One Pucking Secret (One Pucking #1)

Chapter 15

Chloe

My heart is still racing from the adrenaline rush as I step off Space Mountain, the familiar blend of excitement and nostalgia tingling in my veins. It’s been ages since I’ve let myself just enjoy the ride without a care in the world.

I fish out my phone and shoot Wyatt a quick text, the screen bright under the California sun.

Chloe: Where are you guys?

The reply comes almost instantly, as if he’s been waiting.

Wyatt: Star Wars shop around the corner.

I smile and find myself weaving through the laughing families and cotton candy vendors with renewed energy.

When I push through the doors of the shop, the air is thick with the scent of new plastic and the sound of distant blaster effects. Tucked away in a quieter corner, beneath a life-sized model of the Millennium Falcon, Wyatt and Jasper are huddled together over an open book. Wyatt’s voice, usually so commanding, now holds a gentle lilt as he narrates tales of galaxies far, far away. His muscular frame dwarfs Jasper’s smaller one, yet they fit together like puzzle pieces—one providing strength, the other innocence.

I lean against a rack of lightsabers and watch, unnoticed. Jasper’s eyes are wide with wonder, hanging on to every word that Wyatt animates with subtle gestures and vocal inflections. A smile finds its way to my lips, unbidden. This—them together—is beautiful. But there’s a tightness in my chest, an ache over things not quite right between us.

Wyatt turns the page, his wavy black hair falling into his eyes, and I’m reminded just how much I’ve craved these little moments for so long.

Jasper’s eyelids flutter shut, his small chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of an imminent nap. Wyatt closes the book with a soft thud and looks up at me. His blue eyes are soft, almost fond, contrasting with the gruff exterior I’ve come to associate with him.

“Should we head back?” My voice is a whisper, not wanting to disturb Jasper’s slumber .

Wyatt nods and carefully stands up, Jasper cradled against his broad shoulder. “I think it’s time. I’ll carry him out of the park.”

“Thanks,” I reply, my heart swelling as I slide the book back into its place on the shelf.

“Today was fun,” Wyatt says as we make our way through the throngs of people, each step taking us further from the fantasy world of Disneyland and closer to reality.

“I agree. Thank you again for doing this for Jasper.” The gratitude in my voice is genuine, mingling with a tinge of hope that perhaps this day has smoothed over some of the rough edges in our relationship. “I can tell he had the best time.”

He adjusts Jasper’s weight, securing him as we navigate through the crowd. “So did I. Disneyland is an entirely different experience with a kid.”

“Isn’t it?” My agreement comes easily, recalling the memories of laughter and wide-eyed excitement that filled our day.

We reach Wyatt’s luxury SUV, a sleek machine that seems almost out of place in the lot full of family minivans. With natural ease, Wyatt secures Jasper in the backseat, ensuring his small form is snug and safe in the booster seat .

The door closes with a soft click, and I slide into the passenger seat, my body sinking into the plush leather. As Wyatt starts the engine, the hum of the vehicle melds with the quiet evening air, wrapping us in a cocoon as we leave behind the lights of Disneyland.

I’m roused from my half-sleep by a gentle nudge, Wyatt’s touch tentative, but firm.

“Chloe, we’re here,” he says softly.

Blinking awake, I turn to see Jasper, fast asleep in the backseat. The soft light of the stars filters through the window, casting a faint glow over his midnight black hair. His small chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, completely at peace.

Wyatt’s already outside, circling the vehicle to Jasper’s door. The click of the seatbelt sounds sharp in the quiet night, and Wyatt gently lifts him out, careful not to wake him. Jasper shifts slightly in Wyatt’s arms but stays asleep, his head resting on Wyatt’s shoulder.

“Want to come up?” I ask as I stretch my legs, shaking off the stiffness from the drive. “It’s been a long day. You can join us for dinner before heading back.”

Wyatt hesitates, the lines of indecision playing across his face—a face that’s softened since this morning. “Yeah, alright,” he finally answers, the reluctance in his voice battling with something else, maybe the echo of our laughter spilling down Main Street hours earlier.

We head inside, our shadows elongating on the pavement, blending together like watercolors at dusk.

The scent of stir fry lingers in the air as I clear away the remnants of our hasty meal. The kitchen feels cozy, a soft glow from the overhead light bathing us in warmth.

“Wyatt, can you help me get ready for bed?” Jasper’s small voice breaks the comfortable quiet.

“Sure, kiddo,” Wyatt responds with an easy smile that reaches his blue eyes, making them twinkle like stars above Tomorrowland.

“Jasper, can you take Wyatt to your bedroom and pick out something to wear tonight?”

He nods. “Okay, Mommy.” He gestures for Wyatt to follow him. “My room is this way.”

“Let’s find you some nice pajamas, yeah?” Wyatt’s tone is gentle, an adorable change from the commanding presence I’m used to on the ice rink. He and Jasper disappear into Jasper’s room, their voices a muted hum down the hall.

I exhale slowly, picking up the last plate and sliding it into the dishwasher with a clink. Moving to the bathroom, I turn knobs until the water runs warm but not too hot, just how Jasper likes it. The steam rises in soft curls, fogging up the mirror above the sink.

