Taming Tyler

Chapter Twenty-One

Callum

W e wait until Theresa has left to give Ty his presents. As soon as he opens my gift, he starts crying. Again. He also cried earlier when Mitch got the carrot cake from the fridge and when Bree “gave” him her gift, which was a subscription to the Zoo.

“Cal,” he whispers, just staring at the orange apron that I had custom-made for him, tears trailing down his cheeks. If he’s crying now, Mitch’s gift is going to kill him for sure. He squeezes the apron against his chest, his eyes fluttering closed. “I love it,” he hums. “It’s perfect,” he says, opening his eyes, the cinnamon swimming.

“You…” Shit, I’m choking up now too. “You gotta unfold it. Something’s…” I motion with my hand, and Ty looks at me, puzzled, his lips pursed into that cute pout of his. Carefully, he unfolds the apron, his face glowing with anticipation. Taking in the writing on the front, he goes all quiet, and for a moment, I think I’ve finally done it.

“Huh,” Mitch says, putting my exact thoughts into words. “You finally managed to shut the brat up. Good job, sweetheart,” he winks.

“That’s…” Ty whispers. “That’s…” he repeats, his voice heavy with emotion. Then he leaps from his chair, flying into my lap, wrapping his entire body around mine. “Thank you, Cal,” he sniffs. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“You’re welcome, baby,” I breathe into his hair. “You’ve earned it.” It’s true. He has earned it. The motivation he’s shown at Bake My Day and his positive attitude are beyond anything I’d ever expected. Sure, the kid can’t bake for shit, but who cares? It was never about that—learning how to bake. It was about building his confidence and making Ty realize that if he puts his mind to something, he can actually achieve it. He can step out of that persona that he has given himself: Tyler the Destroyer becomes Tyler the Creator when he steps into my small bakery. And he takes pride in his efforts now, looking at every crooked chocolate eclair like it’s a goddamn masterpiece.

Ty sniffs loudly against my neck, squeezing the apron against his chest.

“You really think I’m extraordinary, Cal-Bear?” he whispers.

“I do,” I hum.

“Assistant Baker Brat Extraordinaire,” Ty murmurs in awe. “That’s me, Daddy,” he sighs.

“It sure is, baby.” Then he laughs into my chest.

“You’re the brat, Daddy,” he giggles, clenching my flannel in his fists.

“I’m the brat?” I frown.

“You are, Cal-Bear. Only another brat would recognize the brat in someone else and then put it on someone’s professional work attire. You’ve got an inner brat, Daddy.”

“It’s true,” Mitch laughs in that deep way that comes right from his belly. “You are a fucking brat, sweetheart.” Shit, they’re ganging up on me, but I kind of like it.

We sit like that for a while as Mitch goes to get his present for Ty. I think we both need it. The quiet comfort of each other as the day sinks in and we understand the massiveness of what’s happened. Theresa knows, and after the initial shock, she didn’t run away screaming. Someone else knows about the three of us and as much as I know it won’t always be like this—that the world can be a judgmental place—I’m relieved that my sister seems to accept us. She might not exactly understand it yet, but she accepts us. That’s everything.

Then I feel it. My husband’s quiet presence with an undercurrent of nervousness. Ty must sense him, too, because he pushes away from my chest and looks up at Mitch with glistening eyes. Mitch remains stoic and nervous as he holds the metal box from the attic in his hands like it’s his most precious belonging. Ty frowns, looking at the box, and then his eyes find Mitch’s again.

“Is that for me?” Ty whispers, recognition washing across his face. Gulping, he wipes at his eyes. “Is that…?” Mitch nods, swallowing, before placing the box on the table. “I thought I’d lost it,” Ty croaks. Then he gets up from my lap and near-leaps into Mitch’s awaiting arms. “I thought it was lost, Mitch,” he cries.

“It wasn’t lost, baby,” Mitch says, his voice all shaky. “I kept it safe for you.” He pauses, holding Ty out in his arms in front of him. It’s true. Mitch has kept it with him, safeguarding it, hoping for Ty’s return. “I guess, in a way, I thought that if I kept it with me, you’d come back to me.” Ty nods, tears trailing down his rosy cheeks.

