Big Daddy Wants Me

6: Waverly.

Sitting in this corner, perched on a tall stool with my sketchbook and lemonade crammed together on a small table, I have a perfect view of Kyle’s office door. Sounds good, right?

Nope.

It’s distracting as hell. Every time there’s a flash of movement in the corner of my eye, every time the volume of chatter dips, even for a split second, my chin jerks up and I stare at that door, my sketchbook forgotten.

That squirmy, restless feeling churns in my stomach. I shift on my stool, my lilac t-shirt dress sticking to my back from sweat, and stare at that closed door with dry eyes, desperate for a single glimpse.

It’s never him. Kyle may not even be here tonight, but I’m on high alert anyways, struggling to sink into my drawing like I normally do. Guess I’m still on edge after yesterday’s close call.

Flipping to a new page, I gaze down at the snowy blank sheet of paper and try to picture something new to draw; try to imagine the angles, the layout, the style. And I’m surrounded by interesting people who have lived their whole lives in these mountains, all scarred and weather-beaten with a thousand stories to tell, but there’s only one face I can bring myself to draw.

“Tragic,” I murmur to myself, sketching out the profile that is so familiar to me by now. The strong forehead, the slope of his nose, the surprisingly soft mouth above a firm, angular jawline—I see this face every night in my dreams. Every time I close my eyes, there he is.

A glutton for punishment. That’s what my Grandma would call me for this nightly obsessive behavior—and she’d be right. I’m a glutton for punishment, perching on a bar stool each night to draw a man who barely even knows I’m alive.

A wave of homesickness crashes over me, full of fierce longing for a woman who’s been at rest for over a year now, a woman who would talk some sense into me and coax me home. Back to her old-fashioned carpets and weird collection of china figurines, and the scent of baking flapjacks on a Saturday morning.

I squeeze my pencil and box-breathe through the grief.

There is no home, not without my Grandma. So I’ve been cut adrift, free to roam through the mountains for months on end, taking on random art projects like this one on a whim. Safe in the knowledge that no one misses me. No one worries about me being eaten by a bear.

Yikes. Pity party for one, please!

Snatching up my lemonade, I take a big gulp through the paper straw, focusing all my jagged thoughts on the sweetness, the fizzy bubbles, the cool liquid on my tongue. The clink of melting ice cubes against the glass. No room for thoughts; only sensations. This trick sounds cliched, but it works—and after a moment, I’m safely anchored in my body once more, flexing my fingers around my pencil and ready to keep sketching.

Then Kyle’s office door opens.

My spine goes rigid. My left leg jiggles on the stool as the boss moves easily through the crowd toward the bar. Drinkers part for him like the red sea, a few old timers clapping Kyle on the shoulder as he passes, then close up behind him and go back to their jokes and gossip.

He’s in a charcoal shirt tonight, the color faded by many wears, the sleeves rolled to his elbows and the top two buttons undone at his throat. Plus his usual uniform of leather work boots and old jeans that look loose at first glance, but that hug his strong thighs and toned ass as he moves.

Hoo, boy.

Kyle leans across the bar to say something to Tess. She nods and says something back, her chin jerking toward my secret spot at the back of the room. I wrench myself back to my sketchbook, heart hammering in my chest, and I swear to god—I feel Kyle’s eyes on me. Feel the heavy warmth of his gaze brushing my cheek, my throat, my arm.

Be cool. Be cool.

Gah! Oh my god.

With clumsy fingers, I flick my sketchbook to an innocent page: the regulars sharing a smoke in the doorway. And just in time, because less than a minute later, a deep voice rumbles from a few metres away.

“What are you working on tonight, Waverly?”

I jerk up, startled. His question washes over me like a wave upon a shore, and I shoot him my most insincere smile. He edges closer, his eyes dead set on mine, his steps firm, curiousity wafting off his sharp features as he picks up the sketch. s**t, I really didn't see him coming. I thought he had his hands full with his customers.

“Nothing much,” I tell the collar of Kyle’s shirt, privately marveling at the sturdy shape of his collarbone. This man is an architectural wonder. “The customers.”

Kyle grunts, and with just that rough sound—it’s like he’s calling me out. Like he doesn’t believe me. My panicked heart slams against my rib cage, gathering speed.

“May I?” he says. A strong, callused hand reaches out, spinning the sketchbook to face him. s**t! I let out the tiniest squeak and grab his wrist.

And—there.

Steady hazel eyes bore into mine, not scowling for once. They’re searching. Curious. All while the heat of his skin seeps into my palm, and his heartbeat taps against my thumb.

Tap, tap, tap.

“They’re no good,” I rush to say. “Those sketches aren’t ready yet. Please don’t look at them.”

Oh god, I’ll die if Kyle looks at them. If he sees the evidence of my tragic crush, then looks at me with revulsion, or worse—pity. I’d die.

His jaw works. Kyle watches me steadily, considering, but he makes no move to flip through my incriminating sketchbook. There’s that, at least, even as my knees tremble beneath the table.

Instead, he flips the whole thing closed and taps the cover. I melt with relief, sagging on my stool—until he speaks.

“You ever draw me, Waverly?”

His tone is strangely gentle. It makes me feel even more like a bug when I lie, crossing my fingers out of sight.

“Nope.”

One heartbeat. Two. Then Kyle tilts his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. Lord, have I ever seen this man crack a smile? Have I ever heard him laugh in all these months? I don’t think so.

“You want to?” he says.

I squint like he just spoke double Dutch. “Huh?”

“Do you want to draw me?” Kyle says it again, slow and clear, his mouth tugging up at one corner. It’s almost a smile, but not quite. More like the promise of one in the near future. “I could model for you. That’s what it’s called, right? Modeling.”

“Um… yeah. I mean, yes, that’s what it’s called.”

What. Is. Happening?

“I’ve never modeled for anyone before.” Kyle leans close, like he’s telling me a secret in that gruff voice of his, and an answering shiver cascades down my spine. This bar is hot and loud, the lights hazy on the walls. “Hell, I’m in barely any photos, even. Not since I was a boy. Starting to think I might not exist at all. There’s no paper trail of me, that’s for sure.”

I snatch up my lemonade again, sucking down a desperate mouthful. Think. I need to think.

“I can draw you like this,” I say at last, nodding at the crowd in the bar. “No one else has really modeled for me. I just sketch them as they’re going about their business.”

“And is that better?” Kyle presses.

I frown at my closed sketchbook. Is it pathetic that it never occurred to me to ask someone to sit for me? Not even Tess or Maria or any of the regulars I’ve gotten to know over the last few months? I just went ahead and assumed the answer would be…

“No.”

Kyle makes a low noise. He sounds pleased.

“Then draw me, Waverly,” the bar boss says again, his voice lowered. “Draw me when I know it’s happening.”

I glance up, startled, but Kyle’s already stepping away from my table, backing up into the crowd. “Stay late tonight,” he calls. “After closing.”

Dazed, I nod.

There’s a flash of triumph, then Kyle turns away.

And I sit with my chewed pencil, my closed sketchbook, and the soggy paper straw collapsing into my lemonade, wondering what the hell I’ve just agreed to.