t speak for hours. Not verbally. But our hands whisper a thousand secrets, our mouths trace a million stories as we toss beneath bedsheets, learning each other like a melody you already know by heart, but eventually buy sheet-music for so you can read the actual notes.
Dawn is creeping through his windows, staining the world pink on the first day of this new year, by the time we are finally spent. I lie there, tangled around him as he runs his fingers through my hair with the last bit of energy that hasn’t been sapped from his system, and think it’s rather perfect that so far, he is the only person I’ve spent time with this year. It is a clean slate, upon which nothing is written except our burning, unblemished love story. And if day one is any indication of the remaining three hundred sixty-four, I walk into this future with hope and happiness in my heart.
“Happy New Year,” I whisper against his skin, the first words I’ve spoken in hours, as my eyes drift closed and I slip into slumber.
His lips land on my temple.
“Happy New Year, baby.”
This time, when I wake up in Wyatt’s bed, I’m not alone.
A smile touches my lips before I’m fully conscious. My eyes crack open and I find he’s already awake, watching me with soft eyes. He lets out a low oof sound as I roll suddenly on top of him, so I’m half-sprawled across his chest, and press a kiss against his lips.
“Good morning,” he says, chuckling.
I look at the long shadows creeping across his bedroom floor. “Afternoon, I’d guess.”
He shrugs. “I don’t care what time it is. I have nothing else on my agenda today besides a very long appointment with this bed and you.”
“Oh? Trying to keep me captive here, Mr. Hastings?”
“Trying? No. Just keeping.”
“That’s kidnapping.”
He shakes his head as an amused light fills his eyes. “It’s not kidnapping if you’re a willing captive.”
I kiss him again, soft and sweet. There’s no rush. No need to hurry. I savor this moment with him, recognizing how precious it is even as it’s unfolding around me. There’s something beautiful about being here with him, wholly exhausted from a full night of love making, but buzzing with excitement down to a molecular level. I feel supercharged from the inside out. Fatigue may’ve deadened my limbs, but it cannot damper the thrill of being in his arms.
I shift against him and my muscles cramp painfully. “God, I’m sore. Every bone in my body aches.”
He laughs. “And you call me an old man. You’re a sprightly twenty-two-year-old. Keep up, will you?”
I attempt to punch him on the arm, and am rewarded with a cramping bicep muscle.
“Ow,” I moan.
He rolls his eyes and sits up, bringing my body vertical with his. “Come on. I’ll make you breakfast.”
“Really?”
“Really. What do you want?”
“Everything.” My stomach rumbles.
His hand laces with mine as we climb out of bed. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, then tosses a giant t-shirt in my direction. He even helps me pull it over my head when my aching arms protest, only making fun of me a little.
“You did this to me,” I remind him, tugging the hem of the shirt down to my thighs.
His eyebrow quirks. “Are you complaining?”
Every raw, hot, mind-numbing moment of last night flashes through my head. I feel my cheeks get warm.
“No.” I swallow, feeling desire sluice through me. “Not complaining.”
“Thought so.” His jaw clenches. “Stop looking at me like that, baby.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll throw you right back in that bed and this time, I won’t stop until you’re so sore you can’t stand.”
I gulp. I try to tell myself I don’t want him to do exactly that.
It’s not working.
“Katharine.” His voice is warning.
“Fine!” I scowl. “But they better be some damn orgasmic pancakes, that’s all I’m saying.”
He smirks like I’m an adorable inconvenience, crosses to me, and before I realize what’s happening, he’s hoisted me over his shoulder so my ass is in the air and my limbs are dangling.
“Wyatt!” I squeal, staring at the small of his back as he starts to move. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Bringing you downstairs.”
“I could’ve walked!”
“Probably. But I’m thinking you’re going to need to save your energy for later.” His hand squeezes my ass playfully.
“You’re insane.”
He doesn’t deny it, but I can feel laughter rumbling through him as he carries me like a firefighter rescuing a victim from the flames. He sets me down on his kitchen counter, presses a quick kiss to my forehead, and proceeds to make us breakfast.
Fleetingly, I wonder why it doesn’t feel strange or uncomfortable to be here with him, why I don’t have that slightly panicked energy coursing through me like I would after any other sleepover with a man. It doesn’t take me long to realize why.
This isn’t any man.
It’s Wyatt.
I watch him moving around the kitchen with ease, cracking eggs and sifting flour and squeezing orange juice. I feel totally at home. Like we’ve done this a million times. Like we’re a genuine couple, who’ve fallen into a comfortable pattern. It makes me happy and sad at the same time. I feel the weight of our wasted weeks, pressing down on me.
He sees the twisted expression on my face and drops the spatula with a thud, sending batter flying in all directions. He crosses to me and stands between my knees, so we’re eye to eye.
“What is it, baby?”
