Sweet Talkin' Lover

by Tracey Livesay

  About fifteen minutes later, she saw him, running alongside a young boy of about eight or nine. They crossed the finish line and threw their hands in the air as if they’d just won a gold medal in the Olympics. The sense of accomplishment on the little boy’s face was evident, and watching Wyatt acknowledge it and pat the kid on his shoulders, caused a sizable crack in the protective shell around her heart.

  Wyatt looked up and scanned the area until he found her. It seemed impossible, but his gaze grew brighter. Or maybe it was a trick of the sunlight. He tousled the boy’s hair, then jogged over to where she waited.

  “You’re fast as hell,” he said, still breathing heavily. “After you left us, I turned to respond to Carl’s question and when I looked back, all I could see was your dust.”

  “That wasn’t me, that was this stuff,” she said, gesturing to her now tie-dyed jacket. “But I appreciate you not giving me a hard time for running ahead.”

  Through his newfound chalky pallor, his hazel eyes burned. “I’d never want to be responsible for holding you back.”

  His words, combined with his stare, heated her insides.

  She glanced away, not ready to face his suggestion. “They were handing out towels and water.”

  “I’ll be right back,” he said, jogging away.

  The space gave her a moment to catch her breath, his presence doing more than the race to task her lung capacity. He returned moments later with a wet towel and a half-empty water bottle.

  “What’s that commercial, ‘Taste the rainbow’?” His mouth worked as if perceiving something bitter. “Let’s not.”

  Caila laughed. “I think you left out a key detail from this invite. For future reference, if you’re going to invite a black woman to an event where her hair is going to get messed up, inform her of that fact in advance. If I’d had all the information, I’m not sure I would’ve shown up.”

  A small smile curled his lip. “Noted. But since you’re here, I think I made the right call this time.”

  “Easy for you to say. Do you know how long it’ll take me to deal with this?” She patted her hair, beyond annoyed when a Pig-Pen–like dust cloud rose from the strands. “All you’ll need is some soap and water.”

  He touched his cheek. “Soap? Is it that bad?”

  Did she really want to tell him no? That it’d take more than a dusting of powder to render him unattractive?

  Misreading the look on her face, he took the towel and did a cursory swipe over his face. “Better?”

  She smiled and shook her head, then gestured as if to encompass her entire face.

  He wiped again and raised a brow.

  She pursed her lips and held out her hand for the damp material. When he gave it to her, she stepped closer to him, reached up, and began wiping the powder off his skin. With sure, steady strokes, she removed the colored particles from his forehead, his brow line, around his straight nose, down his cheeks, across his jaw, over his lips . . .

  Her hands trembled slightly as she handed the towel back to him.

  “That’s most of it,” she said, her voice pitched higher than usual.

  His nostrils flared slightly. “Thanks.”

  Nervousness fluttered in the pit of her stomach. She swallowed and held out her arms. “This jacket is probably ruined and I’m a mess! I hate to even take this into Gwen’s lovely house. And her bathroom? I don’t want to ruin it with this horror show. Maybe I can climb a trellis or she could hose me off in the backyard?”

  “You can come to my house,” he said, his tone as calm as if they were just discussing the weather and he hadn’t dropped a bomb into their conversation.

  Had he really said that? More importantly, had he meant it?

  “I don’t want to get your house messy, either.”

  He waved a hand. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Are you kidding? Look at me.”

  Her words were like flint against steel and produced sparks. His gaze started at her head and flowed down to her feet, leaving a trail of heated brush fires in its wake.

  “I’ve been renovating it since I bought it a little while ago,” he said, his lids at half mast, his drawl more pronounced. “A little powdered chalk won’t affect the areas we’d go through.”

  She licked her lips, seeking moisture that had fled. Was she ready to do this? They both knew that a trip to his house was more than a regular invite. In the privacy of his home, away from prying eyes, they’d be at the mercy of temptations they’d been fighting since they first met.

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  He nodded, resolute. “I am. Did you drive?”

  So was she. “No, I walked.”

  His hazel eyes widened. “Even though you knew you were going to run a 5K?”

  She shrugged. “I run five miles several times a week. I could handle a twenty-minute walk and a three-mile run.”

  “My house isn’t far from here. A ten-minute walk. Can you handle that?”

  She wasn’t imagining the double meaning behind his question. Not when his gaze was locked on hers.

  “Let’s go.”

  The chilly fall morning had given way to sunshine and a warm breeze. Leaves fluttered around their feet as they strolled along the brick-paved sidewalks in a comfortable but expectant silence. They waved, pointed, and laughed at their fellow color run participants, who were easy to spot, since they all looked as if they’d taken part in a colorful, G-rated version of a Walking Dead reenactment. Caila loved the bustle of Chicago; it energized her, gave her a sense of purpose. But she couldn’t deny the contentment settling in her bones caused by her current surroundings.

  And through it all, the man at her side consumed her senses.

  Hers and everyone else’s.

  She didn’t miss the sidelong glances in his direction. Even with his chalk-stained face and hair, he was a stunningly handsome man. And he wore the hell out of the gray windbreaker that molded to his chest with each whiff of wind and blue joggers with white stripes down the sides.

