Page 11 of One Pucking Secret
Chapter 3
Chloe
Wyatt. His name alonetriggers a cascade of emotions I can’t quite corral.
I’m surprised at the intensity of it all. The way my heart skips when his image flickers across my mind. After eight years, he’s still as handsome as ever, if not more so. The years have been kind to him, carving out sharper lines of maturity and an allure that’s hard to ignore.
I never expected seeing him again would affect me like this, stirring memories that were buried but never fully forgotten. It’s as if he’s standing right here, his presence filling the room, suffocating the small space between the past and the present. I take a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of vanilla and old books, but it does little to calm the storm that’s suddenly raging inside me.
The late afternoon sun filters through the window of my West Hollywood apartment,casting soft golden light across the living room where I sit. I’m curled up on the faded armchair, a mug of lukewarm tea cradled in my hands offering little comfort as my thoughts swirl like leaves caught in a gentle breeze.
The sharp ring of the phone slices through my thoughts. It’s Lainey. “How did the meeting with Wyatt go? You left before I could get any details.”
“He seems willing to do whatever it takes to clean up his image, but it’s definitely going to take some work,” I reply, trying to sound more composed than I feel.
“Yeah, but he swears it’s all a misunderstanding.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I’m still undecided, but the Wyatt I knew wouldn’t have been capable of something like that.” I find myself defending him, even as I question my own judgment.
“Not well. Because I pretended like I didn’t know him,” I admit, feeling a twinge of regret.
“You’re kidding! Why?”
I lean back against the couch and cross my arms over my chest. “It’s his fault.” I reply, exasperated. “He just smiled at me like we’re old friends.”
“Okay, okay. I’m just saying, take it as a compliment. If it sucked, he wouldn’t have been happy to see you,” Lainey offers, trying to lighten the mood.
“But if it was good, he wouldn’t have ghosted me.”
Lainey has a point, though. Wyatt did look good, better than good. It’s going to be a challenge, pretending that our past connection, that intense night we shared, never happened.
“Fair point. But if I’m going to handle all of this successfully and score that promotion, I’m going to have to pretend like that night never happened anyway,” I say, trying to convince myself more than her.
“Kind of hard to pretend, don’t you think?”
I lower my head, feeling the weight of the situation. It’s true, how can I erase a night that changed my entire life, that’s intrinsically linked to the present in a way Wyatt can’t even begin to fathom?
There’s a heaviness in my chest as I recall the way he carried himself in the conference room today—confident, assured, every inch the professional athlete, but also withdrawn. That’s not the Wyatt I knew.
I shouldn’t feel this pull, this tug toward a man whose life has become a constellationfar removed from my own simple existence. Yet, despite my better judgment, there’s an attraction, a magnetic draw that I can neither deny nor fully understand.
Peering down at my smart watch, I realize that I’m running late. “Shit. Lainey, I have to go. I need to get Jasper.”
“Sure, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” is the last thing she says before she hangs up.
In a flurry of urgency, I rise from the couch, my mind still reeling from the encounter with Wyatt. I slip my feet into my shoes, a comfortable pair that’s seen better days but perfect for the quick dash down the street. Grabbing my house keys from the small bowl by the door, I make a mental note to not forget I need to sign that field trip form for Jasper.
The door closes behind me with a soft click, and I hurry down the familiar hallway of my apartment building. The scent of dinner cooking in neighboring units fills the air, a comforting reminder of the everyday lives unfolding around me.
Stepping outside, the air is a welcome embrace, the fading sunlight casting long shadows on the pavement. The bustle of Hollywood seems a world away as I walk briskly, my pace quickening as I approach thebus stop a block from my apartment. The familiar sights and sounds of the neighborhood envelop me, the rhythmic hum of traffic, the distant laughter of children playing. The school bus is already there.
“Shit,” I whisper, quickening my pace.
As I join the other waiting parents, Jasper steps off the bus, the wind tousling his black hair. He’s breathless and sweaty from horsing around with his friends on the bus, cheeks flushed with the vigor of youth, but it’s his eyes that halt my thoughts—a cerulean blue so deep they could drown all the logic I’ve clung to.
Jasper. My son. And Wyatt’s.
