Snowflakes in Seattle

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

WYATT

C hristmas almost killed me, and it’s my favorite holiday.

Olive makes everything better. She also makes everything more complicated.

I can’t slurp spaghetti in front of Olive “Holy Fuck” Blake. I can’t watch a lighted boat parade when she shines the way she does. I don’t think I saw a single boat, not even the Hawaiian Santa one with the inflatable palm trees that I look forward to every year. I can’t casually flirt without going too far. I can’t keep my promise to my stepmom, or keep my hands to myself, when I could see that this dream girl wanted me to kiss her.

I had nail marks in my palms by the end of the parade.

I should have kissed her last night. Would have been romantic as hell. Instead, I chickened out, like I always do.

At least I told her how I felt. Around Olive, my mouth and imagination knew no limits.

I sipped my coffee as I stared at the lake, smooth as glass, where not a single boat marred the surface of the water. It’d be a great day for a paddle if it weren’t so damn cold.

Then again, I did own a wetsuit, and I was willing to bet Rachel’s was still in the shed at her dad’s house next door.

The swing of my bedroom door sent my heart south. Olive was up. Almost immediately, the bathroom door shut with a bang. A minute or so later, I heard the shower running. With another glance out the window, at the cloudless sky and still water, I made a decision.

It was lake day.

I waited until the shower stopped running before pouring Olive a cup of fresh coffee. I wondered how she’d take the surprise. Eager to find out, I leaned against the wall right outside the bathroom, mug in hand.

Within moments, the door opened, her delicious scent grabbing me by the throat. I couldn’t even identify the mouthwatering fruit scent, but I knew I’d eat it. Her face was clean, shiny, devoid of makeup. Her sharp features, the pull of her magnetic eyes, got me in the gut.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, reaching for the coffee. I made sure our fingers touched as I handed over the cup.

Olive buried her face in the mug and began gulping down the liquid.

I nodded in approval. “Get warm, little Olive, because it’s about to get real cold.”

She licked the coffee off her lips, and I had to fight the urge to yank her to me and finish the job myself.

“Meaning what?” Her finger tapped out a rhythm on the mug, like she might have been nervous. Like she might have needed something to hide behind after last night.

Her and I both.

I leaned forward with a grin. “Feel like a paddle?”

She blinked in surprise. “What, like kayaking?”

“Nope. SUP. Have you done it?”

“Yeah,” she answered. “But…”

Forty-two degrees and she’d only brought warm weather clothes. That but.

“I got you, boss. Get your bathing suit on. I’ll be right back.”

I slid by her to grab my swim gear out of the dresser and scooted into the bathroom to change. The bedroom door was closed when I was done, so I hustled barefoot through the house and across the street to my garage. I zipped quickly into my wetsuit, shivering as the freezing material coated me like a second skin. I carried my board and paddle down to my dock first, then the board I kept on hand for friends. The water was still smooth like ice and there was no breeze. Lake Union was no Maldives sea, but hopefully Olive still got a little taste of the vacation vibes.

Boards ready, I fished the key out from its hiding place and dug into Gregg’s little shed without asking. Thankfully, Rachel’s wetsuit was still there. Along with a snowsuit and sleds and a few inflatable paddleboards. All the seasons were covered.

Back inside, I knocked on my bedroom door and tried to ignore the clenching in my gut. Olive in snowflake fleece slayed me. Olive in a bikini would likely vanquish my soul straight to hell.

But the weapon of my doom wasn’t a bikini. It was a pink crisscross cut-out situation that revealed her waist and a tantalizing sliver of her boobs. The roundness of them, the pert tips, the peek of skin underneath…the solar plexus. Great for a virtual kill shot, even better for starting a slow seduction that ended in sweaty, slick bodies. Hands on those huge tits, mouth between them, Olive marking my shoulders with want while moaning my name.

“Wyatt?”

I blinked back to reality, focusing on Olive’s face. I’d gone deep that time. I could still feel her satiny skin under my fingers.

A teasing little smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. I wanted to wipe it off with my tongue.

“Sorry. Here,” I said, thrusting the wetsuit at her.

“You okay?” Her knowing smile grew.

“Oh, sure,” I shrugged. “The hottest woman I’ve ever met is in my bedroom wearing the sexiest bathing suit I’ve ever seen. Just another Tuesday.”

She laughed.

I didn’t. If she took one step closer, it would be over. I’d tear through every shred of decency I had left and shove her on that bed before she could take a breath.

But she took a step back, clutching the neoprene suit to her body. “I’ve never worn one of these. Don’t need them in Phoenix.”

Turns out I was further from reality than I’d thought. I’d forgotten again that Olive was temporarily stranded. Just a guest with nowhere else to go. Let’s not forget to add a friend of the family and nearly ten years younger to the list. Last night on the roof she’d wanted to kiss me, but maybe that had been a Christmas high or the spiked coffee. I couldn't just jump her bones. Not unless she asked me to. I really hoped she asked me to.

“Here, let me help.”

I helped her step in and zip up, careful not to touch her skin or spend too much time sweeping her hair out of the way. Then I fished a beanie out of my closet. Her dark eyes tracked me as I placed it on her head to keep her warm. “There,” I murmured. “Perfect.”