  He wasn’t a runner—she’d known that within the first five minutes on the course—but he was in great shape, with a body most men would sell their souls for.

  Wyatt Bradley was gorgeous, charming, smart, and considerate. And he appeared to want her, aside from their work issue. She didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, and if she did, it was a really bad idea in this situation.

  Then why did you accept his invitation? What are you doing here?

  Oh, shut up.

  They turned onto a street populated with craftsman bungalows. At the end of the block he stopped in front of a cute two-story blue house with contrasting white trim.

  “This is yours?” she asked.

  “No, I brought you to a stranger’s place so we could stand outside and stare at it,” he teased.

  She punched his shoulder. “Ha-ha.”

  “Yes, it’s mine,” he said, his voice tinged with pride.

  Caila admired the small manicured lawn, covered wide porch, and columns that tapered from chunky stone bottoms to leaner plastered tops. “It’s a beautiful house.”

  “I think so, too. Come on in.”

  Inside, the foyer was still a work in progress and she understood what Wyatt had meant when he’d said her chalky mess wouldn’t mar his decor. The finish on the wood floors was scuffed and vacuumed, and wallpaper had been stripped from the walls. A tall ladder stood in one corner, and several large white buckets were scattered around the room.

  “Should I leave my shoes here?” she asked, eyeing the floor.

  “For now. I’ll rinse them off and set them out on the porch to dry.”

  She undid her laces and toed off her sneakers before following him into the next room.

  “Wow!” She turned in a circle, attempting to take in all of the details.

  Where the foyer was clearly in the early stages of renovation, the living room was further along. The sunlight burnished the traditional wood moldings of the room divider and
turned the stained glass in the transom windows above it into works of art. The colors danced upon the warm cream walls and created spotlights on the gleaming hardwood floors.

  But the main focal point was the beautifully carved staircase.

  She gasped. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s amazing.”

  In most staircases, the spindles ran vertically, but on Wyatt’s some of the spindles were horizontal, creating a unique design that added extra interest to the space. Like a functional sculpture.

  She ran her fingers over the grooves carved into the post. “You were lucky to find this in such great shape.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  She stared closely at the intricate details on the post’s cap. “Then the people you hired did an amazing job.”

  “I didn’t hire anyone. I did it.”

  The end of her ponytail hit her cheek when she whipped around to face him. “You did what?”

  He dropped his head and squeezed the back of his neck. “The banister. I carved it.”

  She was blown away, both by him and by his work. “You built it?”

  A flush darkened his cheeks. “Yes.”

  Adorable.

  This big, strong man had created a beautiful object with his bare hands, yet he seemed embarrassed by her praise. Pop-Pop used to act the same way when she’d compliment him on something he’d done.

  A sudden swell of emotion threatened to knock her over. Her chest ached and her throat burned. Tears scalded her eyes, rendering his once-clear image blurry.

  He rushed to her side. “What’s wrong?”

  She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. Don’t do this here. This is not the time or place for you to get emotional!

  He bent down in front of her. “Did you step on something?”

  “No, no. Get up.” She pulled on his arm until he rose. “I—you just reminded me of someone for a second.”

  “Someone who made you cry?” He wiped his thumb across her cheeks, and she was surprised to see moisture on the pad of his finger. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Not in the way you’re thinking. He . . . was good with his hands, too. He could fix anything.”

  Like the old car he’d bought and restored for her sixteenth birthday.

  She’d awakened that morning to find car floor mats outside her bedroom door. When she’d walked into the hall bathroom to brush her teeth, pine tree air fresheners had been attached to her toothbrush. And when she’d gone down to get breakfast, it was to see Pop-Pop sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in his hand, a wide grin splitting his kind face, a set of car keys in front of him.

  “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

  That car had meant independence at a time when she’d craved it. Her town didn’t have a public transit system. For two years, she’d been stuck at her grandfather’s home ten miles outside town, dependent on him or her mother if she’d wanted to go anywhere other than school, church, or the Sav-Mart.

  But that red 1986 Saab 900 had changed her life. It had allowed her to stay after school for activities or spend time at the library in town. She’d gotten a job and begun earning money. When she’d started planning for college, she’d been able to visit nearby campuses to gather as much information as possible.

  Pop-Pop had given her the ability to gain some control over her life, and that gesture had begun to erode the resentment she’d fostered against him for taking her away from her life.

  A piercing insight, almost as strong as her earlier sentiment: Pop-Pop would’ve liked Wyatt Bradley. He possessed a high regard for men who could create something out of nothing and took the time and effort to do so. Said it required vision and courage.

  How do you think he’d feel about what you’re doing in Bradleton, a town similar to his own? You’re not creating anything here; your actions could possibly destroy it.

  Unsure of what to do with that knowledge—of Pop-Pop approving of Wyatt and possibly disapproving of the reason for her presence here—or how to feel about it, she forced a bright smile. “So, you’re doing all of the renovations by yourself?”

  He continued to eye her for a long moment before answering. “Most of it. Whatever I can’t handle, I contract out.”