My voice is clogged with unshed tears. “This is how it should’ve been. That morning, after the cast party. If I’d just waited another five minutes… but I thought you regretted it, I thought you’d left me there…”
“Hey.” His hands cup my cheeks, tilt my head up so my eyes are locked on his. “Things happen for a reason. Maybe, a month ago, you weren’t ready for this. I don’t know. I don’t care. You’re here now, and that’s all I care about.” His lips brush mine. “We’re together. No more secrets. No more lies. No more miscommunications.”
A pang of guilt shoots straight through my midsection, where my one last secret has taken root.
I need to tell him.
I know I need to tell him.
I just need to find the right moment.
“I love you,” I whisper, crying a little.
“I know, baby.” His arms wrap around my back, pull me in close so I can hear the thudding of his heartbeat beneath my ear as it presses against his warm, bare chest. Its tempo stutters as he whispers something else, something I’ve never heard him say out loud before, but already know in my heart.
“I love you too, Katharine.”
Exhausted or not, I summon the energy to tug his lips to mine, to peel the shirt up over my head and kick his sweatpants to his ankles. Breakfast burns to a crisp on the stove as we make love on his countertop. I don’t care in the slightest. Things like food and water and sleep lose all meaning as we gasp and sigh and cry out. Any needs outside the singular need to consume each other have dissolved away into nothingness.
Later, when we’ve managed to eat and shower and stop tearing each other’s clothes off, we’re sitting in Wyatt’s favorite spot — a tiny gazebo nestled in the middle of a pond at the edge of his property — watching the sun slowly sink toward the edge of the horizon. I’m leaning back against his chest on the padded bench, his arms are wrapped around my midsection, and everything feels remarkably simple.
Still, as the sky turns cotton-candy pink signaling the end of the day, I know the bubble we’ve been living in is about to pop. Real life is returning with an alacrity I’m not ready to face. Wyatt seems to realize it too — his hold tightens around me, as if I’m already slipping away from him.
“You have an interview tomorrow?” he asks after a while.
I nod. “Just one, in the afternoon.”
Neither of us mentions what that means, though I know we’re both thinking about it. Me, in Grayson’s arms. Keeping up appearances for the cameras.
“You’ll be great.” Wyatt’s lips find my temple.
“Thanks. What are you up to?”
He sighs. “Unfortunately, I have a full schedule of meetings that will probably run late. And…”
“What?”
“I also have to talk to Caroline at some point.”
I blink, surprised. “Oh…Oh.”
“It’s not what you think. We were never serious. She always knew I had feelings for someone else.” His voice is full of stark honesty. “But I still feel like I owe her an explanation. I don’t want her waiting around for a call that isn’t ever going to come. Things have changed; it’s only fair I let her know.”
I look at him and see the worry in his eyes. I hate that he’s fearful of my reaction — hate that he thinks hearing this might make me bolt. I slide a hand over his heart and lean in close, so he can’t miss the truth in my words.
“You’re a good man, Wyatt Hastings.”
The worried look vanishes. A smile tugs at his mouth. “Can I take you to dinner afterward?”
“Of course. Dinner sounds good.” My lips twist mischievously. “But, instead of going out, maybe we could stay in… and cook…. and also not cook….”
His eyes glitter. “I like the way you think, baby.”
I nuzzle against his chest. He’s so warm, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn he’s got a thermal conductor under his skin.
His hand slides beneath my sweater, coming to rest directly against my stomach, right over the spot where my tiny dictator has taken up residence. I feel myself stiffen.
“Hey, you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie, heart hammering. Trying not to think about the small nuclear bomb rooted inside me, ticking down on an invisible timer. About to explode my newfound happiness into bits of irreparable debris.
Only a matter of time.
I know I need to tell him. But in this perfect moment, I cannot find the words. I cannot bring myself to wreck the beauty of this fragile start between us. Not when it took us so long to find our way back to each other.
I swallow down the words.
I’ll tell him tomorrow, I think, relaxing against his chest again. One more day won’t change anything,
Wyatt drops me off at my place on his way to work the next morning. I watch him drive off from the end of my driveway, already counting down the minutes until I’m back in his arms. When I spot the SUV parked under the tree in front of my garage, I brace myself for what’s to come but it’s ultimately useless. Prepping for Harper is like sheltering in place during a tornado. All you can do is close your eyes and hope like hell the roof doesn’t cave in.
“Hello?” I call, stepping inside my own house like a guest. “Harper? Masters? You here?”
I hear a sound to my left and jump about a foot when I see my best friend standing there, silently beaming at me from the archway of the kitchen.
“Jesus, Harper, you scared the crap out of me!”