“I have, Daddy,” he murmurs, brushing his fingertips along the metal of the box, awe painted across his face. “I have come back to you. Thank you for keeping it safe for me.” Then Ty turns to me, exhaling. “And thank you , Cal, for keeping my Mitch safe when I couldn’t.” Holy shit. This kid. This amazingly sensitive kid. My heart spills over with gratitude as I watch their beautiful healing take place right in front of me.

“Anytime,” I rasp, offering him a watery smile.

“Open your present, baby,” Mitch whispers, pushing the metal box toward Ty. Smiling softly, suddenly all shy and self-conscious, Ty reaches for the small clasp on the lid and unlocks it. Hesitating, he sucks in a clipped breath, then he opens the lid and his face becomes an aquarelle painting of emotion.

“These…” he looks bewildered at Mitch, then back to the entire rainbow of flies organized carefully inside the fishing box. “I didn’t…” he whispers, reaching for a metallic indigo one, his hand stopping midway, his fist clenching. “Mitch?” he looks up. My husband nods, pride and gratitude oozing off him. “Are these…” Ty says, unclenching his fist and picking up the delicate fly. “Are these all for me?”

“They are,” Mitch murmurs. “All nine of them. For every missed birthday. For every year that you weren’t with me.”

“I’m here now,” Ty shakes his head. “Mitch, this…” Disbelief and joy—so much joy—along with glimpses of sadness and regret flash through his eyes. “Thank you, Mitch. Thank you.” Keeping the fly clasped in his hand, he disappears against Mitch’s chest, his dark curls brushing against my husband’s bearded chin.

“You’re welcome, baby boy,” Mitch says, his gaze connecting with mine. Thank you , he mouths at me, an entire world of love and gratitude in those two simple words. Always, I mouth back. They stand like that for a while before Ty gets all jittery and breaks free. Then he inspects the contents of the box, holding each fly up in front of Bree, telling her excitedly about the small feathers and their use. Bree looks at him like he’s the center of her damn universe and I guess she isn’t wrong. He is. Ty is the center of everything.

As the light changes outside and evening closes in, Ty carefully puts everything back in its proper place and closes the lid, an outdrawn sigh leaving his lips. Getting up, he brings our plates to the kitchen sink and quickly places them in the dishwasher. Then he stretches lazily, yawning audibly. Sliding toward Mitch and me, he smiles teasingly, swaying his slim hips from side to side. Mitch elicits a groan, shifting on his feet, and I, too, feel all blood going south. Fuck, he’s sexy like that. Like he knows how stunning he is, but is still a little shy about it. Like he owns the room, but is still searching for approval in our eyes.

His heated gaze flickers between Mitch and me as he nibbles contemplatively on his bottom lip. Reaching us, Ty leans in and sweeps his lips against first mine, then Mitch’s. He hesitates in front of Mitch and the moment I understand what he’s going to ask of my husband, I nearly come in my pants.

“Please, Daddy,” Ty purrs, his eyes blown wide with lust, his entire body pulsing with need. “Please, Mitch. Will you fuck me tonight? I need you.”

“Ty…” Mitch searches his face, but there’s no doubt in Ty’s eyes, only determination and vulnerability. “Are you… are you sure?”

“I’m sure, Daddy,” Ty rushes out. “I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life. I want you to fuck me, Daddy. Please.” There are no bratty undertones, no teasing, just Ty, all naked emotion in front of us. And I guess my husband sees it, too, because I know the exact moment he gives in. Not only to Ty’s plea, but also to his own desire. It’s beautiful. With a muffled growl, he pulls Ty against him and pushes his tongue into his mouth, his much larger body wrapping itself around Ty’s. Our boy squirms in his arms, whimpering into his mouth, before he turns all pliant and heavy, sighing against Mitch’s lips. “Let’s go, Daddies,” he smiles, his eyes glazed over with arousal and happiness. And how the fuck can anyone say no to that?