Page 13 of Wicked & Wildflower

Physical chills run down my spine, and I work to shake them off. That seems to catch his attention. “It’s good to see you again, Wildflower.” He leans against the door frame leading to the kitchen and crosses his ankles as he smirks at me.

“Wildflower?” I scoff, ignoring the way Monica’s narrowed eyes are darting rapidly back and forth between us. She turns to the stove without a word.

“I mean, your name’s Dahlia, is it not?”

I still can’t meet his eyes, bending over as I haphazardly shove the papers back into Lou’s backpack. “I don’t think dahlias are categorized as wildflowers. They’re a bit more curated. Proper.”

He hums. “Doesn’t fit you at all then, does it? Wildflower is much better.”

“What? Like a weed?” I snort.

I hear the scuffle of footsteps and look up just in time to watch Everett push off the wall and stride toward me. He pulls out the chair across his mother’s dining room table and spins it around, straddling it backward. Crossing his arms over the top of the chair, he rests his head on them and smiles at me.

I don’t like the way his fluid movements make my stomach somersault. I don’t like the way he smirks at me like he knows what I look like naked.

Like he wishes he could see it all again.

“I was thinking of something more like colorful. Bright. Resilient. Sprouting up in the places you least expect them and blowing away on the wind just as quickly.” That wicked smile morphs into a full grin. “Beautiful too, of course.”

I swallow, schooling my features to appear unaffected. He can’t talk to me like this if I want to forget the way he makes me feel.

“Dios mío, hijo. ¿Eres capaz de mantener una conversación con alguien que no consista en coquetear?” Monica gripes from the stove. I have no clue what she just said, but the tone in her voice is one of pure annoyance.

Everett blushes slightly, eyes narrowing on his mother across the room. “Tranquila, mamá. Ahora mismo me estás arruinando el juego.”

Monica turns around and points her spoon at her son. “Deja en paz a la pobre chica. Ella no es una de tus conquistas.” She drops her arm and looks at me, features softening. “I’m sorry my son has no self-control. That’s a trait from his father.”

I can’t help the laugh that bursts out of me.

I catch a hint of a smile on Everett’s lips before his face straightens again, and he looks to his mom. “If you’re going to bully me, I’m not staying for dinner.”

“Yes, you will. I’m making pesto from scratch. Your father would take out your eyes and make you eatthoseif he found I made your favorite meal and you bailed on it.”

He leans back, bracing his arms on the top of the chair. I can tell he’s fighting a smile. “Speaking of fathers, tell him to get the hell out of my shop and enjoy his retirement. My workers will never take me seriously if they think they’re still supposed to be answering to him.”

“He’s never going to fully let go of that shop, baby. You know that. He will, however, lose his own eyeballs if he doesn’t make it home for dinner soon.”

Everett grunts in agreement. “He was working on Mr. Michaelson’s old Beetle when I left, but he promised he’d be home before we sat down to eat.”

Everett’s eyes fall from his mother to me, and I can see the way he’s fighting it, the way he fails when that gaze roams over my face–my body. I know he can see as I fail to do the same. I study the tattoos across his forearms that run the length of his hands and peek out the collar of the shirt he’s wearing. The veins in his neck strain beneath his perfectly manicured beard, and I can almost feel the way his stubble brushed against my chest.

Chills rush down my spine again, and I catch the tilt of his lips as he watches me shake them off. It’s as if he can read my mind, see the moment replaying in it.

Suddenly, his head turns sideways, looking down the hall leading to the back of the house. His eyes soften, and before I can turn around to see what he’s looking at, I hear a soft murmur. “Mom?”

I know my face takes on the same expression Monica’s did earlier as I turn around and soak in those freckled cheeks, green eyes, and strawberry-blonde locks. “Hi, bug.”

I open my arms as Lou walks into me, and I snuggle her against my chest. She smells like whatever body wash Monica keeps in their bathroom and a scent that’s uniquely my child. I grasp her shoulders and pull her out from me, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear.

“Did you have fun today?”

She nods timidly, and I know she’s quiet because Everett’s here. She’s always shy around strangers. She tucks her head into my shoulder and plays with the chain around my neck.

“Lucille, can you say hi to Everett?” I run my hand down the back of her head. “Everett is Monica’s son.”

Her eyes flutter up to study the man in front of me. He’s smiling softly as he slowly rises from his chair and walks over to us. “It’s nice to meet you, Lucille.” Squatting down so he’s at her level, he holds his hand out to her. “That’s a beautiful name. Does anyone ever call you Lucy?”

She looks at me, checking for confirmation that it’s okay to return his handshake. I nod so she knows it’s safe. I can’t blame her for being uncomfortable around men when she’s never had one she could trust before.

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