Taming Tyler

Chapter Three

Callum

“ T yler’s back.” My husband looks like he’s ready to face a firing squad. He’s got a vacant look in his light blue eyes and a broken edge to his voice.

“Babe, what do you mean?” I walk, or rather stumble, past Bree because she ain’t moving unless the floor’s on fire. Mitch is standing on the opposite end of the oak kitchen island where I made real French baguettes this morning because they’re his favorites. And because you can’t have onion soup—which is his favorite too—without real baguettes. Anything else is goddamn blasphemy.

‘ Gotta spoil your woman, boo,’ my nana always said. Yeah, I scratched the wo - and got myself a man . A real fucking man who can fuck me six ways from Sunday without even breaking a sweat. A man who looks like every healthy teenage boy’s wet dream, the scruff on his chin that rubs you just right, that bulky chest of his that smells like cedar and sex, and those arms that you just wanna lick, lick, and lick some more until your tongue falls off. A man— my man—who looks just two Ts from catatonic right now. What happened between now and two hours ago when I kissed him goodbye?

“He’s back,” he murmurs. “Showed up at the office this morning. Just like that,” he shrugs, looking shell-shocked.

“Babe, you’re not making any sense.” I reach him and wrap him in a baker’s hug—yeah, those are way better than bear hugs because all we do is knead all fucking day and the bear just sleeps. We just knead the heck out of those buns and bread rolls. He sighs against my chest, relaxing into me. “Tyler’s back? Your Tyler?” That last part makes him wince. He nods, swallowing audibly, his fists clinging to my apron like I’m the last straw because a storm blew away the rest. Maybe it did. In the beginning, I always got the feeling that Mitch saw me as his last chance, while I felt like I hit the goddamn jackpot every morning when I opened my eyes. Still do. I swear, most days, I can even hear the machine and the coins dropping. Cha-ching . Mitch-pot.

“Yes. My Tyler. He’s back. And…” he croaks, then shivers against me and I know he’s close to crying. And that’s a big thing for Mitch. Huge, even, because he hasn’t cried since we had to say goodbye to Rollo. “... he’s… shit, Cal, he’s all broken. They… No! I fucking broke him!” he yells into my chest, and I let him because he needs it, and I can take it. He can yell into my chest, and pound at it, too, until the sun burns out. Because that’s who we are to each other. We are each other’s rocks and have been for six years.

“I’m so sorry, babe,” I whisper into his hair. I don’t argue with him. It’s no use. I know how Mitch feels about Tyler. I know all about the guilt and the weight that he carries with him every damn day for leaving that kid behind. Hell, every kid that walks through his office door is him. They’re Tyler. He looks for him in each of their defeated faces. For the boy with the cinnamon eyes who loved fly-fishing as much as Mitch loved him. Limitlessly.

“I’m so sorry. I know what he meant to you. Means to you.” He sniffs, then nods against the apron that he bought for me. That nearly made me lose a finger when I first saw him in it. In all his goddamn naked glory, the top of the apron barely covering his broad, fuzzy chest, and massive shoulders. That smug look on his face, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, while I inspected my right index finger to make sure it hadn’t ended up in the pile of spring onions.

‘Happy anniversary, sweetheart,’ he purred. ‘The shops were all outta flowers, so I got you me instead. Your very own stud muffin.’ Dayum, I nearly fell to the floor and thanked anything and anyone who might exist for him. For my man. It was our first anniversary. I’d never been happier. ‘You like?’ he did a twirl, revealing him bare-assed, and all plugged up. ‘I got it just for you, sweetheart.’ He gestured at the front of the apron that was doing a piss-poor job at hiding his massive erection. He chuckled because he knew he had me then. ‘Up here, lover boy,’ he tsk-tsked, pointing to his chest. That’s when I noticed the words on the front splayed across his bulging pecs. I’VE GOT EVERYTHING YOU KNEAD, BABY . Yeah, he’s all I need.

“What… Why was he there?” I speak into his salt-and-pepper locks. Mitch seems to collect himself, pushing away from my chest. His eyes are red-rimmed and sad, oh-so sad when he looks up at me. At six-foot-four, I’ve got a few inches on my man. Not in my pants, though. Nope, the palm trees grow all the way into the sky in the southern regions, if you get my drift.

He shrugs, wiping at his scruff. “Why wasn’t he? A rap sheet as long as the California Zephyr.” He swallows, his voice nothing but a low hum. “Red folder, too.” Yeah, Mitch told me about the red folders. “This time he burned down a beach house. Can you believe it? The kid who was always scared shitless during a thunderstorm, afraid the house was gonna catch fire, burned down a damn beach house.” His voice is tinged with bitterness and something else that I recognize as an old wound opening.

He shakes his head, a few locks spilling onto his forehead. There’s something so vulnerably boyish about it. I just want to carry him straight to bed and cuddle him until he forgets his name, or at least all his sorrows.

“Shit, babe,” I say, because what do you say to something like that?

“Yeah, I know,” he leans in and presses a tender kiss to my chin. “That’s why I’m giving him to you, Cal. I can’t fucking bear to give him to anyone else.” His voice cracks, and I reach out, grabbing his cheeks, his stubble tickling my palms as I cradle them in my flour-covered hands.

“Of course you are, babe. No question about it.” He looks straight at me, right into my soul, the silent plea in his light blue eyes slowly giving way to relief.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Of course, M. I’ve got you.” I’ve got you. The past comes washing over me like a tidal wave, bringing me right back to the laundromat down on Wiley Canyon Rd. I’d just moved to the Santa Clarita Valley, three months into the process of restoring an old diner to open my own bakery. I was fumbling with my wallet in front of a washing machine, my fingers stiff and numb from sanding down the walls all day.

‘I’ve got you.’ A deep voice that sounded like a mixture of tires on gravel and a melancholic sax in a sweaty jazz club at 2 am engulfed me. Before I knew it, the stranger dropped some coins into the machine and threw me a smile that, as it turned out, I’d been waiting for my whole life. Him . I’d been waiting for Mitch Cain my whole life.

‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, getting lost in his eyes.

‘No worries,’ he winked, leaning against the washing machine, giving me a once over, a cheeky smile curling the corner of his mouth. Then he stuck out his hand between us. ‘I’m Mitch, by the way.’ The tip of his tongue snuck out as he licked his bottom lip. ‘What’s your name, gorgeous?’ Gorgeous. Just like that. In the middle of a lazy LA afternoon in a rundown laundromat.

‘It’s uhm… I’m Callum. Cal. You can call me Cal,’ I managed to squeak.

‘Cal,’ he repeated, his voice all breathy. ‘Well, Cal, ain’t you just the cutest thing?’ It wasn’t a question. The next part was, though. The most important question anyone had ever asked me. Way more important than his ‘ Will you marry me, sweetheart?’ a couple of years later.

‘So, Callum, you-can-call-me-Cal, you wanna hang with me sometime? I’ll show you a good time.’ He was such a wannabe flirt back then, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. A baby gay trying to make up for lost time. Not my soft Mitch that he is now.

“Anything you need, babe. I’ve got you,” I repeat, meaning every word, every time, every day. Anything.

“Good,” he smiles half-heartedly. “Because he’s waiting outside.”