by Lexi Scott
“So, your mom’s wedding. Are you…bringing anyone?”
He raises his eyebrows and chuckles. “Whit, be serious. If I had a date for Marigold’s wedding, would I be here with you tonight?”
“Why are we here, Deo? After everything, it just seems…” I put my hands up, at a complete loss for words as the sweet-smelling candles flicker and glow between us.
Pushing his plate to the side, he leans forward and lays it all out, honest Deo style.
“I miss you, Whit. And I’m sorry.”
There are a million things I should say. Want to say. One is, Thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Another is, I miss you and am sorry, too. And, of course, there’s that one that screams the loudest and makes my heart thump and my palms sweat, because I’m afraid it will jump out of my mouth: I’m an idiot and I need you, so take me home and throw me on our bed and have your way with me right now.
But because I’m a total chicken-shit I say, “This was really great, thank you.” I push away from the table.
Deo glances down at his watch and swallows hard. He gets up and walks so close to me, I can smell the clean scent of him over the warm scent of the melting candles. “You’re welcome. Hey, Whit. I know it’s late and you need to get a move on, but I’ve just got one other thing planned.”
My heart is still punching in my chest from his last words and my crazy internal reactions to them, but I’m so curious, I can’t resist asking. “What is it?”
“Follow me.” His voice is low and hard around the edges with a hint of pure stubbornness.
He leans over and blows out each of the candles, and then clutches my hand. He grazes his thumb over the place on my palm that now has a scar from when I busted my ass on the rocks that day at the tide pools. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels intimate as hell. I doubt he even realizes he’s doing it.
We make our way past the bunk beds and water beds, and with each bed we pass, the knots in my stomach weave tighter and tighter.
“Deo, we can’t do this.” We’ve stopped in front of a massive sleigh bed. The only one in the store dressed up with soft, striped bedding and about a zillion and a half squishy pillows. “Just because this place has a king-sized bed, doesn’t mean we have to use it.”
“Well, first of all, it’s a California King. There’s a difference, trust me. And second, we aren’t going to use it. You are,” Deo says. My eyes clearly spell out “huh?” so Deo continues. “See that chair right there. Well, La-Z-Boy and I are about to become good friends tonight.” He points to an overstuffed recliner a few feet away from the bed. “You curl on up in that bad boy, and I’ll sleep in this chair.”
“You’re not sleeping in a chair. Deo, this is crazy. We’re not sleeping in a store,” I protest, for all the obvious reasons two normal, rational people don’t just sleep in a random furniture store.
But Deo’s never been normal or rational, and he’s not backing down. “Would you rather us go back to your place?” Deo says, half-joking. His upper lip twitches and I want to nip at it.
I cross my arms and shake my head adamantly. “No, that’s not gonna happen, either.”
Deo takes three steps toward me. I know it’s three, because with each step closer, I have to take another breath.
“Whit, doll, you look tired. Two jobs? Sleeping alone in that apartment? I mean, I hope you’re sleeping alone. Not that it’s my business, but if you aren’t, just be quiet and humor me, okay? I know you haven’t been getting sleep. There are a dozen down pillows up there with your name on them, nice and firm, exactly how you like them. You will have a fucking instant orgasm if I tell you the thread count of these sheets. And this is real Egyptian cotton. This bed is custom made, just for you, so you can get an amazing night’s sleep. So, stop arguing and just climb up into the bed, and I’ll be over here. I promise to keep my hands to myself.” He holds them up to showcase his innocence.
“This is crazy,” I repeat, but my hold on logic and sense is wavering in the face of all those heavenly pillows and Deo’s soothing, lulling, sweet-as-all-hell voice.
“Maybe. But you always knew ‘crazy’ is how I roll.” He shrugs. “Come on. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow for both of us. Let’s get some rest.”
Deo pats me on the ass and I can’t help but jump and squeal like a stupid girl.
“And don’t you dare feel sorry for me in my chair. This baby reclines, vibrates, massages, you name it. My grandfather would sell his soul for this chair. Actually, I might feel slightly sorry for you. ’Cause that bed is amazing, but you’re not getting a massage from it. If you want one from me, on the other hand, arrangements can be made.” He plops into the thick fabric of the chair and pulls the lever that sends his feet up into the air.
This is a totally ridiculous plan and I know each second I don’t hold my ground is a second closer to complete insanity, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to get out of it. So, rather than argue, I kick off my cherry-red wedges, climb up onto the absurdly high bed, and slip under the silky, thick comforter.
The bed is heaven. The heavy fabric of the bedding weighs down on my weary body, and I feel like I’m tucked neatly into a cocoon. My head sinks deep into the soft pillows. I only wish I would’ve worn something other than this gorgeous, stupid, form-fitting dress. I consider wriggling out of it, but decide not to. No telling if Deo really did get permission to be here. It’d be bad enough if someone found us here in the morning when we weren’t allowed to be; it’d be mortifying if I was in my skivvies. Not to mention, me stripping down is either a not-so-subtle invite for Deo to come a little closer, or a form of torture for him.
The massive store is dark and quiet apart from the fountain over by the entrance. It’s a strange place, full of strange things, and yet, because Deo’s here, I feel safer than I do in my own apartment.
