Snowflakes in Seattle

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

OLIVE

N o lie, the day had been one of my favorite Christmases in memory.

Chill. Comfortable. Only slightly swirling with the tension of being inches away from my long-time crush all damn day.

In the morning, I caught up with my family and Pear, whose tropical holiday seemed as magical as mine was turning out to be. The Christmas trees there were made out of shells and macaroons, though.

Hearing my families’ voices, seeing pics of my sweet niece and nephew that my brother had sent, had given me a twinge of homesickness, but it’d passed. Wyatt’s crinkly eyes and hulking form next to me on the squishy couch had a way of making me feel at home.

Before today, I hadn’t known two people could have so much to talk about. Like, we’d surpassed a full work day just in conversation, only pausing while we stuffed our faces with leftovers or attended to Wyatt’s simmering spaghetti sauce, another one of his traditions. I learned the man had veins of passion that ran deep. Christmas, cooking, gaming (dude was really good at killing zombies), a homeless housing project he helped get off the ground.

He learned that elevating and supporting women in construction had been my goal from the earliest days of my career. Being looked and talked over was commonplace, especially in the construction world. Wyatt had learned that my mission—make space for women—was also my mantra.

We both learned that I suck at Call of Duty . Wyatt only snort-laughed at me a few times, despite how I fumbled to master the split screen and learn the controller, which had changed a lot since the Nintendo 64 from my youth. But, by the time dinner was ready, I’d killed a couple zombies with lucky shots to the head. Wyatt had gushed like a proud parent.

That’s dream girl stuff. I might not let you go.

Those words had lodged right under my ribs, warm and spreading.

Unfortunately, he’d have to let me go. I was only here for a few more days.

Pulling two bowls out of the cabinet, I threw Wyatt a glance as he stirred his “famous” spaghetti sauce at the stove. The smell had been making my stomach growl all day. Our eyes met and I offered a smile before he could glance away. He’d been doing a lot of that, not nearly as furtively as he thought.

“I’ll never get used to you in my kitchen, little Olive.” He shook his head, his wondering tone poking at that spot under my ribs.

“I told you to put me to work while I was here,” I replied, carrying the bowls to the stove. The small kitchen was overly warm, the older appliance working hard to keep up with the heavy load of pasta, sauce, and bread.

Wyatt turned right as I got there, our hips colliding. “Sorry,” he said, dropping the spoon in the sauce. Two calloused hands wrapped around my biceps as he peered into my face. “You good?”

No, I wasn’t good. We were standing too close and I was too warm.

I nodded, but he didn’t let go. Electricity danced on my skin as his thumbs slid across my arms. “So soft,” he whispered, almost to himself again.

He wasn’t soft. Wyatt’s arms were sprinkled with golden hair. His neck was heavily stubbled. His body was thick. Solid. Demanding notice without asking for it. The curls were probably the softest part of him. I hoped I didn’t find out. He’d never let me go after playing video games together? I’d never let him go if I got my fingers into those auburn curls.

My gaze dropped from his gold-flecked eyes to his mouth. Heat streaked through me when he tucked the corner of his bottom lip into his teeth, then intensified when his rough hands gave a final squeeze before letting go.

When he turned away and began to fill the bowls, I was finally able to catch a breath.

Despite how easily we fell back into a rhythm after the stove-side touching, spaghetti and meatballs at his tiny kitchen table felt a little too Lady and the Tramp for true comfort. Luckily for me, maybe—definitely—there was no accordion serenade or cute kiss.

But Wyatt’s body was so close. So obvious . Something had changed when he’d touched me. Now his every little feature, every little move, rippled toward me like a stone thrown in a pond. I felt him.

Somehow, we made it through dinner. Somehow, we loaded a tote bag of fireside staples and climbed the ladder to the roof.

I crested the top rung, Wyatt beneath me. “Wow,” I breathed, taking in the sight.

He’d made an oasis up there. Potted plants that were covered for the winter, a gas fire pit, heaters, chairs, even a little porch swing. Charming. Just like him.

The breeze off the lake brought a chill, cutting through the borrowed down jacket that smelled faintly of Wyatt’s sinful body wash.

“Can you get over okay?”

I nodded, not daring to look down, more afraid of Wyatt than of heights. “I’m fine, old man.”

I hopped over the lip of the roof, glancing across at the house next door, where a crowd was gathered on a roof deck higher than ours.

I heard Wyatt drop our bag of supplies on the decking and his soft grunt as he followed. He got to work quickly, uncovering the chairs and lighting up the heaters. I tossed blankets onto the chairs and brought beverages to the fire table. He had decaf coffee for us in a Thermos. Like, a vintage 1980s working man Thermos, with a lid that doubled as a cup.

The man was seriously ninety years old. A hot ninety.

I shoved my cold hands in my pockets—Wyatt’s pockets—as I stared out at the water. I could make out the Space Needle in the distance, lit red and green for the holiday. A smile touched my lips. I’d had so much fun on this lake as a child, with Wyatt and my brother. Knowing that a parade of boats would soon pass by reminded me how special this place really was.

“Come get cozy, little Olive. It’s almost time.” I turned my attention from the lake, a sparkling black expanse, toward sparkling hazel eyes. Standing behind a chair, Wyatt held out a blanket like a royal cape. He exuded warmth, all bundled up in a down coat and a beanie that showed hints of his curls.

