Page 75 of Almost Perfect
And then, he pressed a kiss to my forehead and backed away. “How about sledding?”
Wait. What?
THIRTY-TWO
Wyatt
Stirring the spicy chicken soup with green chilis, I had one recurring thought. If dunce caps were still a thing, I’d be wearing one. I’d botched not one but two opportunities to kiss Calla today, and I wanted someone to slap me. Where was Warrick when I needed his heckling?
But something had happened to me that first time when I’d looked at her roughed up hand. All these crazy thoughts about how much I wanted her had been galloping through my head for weeks, intensified exponentially in the last few days, and damn near toppled me the last twenty-four hours.
And then I had a chance to kiss her, and I wussed out. I’d like to say it had something to do with the impermanence—of us not being on the same page and me having a cooler head. Or maybe that lingering reality that we were such different people, we might not even work together. But no.
It was simply because I lost the nerve. The combination of discovering more qualities I liked about her paired with coiling tension in my gut spelled danger. Sledding with her—hearing her bold laugh and incessant energy. Seeing her with Sheridan—her hesitance and determination to feed him his apple correctly. The way she looked at me, clearly mildly terrified but persistent. She didn’t back down, and that moment gave me a glimpse into what she must’ve been like before all the trash headlines and grief had hit her. She was fire.
Once we started, I wasn’t sure where we’d stop. I couldn’t imaginewantingto stop, and her hints after the date the other night seemed a little like she might not want to, either. That was all good—great, in fact. But I knew myself.
My lonely little heart was a greedy one. It’d waited so long for its partner, and I suspected once someone got close enough, it’d suction right on like a starfish and never let go. Maybe hold the other heart too close or end up being… the wrong kind of starfish. The wrong heart in the wrong body.
I’d finally gotten to the place where I felt ready. I’d wandered through the wasteland and had finally come upon the oasis—the understanding that I could really live my life and not betray my dad. And I wanted to do that with her, whether it made sense or not. But the reality couldn’t be ignored completely—she had days left here. She wanted to stay, but even she didn’t know if she could.
Okay, so maybe it was because I had permanence on the brain. Seeing her standing in the kitchen this morning or meeting Sheridan or even shoveling the walk, all of it made me want that again and again over time.
But when I had a chance to take from her, I couldn’t do it knowing we had such different end points. She’d leave here in a matter of days, and I’d be left wondering what happened to my life.
“Need any help?”
Calla’s voice jarred me from my thoughts.
“Can you grab the cilantro out of the fridge?”
I glanced at her as she walked by and nearly choked when I saw her outfit. Slouchy gray pants again, but this time with a little white top that stopped halfway to her navel. She wore a cranberry cardigan over that, and the old man in me, if anything in my brain had been working, would’ve wondered what the point was if she was only going to wear half a shirt anyway.
But my brain wasn’t forming real thoughts. It was occupied by the immediately ravenous and nearly overpowering desire to touch the bare skin at her waist. It’d be smooth like her back, and warm from the shower she’d just taken, and I’d probably black out from the contact based on how much I wanted just that one small thing.
“Sure thing. It smells great in here.”
I watched as she bent over to search through the produce drawer, then wrenched my eyes away because I did not need to be satisfying my every urge to look at her, however hard keeping myself under wraps might be.
“I hope you like a little spice. This is one of my go-to winter weather soups. Always warms me up.” My voice sounded unnaturally high and chipper.
“I don’t mind some spice.” She held up a bunch of bright green cilantro. “Rinse this?”
“Just maybe four stems of it.”
The soup did not need to be stirred this religiously. In fact, it didn’t need to be stirred at all. It was a simple broth with some onions, jalapeños, garlic, and grilled chicken chopped with seasonings. It could sit and warm on the stove with no intervention whatsoever, and yet right now, the ladle in my hand felt like the only thing tethering me to my determination not to destroy myself.
“Can do.”
“Great.”
“The shower felt so good. I swear it took me a few minutes before I could fully feel my toes again, even though we’d sat in here for a while.”
Not helpful, woman! I didn’t need to be thinking about her in the shower.Do not think about her in the shower.“It’s funny how the cold can cling to your skin after you come inside, especially without proper snow gear.”
She shot me a look, and I chuckled. I’d reprimanded her for not having good snow pants, and sadly, I only had mine. She refused to wear them, so she wore only jeans with a layer underneath. I just about ribbed her again, but then she froze with her hand on the faucet.
“What you said about the cold is true, but I feel like that’s what grief is. Like anytime I think I’ve gone through it and moved past it, there it is hovering at my toes, making them tingly when something warm touches them.” She huffed out a breath. “Probably taking the metaphor too far, but—”
