Twice Shy

MY FLIMSY, DESPERATE PLAN to hide out from Wesley until my feelings for him have ceased to exist has a toolbox full of wrenches in it. For one, it’s hard to do what’s best for you when what you want isn’t what’s best for you. And what I want is to make out with Wesley again. If we’re going to coexist as platonic pals for the foreseeable ever, putting our tongues in each other’s mouths is not the way to achieve that. I need distance. I need space. I need to eat oversized bowls of tasteless, hearty moral fiber for breakfast.

Once we’re inside the house, I croak that I need a shower, to which he responds that he does as well, leading my mind down a sordid path. A path with cozy alcoves where lovers can rip each other’s clothes off. Falling Stars has such alcoves in abundance. I start dreaming of Wesley under a waterfall resembling the one in our mural; I don’t know what he looks like in the nude, so I conjure up Michelangelo’s David for a baseline, southern region hidden by a grape cluster of bath bubbles popping one by one. I smack face-first into a closed door before the last bubble pops, smarting my nose.

It’s all on him now. I’m counting on Wesley to shut down and be all brooding and tight-lipped again. It wouldn’t hurt for him to be a little bit awful, too. Maybe he’ll insult something I dearly love, like the plastic flowers I’ve stuck into every crack and crevice, and I’ll stop spending my unconscious hours from midnight through eight a.m. in the red-light district of my brain, lying on a chaise longue as he paints me like one of his French girls. We’ve got to vaporize our attraction. It’s the only way to save this relationship.

Wesley has no regard for crafting a professional relationship or successfully living together in harmony. He’s ruthless sabotage, strolling into the living room just as I’m stretching out with hot chocolate and the remote, The Great British Bake Off queued up to be my date for the evening. He’s designed to test my restraint in a cream cable-knit cardigan and charcoal wool trousers that I doubt he’s worn more than once. Freshly shaven. Faint traces of cologne, which he never wears, waft toward me. He’s taken special care to smooth his hair, too. I’m dressed in a hot-pink romper and a sparkly wrap like the fun nanny who’s going to entertain his two children while he goes on a sophisticated date with the governor of Vermont.

“Hi. Hello,” he says to me without any guile whatsoever, raking a hand through his smooth hair to undo all that hard work. Goddamn it, it’s even sexier disheveled.

This isn’t fair.

Wesley saunters closer, clueless to the danger we’re both in. I gaze back at him from the red velvet couch with narrowed eyes. “Hello.”

“How’s it going? Are you, uh . . .” He pivots to glance at the TV, picking at a stack of Violet’s books on the shelf. “Watching Netflix?” He straightens the books’ spines. Let Love Find You. How to Forget a Duke. The Incurable Matchmaker.

“Yes,” I reply guardedly.

He nods, distracted, and toys with a fake sunflower I’ve jammed into a crack in the wall. Fake flowers are a personal affront to him. “I’ll grow you some real ones, if you like.”

This is where I must ruin myself. Whatever it was that Wesley saw in me this afternoon that provoked him to put the car in park and ravish my mouth cannot be permitted to stay here between us. Goodbye, deepest connection I’ve ever had. Goodbye, adorable bear who cleans off my glasses with his shirt and ties my shoelaces. I’ll never forget you. “I like plastic flowers better than real ones.”

He should hiss and make the sign of the cross, but he doesn’t. “Monster,” Wesley replies affectionately, twirling the stiff petals. Then he puts it back. “There are a few silk flowers upstairs. I’ll bring them down for you.”

Oh, for the love. I can’t even scare a man off correctly! Maybe it’s the romper. It shows too much cleavage.

He’s close enough that I’m now breathing through my mouth so that I can’t be broken down further by his delicious fragrance, but it’s no use. The buttons on his cardigan are miniature wooden elephants. We are approaching fatal levels of dreamy. Mayday! Mayday! In a small corner of my mind, I jump out of a moving vehicle.

“That’s . . .” My mouth is dry. I don’t trust myself beyond an “Mm.”

“You want some company? We’ve still got that last wish left to honor, if you’re game.”

Damn, he’s right. We’re three down on Violet’s dying wishes, with one more to go. Wish 4. Movie night with a friend is sacred law, don’t forget. Wesley, I’d love for you to make my favorite cinnamon-sugar donuts for the occasion.

“You want to watch a movie and make donuts? With me?” Please say yes, I mentally beg. But also you have to say no.

He shrugs. “Pretty much have to, don’t we? The thousand-year curse and all that.”

An interesting development from the man who, only last month, told me that Great-Aunt Violet’s wishes weren’t serious and behaved as though he was intent on ignoring them all.

I’m contemplating how to phrase that I need a rain check on this activity when Wesley sighs. “It was the kiss, wasn’t it,” he says defeatedly.