Jasper pads into the bathroom, his steps muffled by the thick bath mat.

“I can take over from here,” I tell Wyatt, who stands in the doorway, a silent guardian. His arms are crossed, but there’s a softness in his demeanor that wasn’t there this morning.

“We’ll make it quick tonight,” I say to Jasper, who nods agreeably, already tugging off his shirt with little hands. Wyatt lingers for a moment longer before retreating shutting the door behind him, his shadow slipping away from the sliver of light under the door.

Later, in Jasper’s bedroom, my boy sits cross-legged on his bed, freshly bathed, pajama-clad, and breath minty.

“What book did you pick out with Wyatt?” I ask, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead .

“Star Wars,” Jasper declares, holding up the book with a grandeur worthy of a Jedi knight presenting his lightsaber.

“Mommy, you can take a break while Wyatt and I read. It’s important to take breaks.” There’s a seriousness in Jasper’s tone that belies his seven years, a mimicry so accurate it brings a laugh bubbling out of me.

Wyatt chuckles, ruffling Jasper’s hair affectionately. “I taught him that today.”

“Did you now?” I tease, standing up from the bed. “Well, if you’re sure you both have it covered without me, I’ll come to say goodnight in a bit.”

I step out of the room, the low cadence of Wyatt’s reading drifting after me. I head to the living room, straight for the bookshelf at the far end of the room. I slide the heavy scrapbook from the shelf, its cover worn from years of tracing fingers over embossed letters.

The spine creaks as I open it to the first page—a sonogram picture, a tiny inkblot that held the promise of Jasper’s life. Across the apartment, Wyatt’s voice dips and swells with the rhythm of the story, each word a gentle tug on the heartstrings of childhood dreams .

“Goodnight, little Jedi,” I hear him murmur, and see him closing the book with soft reverence as I step back into Jasper’s bedroom.

In the dim light of Jasper’s room, I lean over and brush my lips against his forehead, his breaths even and deep in the realm of sleep. “Sweet dreams, my love.”

I turn to Wyatt, who rises.

“Come on,” I beckon softly, my voice barely a whisper as we tiptoe through the threshold. The living room feels vast and quiet, the shadows drawing long across the floor. I gesture toward the couch, the scrapbook fanned out like an open diary. “I want to show you this.”

Wyatt lowers himself beside me, his eyes flickering with curiosity and something more guarded. Carefully, he turns the pages, examining photographs of Jasper—the chubby cheeks of infancy, the toothy grins of toddlerhood, the look of fierce concentration as he built towers destined to topple.

“Here he is at three, obsessed with dinosaurs,” I say, tapping a photo where Jasper was caught mid-roar, plastic T-rex clutched in his hand. “And this was his first day of school.” My finger hovers over a snapshot of Jasper, backpack dwarfing his small frame .

“He’s got so much energy,” Wyatt observes, a catch in his voice betraying the walls he is trying to keep up.

“Like someone else I know,” I reply with a sidelong glance.

His eyes meet mine, a deep blue I’ve navigated too many times to count, now swirling with emotions kept at bay.

I point to another picture. “Here’s one from Jasper’s first soccer game,” I say, holding up the picture proudly. In it, Jasper stands on the field in his uniform, a determined expression on his face as he kicks the ball. “He was so excited to finally step onto the field.”

Wyatt’s gaze lingers on the image, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. “He’s a natural,” he comments, admiration evident in his tone. “Must take after his old man.”

I chuckle softly, a warmth spreading through me at the thought. “Yeah, in more ways than one,” I concede, turning to the next photo. “And here’s one from his school’s science fair last year. He was so proud of his project on space exploration.”

He leans in closer, studying the photo intently. “Looks like he’s got brains to go with that talent,” he remarks, a hint of pride coloring his words .

“He’s got the whole package,” I agree, feeling a swell of affection for my son. “And he’s lucky to have you cheering him on too.”

Wyatt’s expression softens, the walls around him crumbling just a fraction. “I’ll always be in his corner,” he says quietly, his gaze lingering on the photo of Jasper.

“Hey, since we already had morning plans, why don’t you stay the night?” I suggest, the offer hanging between us like a fragile truce. “You look pretty tired yourself.”

“Alright,” he concedes, a nod indicating his surrender to exhaustion rather than comfort in our shared space. “I’ll take the couch.”

I stand to fetch blankets from the hall closet. When I return, I hand them over.

“Thank you, Chloe,” is all he murmurs, his eyelids heavy as he sets up his makeshift bed on the couch.

“Goodnight, Wyatt,” I whisper back, retreating to my own solitude.

I fall onto my bed, the day’s exhaustion finally catching up to me. For a moment, I just let myself sink into the mattress, but my mind won’t shut off. One good day with Wyatt—it’s not enough to fix everything. I know that.

Trust doesn’t rebuild in an instant. It’s not just one smile or one shared moment that makes everything okay again. And yet, I can’t shake how much I want to believe things could actually be different.

Maybe it’ll take more time. More effort. Maybe we’ll find a way forward, or maybe we’ll keep circling back to the same place.

But tonight, for the first time in a long time, it feels like there’s a real chance.

Maybe that’s enough—for now.