“Deo?” I whisper. Hoping with everything in me that he hasn’t drifted off to sleep as quickly as he usually does.
“Yeah, doll?”
“Do you think…” I start.
But he knows me, so he doesn’t even have to wait for me to be brave enough to finish.
He peels back the comforter and slips into the bed next to me, pulling me close to his warm chest.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“It’s perfect.”
As much as I fought this, I know that sleep will come quickly for once. I can’t believe how everything aches in the best way now that I’ve settled into the bed.
Next to Deo. I concentrate on steadying my breathing next to him.
“Whit?” Deo whispers through the darkness. I don’t move. He doesn’t want to talk. He wants the silence from me. He used to talk to me all the time when he thought that I was sleeping, and tonight I can go back to those perfect, tortured evenings from before. “I still love you. Obviously.”
I sort of love you too, Deo.
Only, I’m not brave enough to say it.
Chapter Eighteen
DEO
When I wake up, Whit and I are facing each other. My hand is laced into the hair at the base of her head. My gut tells me to back up. To squirm out of bed before she wakes up, too. Because I don’t want to spook her.
Her lashes flutter before I’ve got the chance, though.
“Morning,” she whispers.
“Morning,” I say. We stare at each other in silence for a few long moments before I say, “I like your hair like this. Have I mentioned that?”
Whit reaches back and links her fingers through mine. “I do, too.”
Instead of pulling away, she snuggles in a little closer, soaking up the remnants of such a perfect night.
Whit bites her lip and gives a small nod. “We should probably get out of here soon, right?”
I stretch across the big bed, wishing I could stay here forever with her.
“Unfortunately,” I say.
Whit slips out of the bed and it’s the worst. “I just need to find my dress. And the restroom.”
“Come give me a morning kiss, and I’ll tell you where it is!” I joke.
She turns her head and her eyes are hot, narrow slits.
“You used to like kissing me,” I remind her, but she only bounces up and down on her toes and looks at me with a mix of anguish and fury. God, she’s damn beautiful. “Take a left at the coffee tables and go straight past the fabric samples. Second door on the left.”
“All set?” Whit asks when she comes back. She smooths down the front of her dress and looks around the room. Everywhere. Anywhere but at me.
“Yeah. You okay?”
She nods, then steps in a little closer.
“I just… I wanted to thank you. For last night. I haven’t slept that well in… You know.”
“Come here,” I say. I stretch my arms wide, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised when Whit wastes no time falling into them.
I hold her tight. The way I’ve thought about doing for weeks.
“Deo?” she says. Her breath is warm on my chest. “Do you have a yellow tie?”
“I could probably get my hands on one. Why?”
“My dress. For the wedding.”
“You’re serious?” I pull back a little so I can look at her. “Yellow?” I run my finger on the underside of her forearm just for the pleasure of watching all those little goose bumps ripple on her skin. I look at her beach tan, her dark hair, longer and wavier than when I first met her, and her big brown eyes. “I bet you’re a knockout in yellow.”
“I’m a knockout in any color.”
“No argument about that.” I lean in close to her, and she makes herself extra busy checking her watch, and then her makeup in a small mirror. “I also happen to know that you’re a knockout when you aren’t wearing any color at all.”
Her cheeks flush a deep pink. “We need to get out of here.”
I do as I’m told, but I notice the big smile she’s trying damn hard to hide from me.
We decide to go our separate ways for the rest of the day and I feel this wave of panic. It’s been baby steps to get back into Whit’s good graces after my stupid idea to emotionally atom-bomb her with an unexpected parental visit. Last night was a special kind of purgatory.
The minute I climbed into bed with her and helped wrangle her out of that crazy dress, I was hoping for some clear reason to not get back into that recliner. When she rolled toward me and curled her body into mine, I felt right for the first time in more weeks than I could count. I barely slept because I was so damn excited to have her in my bed, but it was weighed down by this irrational fear that maybe it was only going to last one night. Maybe that’s all I was going to get, and I should be happy about it.
Which made me crazy, because I had no intentions of being happy until she was 100 percent mine again. So watching her LeBaron pull away bitch-slapped my heart, because I felt like maybe that was the end of me and Whit, and I’d used up all the crappy magic fairy dust I had in my romance arsenal.
Chapter Nineteen
DEO
The day of Ma’s wedding, I wake up early and Gramps is already in a suit, because that old man used to rock one on a regular basis, so he’s comfortable to just lounge watching UFC fights and cracking pistachios while he’s dressed to the nines.
“You got a suit to wear?” he asks, but his guy gets pummeled in the face before I answer, and I don’t have a chance to remind him that he forced me to get one a few weeks back. Silly old man.
I had a bank-loan interview, and when my grandfather found out I was borrowing Cohen’s suit, he gave me this long-ass speech where he pounded his fist on the table until pistachio shells vibrated all over the floor and lamented the end of Western civilization while calling me and my generation slackers who dressed like the slobs we were at heart.
