Tyler laughed at the last of my message, but his eyes were light and playful when they met mine. It felt… good — to talk to him, to not be at each other’s throats.
It felt warm and comfortable and right.
It felt the way it used to when we were younger.
But the longer he stared at me, the more my mind played tricks. I blinked, and I saw the boy he used to be seven years ago. I blinked again, and I smelled the sweat on his skin, felt the rush of breath leaving his mouth and touching mine…
I cleared my throat, shaking the memory loose before I handed him his phone back and looked out over the lake again.
I was done talking.
“How’s your throat feeling?” Tyler asked after a while.
“Better,” I said, and before he could shush me, I held up a finger. “Hey, I needed to actually speak to see if it sounded any better.”
He tilted his head. “And? What do you think?”
I shrugged, holding up my hand and waving it side to side in a gesture that said it wasn’t as bad, but it wasn’t great, either.
Tyler stood, brushing sand off his ass before he reached down a hand to help me up. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got one last remedy in mind.”
“I don’t think this is a good idea.”
Tyler widened his gaze, pointing at me with a warning. “Shh.”
“I’m serious,” I argued, pointing to the bottle in his hand. “I’ve read up on this. It’s a myth that whiskey does anything to help sore throats or hoarseness.”
“Shhhh.”
“But I don’t—”
In the next instant, Tyler turned, pressing his finger over my mouth before my next word made it free. And the notion shocked me still, my breaths locked in my chest, eyes crossing to look at his finger on my lips before they trailed up to meet his gaze.
He smirked. “Stop. Talking.”
I narrowed my eyes at him when he removed his finger, but sighed in surrender, plopping down on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. I watched — silently — as he put hot water on to boil in a tea kettle, ready to mix it all together with the fresh lemon he’d sliced, bourbon, and honey.
“I’m well aware that the experts say hot toddies don’t help a sore throat,” he said when he delivered said hot toddy in a steaming mug in front of me. “But, quite frankly — they’re wrong.”
I rolled my eyes, but felt the smile tugging at my lips, anyway.
“Mom’s Irish side of the family would definitely side with me. And anyway, even if it doesn’t help, the hot tea and whiskey combo will at the very least soothe you.”
Tyler sat at the island next to me, propping his head up on an elbow. The tea was too hot to drink yet, but still, he watched me — waiting.
It was silent in the house, save for the distant hum of the air conditioning.
The same hum that reverberated through me the day Tyler kissed me in his room.
It was sensory overload, being in the same house, smelling his familiar scent, hearing that same sound that I’d noticed just before he’d kissed me all those years ago. It shocked me to the core, how it all flooded back.
I could almost feel his cool sheets when he lowered me into them.
I could almost feel his hot hands snaking up between my thighs…
My throat got even more dry at the memory, which seemed to be striking me over and over like a baseball bat the longer the day went on.
I shook it off, reaching for the mug and holding it in my hands for warmth. I blew on the steam, knowing it wasn’t ready to drink yet, but not able to look at Tyler any longer.
“You know,” he said when I took my first sip. “You’re kind of cute when you can’t talk.”
I flipped him off to the tune of his deep-bellied chuckle, but then I smiled, too, my hands around the mug as I lifted it toward him in a gesture of thanks.
“It’s good?”
I nodded.
“Nothing whiskey can’t fix.”
I didn’t respond to that, just took another sip of the honey, lemon, whiskey brew and let it warm me from the inside out. I wasn’t hopeful that it would actually help — not after I’d read in several articles that it didn’t — but, to Tyler’s credit, it did feel good. It warmed my throat and soothed my soul, and I guessed that was enough to make me feel like it was worth something.
The sun had finally set, and little lights clicked on from timers throughout the house. First, a lamp in the dining area, then a few more in the living room, one by one until the house was filled with a dim, warm light.
“I can help you,” Tyler said after a long stint of quiet between us.
I raised a brow.
“With your finances,” he continued. “If you want. I can help you figure out investments and savings, get a little safety net going so you don’t feel like you’re just blowing your wad.”
He smirked at that, and I rolled my eyes up so hard my eyelids fluttered.
“Seriously, though,” he said. “I want to help.”
I chewed my lip, watching him, trying to figure out what the stinging pain in my chest was trying to tell me.
His phone was on the counter, and I reached for it, holding it to him to unlock. Once he did, I found the notes app, pulled it up, and nearly vomited when I wrote, Sometimes, I feel like a fraud.
Tyler’s eyes traced the words several times before they found me, and I expected him to ask questions, to wonder how in the world I could possibly feel that way. How could I have millions of listeners, of followers, of people who looked to me for entertainment and advice every single day and still feel so insecure?
But he didn’t ask.
In fact, he looked at me in a way that told me he knew exactly what I felt.
Because he felt it, too.
After a moment, he nodded, looking at the sentence on his phone screen once more before he set it to the side. Then, he let out a slow breath, and scooted his stool a little closer to mine.
In the next breath, his hands reached out to frame my face, and everything in my body froze.
I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t move away from his grasp or lean into it, though the urge to do both hit me in equal measure.
All I could do was sit there, stiff and silent, as Tyler Wagner searched my eyes with his own, his thumbs smoothing over the skin of my jaw, his fingers curled at the back of my neck.
He held me there for the longest time, studying me, not saying a word.
Then, he leaned in on a breath, his forehead touching mine, and a shaky inhale slipped through my lips.
“You are spectacular, Jasmine Olsen,” he whispered, his eyes closing as my chest split open. “Don’t ever forget that.”
My heart pounded in my chest, in my ears, in my throat — pulsing so hard I felt it throbbing in every inch of my body. I still couldn’t catch a full breath, not even when he lifted his forehead, lifted his gaze, and especially not when his eyes were watching mine again.
And then, the front door blew open, and a flurry of commotion came with it.
“… to be fair, there is a very big difference between clementine and tangerine,” Morgan said somewhere in the foyer, and I heard the distinct laughter of her parents, and something mumbled in return by Oliver.