  “How long have you been making things?” she asked, bracing a hand on the banister.

  “I started when I was a little boy. My dad was an artist. I remember sitting and watching him paint these canvases, sometimes for hours on end. One day, when I was ten, I went with him to visit this guy who made custom frames. The guy gave me a piece of wood and a sheet of sandpaper to play with while they talked business. By the end of that visit, I’d sanded the edges and made a block! I was hooked.”

  She grinned, easily able to imagine him proudly holding up his creation for his father to see. “Did you become your dad’s official framer after that?”

  His smile didn’t change in size, but it became less vibrant. The genuine joy from seconds earlier had vacated his eyes. “It took some time to get to that point, but . . . yeah, I made a few.”

  She could tell there was more to the story, but she didn’t want to press him. Especially since she hadn’t wanted to talk about her own issues.

  “Have you made anything else?”

  She’d expected him to rattle off a list of items, so she was surprised when he said, “Come with me.”

  She took his outstretched hand, and he led her through another room and a kitchen, in the beginning stages of being restored, to a door that led down to the basement.

  “Be careful,” he said, as they descended the darkened space. “The light switch at the top of the stairs doesn’t work. I’ll be calling in an electrician soon.”

  “If you’re thinking you’ll save your plant if you get rid of me, you should know Endurance would just send another rep,” she joked—kind of—aware that no one knew she was here.

  He tossed a smile over his shoulder. “Considering you’re the only person I’ve shown this to, my motive to get rid of you would be to protect my secret.”

  He flipped a switch, and Caila thought she’d been transported to the island of wooden furniture. Tables, chests, cabinets, a headboard, several benches, and other pieces filled up the unfinished space.

  She saw one table in the corner, its contrasting light- and dark-colored planks partially covered by boxes. She gasped and ran over to it, spreading her arms and laying her upper body on it. “It’s an Olivia Pope table!”

  He laughed. “I don’t know what that means.”

  She turned her head to look up at him. “Olivia Pope? From the TV show Scandal? She has a conference table in her office that’s just like this.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” He leaned back against the table, crossing his arms over his chest.

  She knew she couldn’t lie on this table all day. Especially because it was highly unflattering. She stood and attempted to reclaim her dignity. “Well, you do good work. The table is very . . . uh, sturdy.”

  His lips twitched. “Thank you. I try. I’m very serious about structural integrity.”

  “It shows.”

  She blew out a breath, then slid him a sidelong glance. The amusement on his face made it difficult to hold back her own. She burst out laughing, and her heart leaped in her chest when his deep chuckle joined hers. It felt good to share that moment of levity with him.

  Moments, plural. When she thought she’d gotten herself under control, he’d thrown himself down on the table and kissed it, and the absurdity of the picture he presented set her off again.

  “Seriously, you’re so prolific,” she managed, when the giggles finally subsided. “Do you make them for people? Sell them? You could make a killing.”

  His gaze flitted over her features, as if mapping the image for his brain. “I’ve never sold my pieces, but I’ve given a few away. To Dan and Laura, mostly. Not a lot of people know what I do.”

  “Why? You’re very talented.”

  He looked awa
y and scratched his cheek. “It’s complicated.”

  “Your family knows, right?”

  “My family isn’t interested in what I do in my spare time, as long as it doesn’t interfere with being mayor and doesn’t embarrass them. So, I make sure it doesn’t.” He straightened. “And that’s the end of this episode of Mayor Wyatt’s Woodworking. I’m sure you’re ready to clean up. Let me show you to a bathroom you can use.”

  The second floor of the house was in much better shape than the main floor.

  When she pointed that out, he said, “I started up here, with the master suite and the other bedrooms.”

  They reached a closed door in the hallway. “This bathroom is next, but I haven’t touched it yet. It’s in full working order. Everything you need is in there and towels are under the sink.”

  He opened the door and stepped into the room. It was small, barely able to house the tiny vanity, tub with shower, and toilet. Only after she’d followed him had she realized it wasn’t made for two people. If she spread her arms out to her sides, she’d be able to touch the vintage green tile that covered the walls above the vanity and the tub.

  He turned to face her and there was little space between them. Her lashes flew up and her eyes met his. He swallowed.

  “Okay, so I’m going to go . . .” he said, pointing over her shoulder.

  They shimmied to switch positions. Her nipples brushed against his chest and pebbled inside her sports bra. He exhaled loudly, then pulled the door closed.

  “Wait!”

  The door flew open and he stood there, his broad shoulders filling the frame, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Yes?”

  Damn. Why did he have to be so sexy and funny and smart and talented? This would’ve been much easier had he been anyone else but him.

  She cleared her throat. “After I clean up, I don’t have anything to change into.”

  He blinked, then cleared his throat. “I—uh, I have something you can change into.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “No, thank you. I’m not keen to wear the discarded clothes left behind by an ex-girlfriend or random hookup.”

  He flinched and took a step back. He started to leave, then hesitated. “I don’t bring people to my house. In the two years since I bought it, the only people who’ve been here are Dan and Laura.”