The lake was perfect, too. There was no one out but us. We started south along the shore, past the row of houseboats, then cut out into open water. Olive led and I followed.

I could still see her in that bathing suit. I could picture her here in the summer, paddling like this in swimsuits that gave me heart palpitations. Olive had carved a place in my mind as easily as her paddle carved through the cold water. I’d be daydreaming about Olive Blake long after she was gone.

We were way out on the lake now. Totally on our own.

She slowed to a stop, maneuvering carefully into a sitting position on her board and laying her paddle across her lap.

“Had enough, boss?”

She shook her head, smiling, gaze on the southern shore. “Look at your beautiful city.”

I sat, too, dangling my legs into the lake. The cold wasn’t as harsh as expected. Certainly warmer than the air.

“Do you look for Vertex builds first? I do that with our projects.”

I nodded. “Habit. Checking progress, even after they’re done.”

“Which cranes are yours?”

I pointed out the three cranes on Vertex job sites, surprised by the pride sparking in my chest. Seeing our work from afar, as part of the city’s landscape, hit differently.

“Your dad’s gotta be retiring soon. Are you taking over? You haven’t mentioned.”

I hadn’t mentioned his retirement because my future made me squirmy and stressed, and Olive had scattered all my worries to the wind when she’d waltzed into my house two days ago.

I almost didn’t want to answer her question.

“He retires next year and I’m supposed to take over, yes.”

“You don’t want to take his place?”

After a beat, I shook my head.

“Wow. I always imagined you as the future of Vertex.”

Same. But that had been before all of the board meetings and button-downs. Before I grasped that my problems to solve would be personnel, legal, and financial problems instead of sequencing a job site. My goal wouldn’t be creating new places for the community anymore, but chasing new work. Getting bigger. Getting further away from the work we did.

Permitting and building my buddy Tate’s prototype tiny homes for Seattle’s homeless population, seeing the houses become homes for people and pets, had lodged deep inside my brain. I’d rallied community and neighborhood groups, knocked on doors, enlisted local businesses. Together, we’d made real, direct impact. The feeling was hard to forget.

“I might still be. But it’s not what I want,” I confessed.

Tate didn’t just commission tiny homes for needy communities. He was also CEO of a space tourism company. He made leadership look easy, but I knew how little he and his family escaped to their chateau in the woods nearby. I knew how much he hated missing ballet recitals with the cute little girls he and his wife had adopted. He wanted to be more involved in the Rosy Row tiny homes charity his wife ran, but he couldn’t do that, either.

That would be my life, too. Beholden to the next thing, to others, never in the present.

“I like getting dusty, seeing the project come to life. Making the project come to life. I hate talking about doing shit. I prefer actually doing shit,” I continued.

“I can appreciate that,” she sympathized.

I glanced over, ready to change the subject. Christ, she looked cute in a wetsuit and beanie. A Pacific Northwest goddess.

“What about you, little Olive? Already a director at thirty. What’s next for you?”

According to my parents, Olive’s dad, Ross, was not an easy man. He wasn’t the type to hand her a director role just because she was his daughter. She’d earned that spot.

I wanted to run my finger down the crease that had appeared on her forehead. Down past her brows, over the tip of her nose and to that dip that crowned her pretty lips.

“I’m going all the way to the top,” she replied, flicking her eyes to mine. “I’m going to run Blake Builds. Turn it into Phoenix’s first woman-owned construction company. For myself. For women. For Asian-American women, especially. Shatter one more damn ceiling. And I want to help other women do the same.”

Pride warmed again in my chest. Her drive and her passion were incredible. “I have no doubts, dream girl. None at all.”

She tucked her lips in like she didn’t want me to see her smile. Like I couldn’t feel her joy in my own body.

Or maybe that was hunger pangs. I was ravenous.

I pulled my phone out of a waterproof pocket and quickly placed an order for delivery without telling Olive. Then I took a picture of her in profile, her gaze back on the skyline.

“One more question,” she said, glancing at me just as I tucked my phone away.

“Go for it.”

She adjusted her spot on the board. “Why do you say women can’t handle you?”

“Damn, we’re going deep,” I replied, stalling. That subject was about as fun to think about as the job I didn’t want.

“I like deep.”

“Fuck, Olive,” I muttered.

She snorted. “Maybe I can help.”

Sighing, I said, “I work a lot. Play too many video games. My house is falling apart around me. I was going to fix it up with my grandpa, but I haven't touched it since he died. I didn’t want to do the work without him. Besides you, apparently, I have a hard time even talking to women, so that doesn’t help, either. They just never stick around long,” I shrugged.

Olive sniffed. “I call bullshit to all that.”

“Oh, yeah?” I chuckled.

Her forehead crease was back. “Yeah. Most guys think they’re a goddamn gift to humanity. You actually are, Wyatt. Just being around you feels like a gift. What do you want to do with the house?”

It took me a second to reply as her compliment sunk in. Really sunk in. “Uh, paint. Get rid of the wood paneling in the living room. All new kitchen. Better shower. Sexier bedroom. Basically everything.”

“Big job for a small house, old man.”

“Tell me about it.”

And now she had my brain churning again, picturing a clean white bedroom where she slept beside me. A line of thinking that led nowhere good.