“It’s so lovely up here,” I told him, heeding his call to warmth.

He smiled, eyes intent on mine. “Sure is.”

Ignoring the stomach flip, I took a seat and let him settle the blanket around my shoulders. I let him fill a mug from that ancient Thermos, too.

Settling in the Adirondack chair next to me, he pulled out a bottle of peanut butter whiskey, his arm brushing mine.

“Trust me,” he said, apparently noticing my dubious frown. “Peanut butter goes great with coffee.”

I’d trusted Wyatt since childhood. The only moments of weirdness between us had been after my grown-up feelings had bloomed around age nine, when I’d simultaneously wanted to hide from him and kiss his face.

“Not bad,” I commented, after a sip. Strangely, peanut butter and coffee did go together.

He smiled. “Told ya.”

A head popped over the railing on the house next door. A little boy with a round face, all cheeks, was smiling brightly. “Hi, Wy. Did you eat your cookies?” A long slurp of a candy cane followed.

Wyatt didn’t miss a beat.

“We ate them this morning. Thanks for breakfast, Munchkin.”

Another head appeared, a little girl this time. “What’s a munchkin?”

Wyatt sighed loudly. “What’s a munchkin? Your mother is failing you.”

“Hey!” A woman, their mother, materialized at the railing. She looked closer to Wyatt’s age than mine, with the same round cheeks as her cherubic kids.

“That movie’s a classic, Rach. How can you deprive your children like that?” He turned his head to the little girl. “Munchkins are little orange people who help Willy Wonka in his chocolate factory.”

The woman and I exchanged an amused look. “Those are Oompa Loompas,” we chorused.

“You total dork!” she added.

Wyatt chuckled at his mistake. “Oh, yeah. Munchkins are from The Wizard of Oz . Have you seen that one?”

Two head shakes and another giant slurp.

“See? Failing,” he repeated. He made a noise of disappointment and shook his head.

The woman groaned. “Shut your face, Lord of Warcraft .”

“That’s not a thing.”

Their easy banter made me wonder if they had been a thing. Scowling, the woman gathered her kids and hustled them away from the railing, shooting Wyatt a faux glare. “Merry Christmas, nerd.”

“Merry Christmas, Rach.”

Wyatt’s hand landed on my knee, the move scattering the gathering questions like sun through fog, reassuring me almost before I knew I’d need it. Though I really shouldn’t.

This was the second time tonight he’d touched me, the second time his light grip echoed loudly through my body.

“You and Rachel?” I asked after she was gone, trying to distract myself from the warm weight lingering on my knee.

“Long ago and very briefly.” A wry smile twisted his mouth. “Women can’t handle me.”

“I could.”

Surprise and amusement shone in his features. “Maybe. But could I handle you?”

He absolutely could.

Tyriq, one of my partners back home, could do things with my body I hadn't known were possible. I’d reached numbers and levels of orgasms with him that could smash world records. But none of those sexual escapades made me gooey inside like Wyatt did with his unfiltered words and crinkly eyes.

His head had moved closer. I could tell because I’d stopped breathing. When he bit his bottom lip, I almost died. I needed to breathe. The man made me breathless. All night, breathless.

I must have moved, too, because the blanket slipped from my shoulder. The hand on my knee crept an inch higher, then two.

I was wrong. I couldn’t handle him. I couldn’t even handle those two inches or the slight smirk on those full lips. I couldn’t handle the smell of him that seemed to be coming from everywhere.

I gasped when I felt a gentle tug on my hair, air finally entering my lungs. My body angled toward his instinctually, head tipping to the side, leaving my neck bared. He hadn’t even asked, had barely moved, and I was melting. Submitting.

Small, quick puffs of air left my mouth and hung in the cold air.

Wyatt leaned across the arm of the chair, the piece of teal plastic the only separation between us. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered. I felt his hand slide between my shoulder blades, guiding me closer. “There’s no way I could handle you, dream girl. You’d ruin me.”

Some desperate, embarrassing noise left my mouth. A feeling akin to wonder, to what if, exploded in my chest. I closed the gap further, taking the lead in the tentative dance between us. Kissing my childhood crush under starry skies could only be more romantic if the lighted boats were the backdrop.

Lights flicked on all around us.

Wyatt started in surprise, his mouth just inches from mine. “What the hell?” His head swiveled away to take in the sight.

All around the deck, Christmas lights had turned on.

Not the only thing turned on.

“Automatic timers?” I asked, zipping my legs together and attempting to steady my breath.

He shook his head, face scrunched in confusion. “These lights haven’t worked for two years. I just haven’t gotten around to taking them down.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah.” He was still frowning.

Movement—and more light—appeared in my periphery. “Look,” I pointed. “The parade is starting.”

Wyatt grinned and sank back into his chair, limbs back on his side, the mystery of his broken Christmas lights and our near-kiss seemingly forgotten.

By him, at least.

The sweet words and touches, the sheer almostness , would stay etched in my brain, surrounded by hearts and exclamation marks. The spark that had been dancing between us all day had taken up residence in my veins.

There would be no forgetting with Wyatt Parker.