I can’t tell her via text what’s going on. The subject matter’s too sensitive, the context too bizarre. This is a face-to-face conversation. Problem is, I can’t talk to her on the phone or get her to see me in person.
One week away from Christmas, my mom’s having a coronary I’m not home yet. Willa has yet to be available to see me and has been incapable of saying one serious thing in days. I unlock my phone and send her the message I should have sent her the day after she left my place.
We need to talk.
Three dots appear almost immediately, then,
Brawny, are you breaking
up with me?
Goddammit, this woman. I rub my eyes and breathe deeply. My phone buzzes again.
You’re doing that thing where you
rub your eyes and take deep
centering breaths so you don’t
commit homicide to the world’s
next soccer star, aren’t you?
A begrudging grin tugs at my mouth.
I can neither confirm nor
deny these allegations.
Knew it. I have to come down to my
apartment and grab some things
for the holidays. I’ll be around until
midday tomorrow. Want to do dinner?
You can cook me meatballs.
I roll my eyes, but before I can respond, a new text message pops up. Mom.
Ryder Stellan Bergman, I ask one
thing of you. One. To be home for
Christmas holiday. Where are you?
A growl leaves me. I don’t hear it well, but damn, do I feel it. The women in my life are going to make me go insane.
Mom, I’m sorry. I’m trying
to figure out this situation
with Willa. She won’t
see me to talk.
Mom’s dots appear.
Make her.
Jesus. I’m my mother’s son. It’s part Swedish culture, part disposition—she thinks everyone should be as blunt and direct as she and I are. No bullshit, no games.
That’s not how Willa
works, Mom.
I’ve guessed as much.
I just miss you.
Home isn’t the same
without my Ryder.
Lay on the guilt a little thicker. My phone buzzes again.
Can you just come for
dinner tonight?
Just Ren, Viggo,
Oliver, and Sigrid.
So basically everyone.
Except Ax, Freya, and
her despicable other half.
I suppose you could
see it that way.
Okay, but I’m coming home
afterward. I’ll be back in time
for Christmas, promise.
Your terms are acceptable.
See you in an hour.
An hour? I toss my phone away, then remember I need to text Willa back.
My mom’s going to murder me
if I don’t show up for family dinner.
Can’t cook for you after all.
Breakfast tomorrow?
Jerk.
Make me those cinnamon
rolls and fresh coffee, and
you’ve got a deal.
I want to be pissed at her presumption that I’ll get up and make her smart mouth fresh pastries. But we both know I’m going to do it.
Deal.
Bright and early, Sunshine.
Can’t wait.
A stupid smile pulls at my lips. I don’t type it but it’s on the tip of my tongue. Can’t wait, either.
It’s as loud as I thought it would be. Ren and Sigrid—Ziggy as we call her—are incapable of talking without it being a yell. Viggo and Oliver are Irish twins who’ve always bickered terribly, so they’re at each other’s throats. Ironically, while I’m on the cusp of correcting my hearing, all I want is silence. Sneaking away from the chaos briefly before dinner, I take the stairs up to my old bedroom that’s frozen in time from high school and drop onto the twin bed.
Sighing with relief at the blissful quiet, I close my eyes. As I’m falling asleep, I find myself picturing a cabin in the woods, at the foot of some snowy mountain. A fire roaring, some kind of stew bubbling in the pot over it. I’m sitting in a worn armchair, listening to that soothing crack and pop of firewood as it catches and bursts into flames. Breathing deeply, I smell woodsmoke and evergreens, herbs in the stew and that damp mustiness of a cabin. But then a new scent punctures it all. Roses. Citrus. Sunscreen.
Willa.
She slips her hand along my neck and her fingers massage my scalp as she slides onto my lap. My breath leaves me in one long pained hiss as her ass wiggles right over me, and she tucks her feet up on the couch.
Hi, she says.
I can hear her. I hear her voice and it’s liquid gold in my ears. It’s a soft, low purr. Her eyes look like a jungle cat’s in the hearth’s glow, butterscotch and amber as the firelight dances in her irises. Her hair’s wild. It looks how I picture it might after she’s been in bed, tumbling around.
Everything thickens beneath the fly of my jeans, need tightens low in my stomach. Dream Willa shifts again, her hands cupping my face. Her lips are a breath away, her eyes locked with mine. She inches closer, closer—
A bang on the door makes me jerk awake. I glance down. My dick’s raging hard, straining against my fly. I’m obviously, painfully aroused. Scrambling up off the bed, I pull open the door just enough to hide behind it and see Dad on the other side.
What? I mouth.
Dad looks apologetic. “The boys and Freya ran an errand for Mom and Ziggy’s too small to help me. Joy wants me to move her bed so she faces out toward the glass doors, but to do that, I need to move Nana’s dresser. You’re healed enough by now, moving something heavy should be okay.”
I groan. That thing weighs tons. I swear it’s lined with lead or has some secret safe with bricks of gold hidden in it. That’s not what’s freaking me out, though. Willa and I still haven’t talked. Meeting her mom before we have seems like a terrible idea.
Pulling out my phone, I type, Can it wait?
What happens if her mom says something to Willa? Willa will kill me for not talking to her about it, even though I’ve tried everything I can think of. I can hear her saying it. I’m gonna kill you, Brawny, I’m gonna kill you dead.
Dad gives me that disappointed-in-my-son look. I’m sure he assumes I have balls enough to have somehow strong-armed Willa into talking about all of this. He’d be wrong. I appreciate his faith in me, even if it’s misplaced.
I wave my hand, finally giving in. Okay. Talking about Nana and looking at my father has done wonders for the discomfort inside my jeans, so I open up the door, close it behind me and follow Dad downstairs.
Walking down the hallway to meet Willa’s mom, dread tightens my throat. I’m sweating, on the verge of panic.
Dad says something to her as we enter the room that I can’t hear except for his upbeat doctor pitch. A smoky voice that’s even harder to make out says something to Dad.