Big Daddy Wants Me

12: Waverly.

The next week is the most surreal week of my life. I settle into Kyle’s cabin—a surprisingly cozy home with a wraparound deck that’s a short ways behind the bar, tucked away in the trees. It’s nothing like the sparse bachelor pad I would have pictured for him; there are squashy sofas and bookcases crammed with paperbacks, and the cranky bar boss has strung bird feeders in the nearest branches and wrapped string lights around his deck rail.

It’s cute as hell. Like something I might have cut out of a magazine when I went through that vision board phase.

So, yeah: it’s been seven days of learning where Kyle’s mugs and plates and spoons are in the kitchen; of secretly sniffing his shampoo in the shower and then stretching out in his bed and picturing his bare skin against the sheets. Seven days of kissing him every chance I get, shivering in his strong arms, then trying to play it cool when we finally peel apart.

Kyle sleeps on the sofa each night, his presence overwhelming even through the bedroom wall. I fought him on that when I first arrived, argued that I’m the gatecrasher so I should be on the sofa, but he wouldn’t even consider it, so now I’m sleeping in the bar boss’s bed. And I keep telling myself I won’t inconvenience him for long—but the thought of leaving gives me a stomach ache.

Not just because it’s warm and safe and cozy here; the first place that’s felt like home in a really long time. But because Kyle wraps a blanket around my shoulders when I get shivery sketching on the deck in the mornings, and he pets my hair absentmindedly whenever we sit close.

And when he brings me coffee in bed, Kyle knocks first, then winks as he sets the mug down on the nightstand. Like he’s actually pleased to lose his room to me.

So surreal.

I haven’t lived with someone like this since Grandma was alive—squeezed into a cozy space, moving around each other instinctively, breathing in each other’s scents and hearing the creak of floorboards when we’re in different rooms.

The hostel I stayed in all summer doesn’t count. New people lived there practically every week, always someone packing up or moving in, and the main interaction we all shared was scrawling our names on our food in the refrigerator then getting mad when someone else ate our yogurt.

“Is that one of me?” Kyle nods now at the sketchbook spread over his breakfast bar, the first lines of a drawing only just taking shape on the page. This morning, my older crush is in a red flannel shirt, his jaw freshly shaven and his dark hair still damp from the shower. Yeesh. It’s hard to drag my eyes away as he fixes breakfast, flipping a dish towel over one broad shoulder—especially with the way those jeans hug his ass.

The radio hums a tune from the shelf above the sink, and sunshine cascades through the kitchen window. It’s so pretty here, I almost can’t stand it.

“Nope,” I say. “This one’s a commission.” I waggle my phone at him, the photo of a client’s wolfhound lit up on the screen. Pet portraits are good business. “Though I can see why you asked. There’s definitely a resemblance.”

Kyle cracks a smile, setting a plate of blueberry pancakes by my elbow. My stomach growls, and I snatch up the fork with thanks.

This is a plot twist: the fact that the stern bar boss is secretly a feeder. Ever since I moved into his cabin—temporarily, of course—Kyle has been cooking me treat after treat, then watching me eat every bite like I’m his favorite TV show. I’m no better than those greedy songbirds pecking at his feeders, and you know what? I don’t care.

“What?” I mumble now, my mouth full of blueberry pancake—and I know I’m running low on dignity, but man, this tastes good. I shovel another forkful in.

Kyle doesn’t reply—just smiles, shakes his head, and strides around the counter. He waits for me to swallow then kisses me, deep and slow.

The heat builds quickly, swirling low in my belly before spreading through the rest of my body, tingly and gooey and warm, like it was there all along, waiting for Kyle to stoke it back to life. Which he knows exactly how to do by now, since he’s barely come up for air since moving me into his home.

In the space of one week, I’ve gone from never kissing a man to swiping lip balm over my lips each morning and night so they don’t chap. From fumbling my way through every kiss, learning as I go, to growling and tugging on Kyle’s bottom lip with my teeth. It’s heaven.

Or it would be, except Kyle never pushes for more.

Never nudges my legs apart or lifts my dress over my head.

Never gives into my pleading whimpers, my wordless begging for him to strip me down and claim me, damn it.

No, Kyle kisses me long and deep and filthy, kisses me until my head spins and my pulse thuds languidly between my thighs—and then he backs up, a pleased glint in his hazel eyes when he sees how rumpled I am.

“It’s Saturday,” he says, brushing a pancake crumb off my chin. “The bar’s open late tonight.”

God, how can he be so calm after that? Kyle’s voice is steady, and that is so unfair. He should be panting too, utterly ruined by a single kiss. There’s no justice in the world.

“Uh-huh.” Me, I’m swaying on my stool, trembling beneath my sweater dress. Still overcome by that kiss and silently, desperately wishing for more.

“So don’t wait up for me, Waverly,” Kyle’s saying. “Get some sleep.”

I squeeze the fork, trying to order my thoughts after this man scattered them so thoroughly. “Because… you’ll be home late?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll come with you.” Duh. “Maybe I’ll draw you behind that big, serious desk in your office. I haven’t done that yet.”

Kyle lifts one shoulder, his standard sign of agreement, then goes back to the kitchen to wash up. No blueberry pancakes for him, apparently—this was all a Waverly treat. Can’t compute that right now.

“If you don’t mind,” I add a beat too late, because what if Kyle doesn’t want me following him to work like a needy puppy? Isn’t it bad enough that I’m living in his cabin now, trailing him from room to room so I can sketch him day and night? There’s no way this can last; no way he won’t tire of this soon.

That’s why I’ve been sketching so furiously, filling a whole new book just with Kyle, drawing him until my hand cramps and my eyes itch with fatigue. The last seven days have been the most productive in my whole artistic life, and it’s because there’s an imaginary clock ticking down in my brain.

“I don’t mind,” Kyle tells the sink, swirling his fingers in the hot water as bubbles fill the plastic tub. He’s so hard to read when he’s turned away like this, his voice calm and neutral. Sometimes, this man is so confusing that I want to tear my hair out and scream.

Does he really want me here? For how long? Why?

And will he ever do more than kiss me? Maybe just once before I leave?

I stuff a giant forkful of blueberry pancake into my mouth, blocking those questions before they can escape.

Breakfast. Pancakes. This steaming mug of coffee.

Better focus on things that make sense.