“Sorry!” she sings, not looking at all apologetic. In fact, she looks downright giddy as she closes the gap between us, grabs my hand, and starts jumping up and down. “It happened! You and Wyatt!” Her expression twists and she stops jumping. “Wait… That was Wyatt you took off with the other night, wasn’t it? You haven’t been holed up somewhere with a long-haired lookalike in a mask?”
“Of course it was Wyatt,” I confirm, laughing.
The jumping starts up again. “I need to hear everything!”
“Okay, okay, but please stop bouncing. You’re giving me vertigo.”
I walk into the kitchen and spot Masters leaning against the far counter. He nods in greeting.
“Miss Firestone.”
“Seriously, Masters?” I snort. “Call me Miss Firestone one more time and you’re fired.”
His lips twitch. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Don’t bother with him,” Harper says, hopping up on a barstool. “He’s utterly impossible.”
“True,” Masters agrees, stony-faced.
Harper pins him with a look. “That’s not a good thing, you idiot.”
He shrugs, unconcerned.
I laugh.
“Impossible man,” Harper growls. “Anyway. Back to Wyatt. I want to hear everything.”
“It’s already nine — I should go shower, start getting ready for the day…”
“Katharine Firestone, sit your ass down on that stool and spill.”
Glowering, I do as I’m told. Before she can scold me again, I tell her about the past two days — the PG:13 version, because Masters is listening. When I finish, Harper’s eyes are glossy with happy tears.
“I’m proud of you, honey. And happy that you guys finally worked it out.”
“Thanks.”
“What did he say, though?” Her eyes dart to my midsection. “About… you know. The grape.”
“The what?”
“The grape,” she repeats tiredly, as if I should know exactly what she’s talking about. “You know…” She gestures again at my stomach.
I blink slowly. “Are you referring to the tiny dictator growing inside me as a fruit?”
“As if calling it a tiny dictator is somehow better than a grape.” She rolls her eyes. “I Google-searched pregnancies, okay? Apparently, if you’re around ten weeks, your baby is approximately the size of a grape right now.”
“Oh.” My hand touches my stomach absently. “Huh.”
Harper stares at me, a strange look in her eyes.
“What?” I ask, hand dropping away.
“Nothing.” She shrugs and tries very hard to hide a smile. “Nothing at all.”
“Whatever.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
I stare blankly at her.
“About Wyatt,” she prompts, none too gently. “What did he say about the grape, when you told him? I’m sure he was shocked, but this is Wyatt we’re talking about…”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just that I can’t picture him flipping out over this. He’s far too even-keeled.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” I murmur, the memory of the morning after the wrap party flashing through my head. I’ll never forget the look of rage on his face when he threw that tray against the wall. My Viking is a frozen river — solid at the surface, but wild underneath. “He’s got a temper.”
Harper stares at me, a knowing light creeping into her eyes. “Kat… what did he say?”
I avert my gaze, feeling guilty. “I, uh… haven’t exactly told him yet.”
“WHAT?!” she explodes.
“There wasn’t a good moment!”
“There will never be a good moment to drop this bomb on him. That doesn’t mean you don’t have to drop it — sooner, rather than later.”
“Maybe I don’t have to tell him this instant, Harper. I don’t even know what I’m doing about the grape situation yet. I don’t know if I’m ready for the grape to turn into a kumquat or a mango or a potato or worse, an actual baby, okay?”
“Potatoes aren’t fruit,” Masters chimes in.
“Helpful, Masters, thanks so much for the contribution,” I snap.
He smirks.
“My point is, I shouldn’t tell him until I’ve decided how I feel about this situation.” I sigh. “I haven’t made up my mind about what I’m doing.”
“Honey…” Harper shakes her head. “Yes, you have.”
“How can you say that,” I cry incredulously. “How can you know what I’m going to do, when I don’t even know myself?”
“Because I know you,” she says softly. “Do you realize, every time we talk about this pregnancy, your hands creep to your stomach, like you’re cradling that little life inside you?”
“That’s nothing. That’s just—”
“And do you realize,” she barrels on. “That you gave up alcohol and caffeine — two of your favorite pastimes — without blinking, the minute you found out you were pregnant?”
“But, I didn’t—”
“And furthermore, do you realize that you are already so hugely protective of the tiny dictator, as you are so fond of calling it, that knowing you were pregnant was what finally enabled you to turn your back on your own awful mother?” Her voice gentles. “Honey, you told me you were never more sure it was the right decision to walk away from Cynthia than when you realized she might someday influence your child if you let her stay in your life. That’s called a protective maternal instinct.”
“But…” My whisper is weak. “But…”
“I think you want this baby.” Harper’s voice is quiet. “And I think that scares the shit out of you. Because as scary and terrifying as it would be to not want this baby, to actually exercise your legal right to choose — which, by the way, I am in no way against, should you ever change your mind — I think you’re more afraid of giving up a chance at something that could be really great.” She pauses. “Scary as hell, definitely… but also really great.”