That old kook kind of gets his jollies off running his blood-pressure through the roof, but I actually saw merit in this rant and decided to get suited. So, I’m ready for my mom’s wedding, looking pretty motherfucking dapper in my new gray suit and yellow tie. Fuck dress shoes though. I don’t need to be all pinch-toed. I did buy brand-new Vans for the occasion.
Gramps grunts when I come out. “If you cut your damn hair and put on a pair of real shoes, you’d look halfway decent.”
“Settle down, old-timer. This town happens to be big enough for two sexy men and their styles. Don’t hate on my awesome look because you’re so damn jealous.” I lean back in my recliner and accept his gruff offering of pistachios until it’s time for us to get to my mom’s house.
“Deo.” Grandpa puts a hand on my arm suddenly, mid-UFC bloodbath. “I got something for you.”
I have no clue what he’s got up his sleeve, but I follow him back into his room, spartan after my gram’s death with only a few homey touches; a black and white picture of my gram when she was a teenager in a bikini set out in an oval gold frame, a painting of an octopus hanging on the wall I made when I was a kid, and a little hand-carved statue of a bunch of running horses my father sent from somewhere practically unknown and awesome on the dresser. I stand in his room and look at his bed, still made up for two people, and it kills me all over again that Gram isn’t here to cluck over his tie being crooked and drink her little glass of grappa with him every night while they listen to the oldies station and hold hands.
I get a lump in my throat, the same way I always do in this little room that still smells like sweet musk and powder, Gram’s signature scent. Much as I loved her, it hurts too much to miss her right now, and I don’t want to be the jackoff guy crying at the wedding, so I hope my grandpa can hurry the hell up and I can leave this ghost-clogged room.
“This was the ring I proposed to your grandmother with.” He turns around with a red velvet box in his hands. “Well, take it.” His voice is scratchy and annoyed, and his eyes are bright.
I take the box with clumsy fingers, fumbling it from hand to hand while my grandpa rolls his eyes. “Whit and I are nowhere near there, Gramps.” Remembering our conversation at breakfast, I shake my head. When I so much as hinted about a future with Whit, she looked like she was ready to turn tail and disappear unbelievably fast, leaving what little bit of a relationship we have a permanent cold-case file.
“Then you’re a goddamn blind idiot,” he mutters, stomping out of the room. “Don’t make me regret giving that to you!”
Ah. Words of encouragement. I open the lid and the hinges creak. The ring is white gold, and the stone is clear, dark, beautiful blue. Is it a sapphire? I don’t know dick about jewelry, but it looks old, shiny, and expensive.
And it looks like Whit. I can imagine her rocking this vintage ring.
Then I remember it’s not just a pretty decoration for her finger. This ring means something. It’s a huge commitment.
And Whit’s about as anti-commitment as a girl can get.
I slide the ring box into my pocket. The only other option is to stash it under my bed, but I’m not getting covered in cobwebs before Mom’s big day. And I feel like it may be a good thing to keep close for now. Not right now, but near-future now. Maybe. Or maybe my grandpa’s emotional craziness is scrambling my brain.
Which is about to get an extra dose of addling, because the minute Grandpa and I arrive in my mom’s little backyard-turned-wedding-jungle, we’re put to work setting up chairs, hanging pollen-filled bouquets from branches, stringing lights, and helping out with the thousand things my mom kept to the last second.
Soon the place fills up with flowy-haired, goateed hippies in their best brightly patterned paisleys and new Birkenstocks, and I work hard not to gag on the waves of patchouli that are drifting through the air. Rocko shows up, looking scared as hell and nice as a greaser all geared up for his big day, and then Whit rushes out of the house.
She sucks my breath away. She’s wearing a deep
yellow dress that’s tight on top with a flouncy skirt, kind of old-fashioned, and totally perfect for her. Her soft, dark hair falls in waves almost to her shoulders, and her lips are so temptingly red, the only thought bumper-carring in my hiccupping brain is that I want to drag her to some dark, quiet corner and kiss all that lipstick off her lips. Before I can take my fantasy firmly out of PG-13 territory, her warm eyes find me in the crowd, and she rushes over.
“Deo.” She says my name like she’s been waiting for me. Like I’m the only one who can solve what’s wrong in her life. She looks me up and down, takes a breath so deep, it’s like she’s about to go on a dive for pearls, then releases it in a long whoosh. “Wow. You look… You really look god. I mean good! You look good. Not like a god.” Her flustered mortification is beyond awesome. Then she seems to remember something. “Oh, Deo! You have to get in there. Your mom is almost ready.”
As if on cue, the raggedy bunch of musicians starts playing something that sounds like a Grateful Dead cover of the “Wedding March.” Those ruby-red lips are begging to be kissed, but she’s already nervous enough, so I leave her unkissed.
For now.
It’s not easy, though.
I go inside and find my mother sipping a mimosa from a crystal champagne glass like she’s royalty. Seeing her so damn happy makes me feel good. “Hey, fancy pants. You ready to roll?”
She’s wearing an electric orange dress with purple flowers in her hair. On anyone else, it would look like a Renaissance faire nightmare. On my mother, it’s like she’s some kind of exotic flower come to life.
“I’m a little nervous,” she giggles tipsily, and her gold eyes are mirrors of mine, but half-filled with tears.