“What?” I know exactly what, but I’m stalling for time.

“The kiss. You didn’t like it. Or you don’t like it anymore. You’ve given it some thought and wish you hadn’t.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve thought about nothing else and wish we were kissing still.” It’s out of my mouth before I can swallow it and boil the truth in acid.

Wesley’s expression transforms, glowing brighter, sharper. He steps forward. Dangerous, dangerous.

And I am weak. My spine was manufactured by Charmin. I want to be commanding, stern, intimidating, but I am raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. My resolve is dandelion fluff. When he looks at me like that, my inner vocabulary bursts apart like a piñata of candy conversation hearts. What was all that I was saying before about Maybell Parrishes being the last bulwark against zombies in the apocalypse? What a bald-faced lie. I’d be the first to bow submissively and declare my zombie allegiance.

“Is that so?” he asks with lethal softness.

I stare at him with Oh no eyes, hoping he’ll become grotesque if I stare long enough, but the worst thing possible has happened: he’s wandered into a pool of golden light under a wall sconce and looks more like an archangel than ever.

“Yes,” I admit, swallowing. “That is so, but it would be a bad idea. I think . . . I think spending time together right now is a bad idea.”

He stops inches away, hands in pockets. His chin lowers, dark gaze boring holes through mine. He drops a quiet but severe word like a pin, echoing in the stillness.

“Why.”

I fight the impulse to cover my face. If I can’t see him, maybe I’ll be strong. Well, if I can’t see him and can’t smell him. Or hear him. I need a sensory-deprivation helmet.

Finally, I admit, “Because I’m attracted to you.” It comes out in a whoosh.

“That’s—ah—well.” He revolves in a circle, examining the ceiling. “That’s good? Yes. That’s very good.” Oh heavens, he is blushing fiercely. “Because I am also.” He clears his throat. “I am also . . . I am attracted to you.” He takes his hands out of his pockets, blinks at his palms, and slides them back into his pockets again. He still cannot look at me.

It is the most painfully articulated “Same” ever uttered by a human being. I am seized by the mad desire to get down on my knee and propose.

He deflates. “I don’t know how to be smooth.”

“Wesley, you don’t need to be smooth. It’s a good thing you aren’t, actually. I wouldn’t survive it. You’re already too wonderful for your own good.”

He looks like he doesn’t know whether to be happy or suspicious. Suspicious wins. “I’m trying to figure out the problem here.”

“It’s complicated.”

His forehead wrinkles. “Is it the Jack thing?”

“No.” I couldn’t give two tosses about the Jack thing. Jack was a cardboard cutout of a person, and Wesley is—well, Wesley is Wesley. There’s no comparison. That part of my life has quite rightfully faded into hazy irrelevance.

He looks down at himself, appraising his lower half uncertainly. “It’s the pants. They’re too much.”

“I promise you, the pants are excellent. I have the highest respect for your pants.”

He quirks a brow. It is the deadliest eyebrow I have ever seen. I scan his person for the invisible scissors he must be using to snip at my moral fibers. I only have one or two of them still intact.

“During an argument that we had,” he tells me, pitch low, “you called me beautiful. And an insufferable ass. But beautiful. I haven’t gotten over it.”

His stare is unwavering in the golden light, cutthroat and holy, compassionate yet demanding. Even though he is tall and straight as a statue, there is still movement in him somehow. An undercurrent of unease he’s fighting off with every shred of will he possesses. “I should have told you. I wanted to.” His eyes are molten, transparent with feeling. “I think you are beautiful, too, Maybell. I think that you walked into my life and absolutely ruined it with how beautiful you are. I haven’t gotten a single decent night’s rest since we met.”

My traitorous thoughts try to flee but he shuts the windows on them all, locking every door. I collapse.

Into the couch, a complete goner. My bones have simply stopped working. “You’re killing me,” I rasp.

Wesley bends over my deceased frame, brows knitted in their everlasting concern, but his mouth—his mouth, oh, it’s the eighth deadly sin—twitching with gentle amusement. “I’m sorry.”

He is not.

“Fmmphhhhff.”

“Hm?” He cups a hand behind his ear.

“I said that I take back what I said about you not being smooth. You’ve been holding back.”

He helps me upright, then ruffles my hair with a serene smile. “Do you really not want to do the last wish together, then?”

I hear my doom and gloom when I reply, “I see no way around it.”

“Don’t sound so eager.”

I use his arm to pull myself up off the couch. He makes himself immovable, a boulder in tossing seas, to support me. “Sir, I will happily make donuts with you. I will even watch a movie with you. But I refuse to be glad about it. And I refuse to do any more kissing, even though kissing you was the most magical, time-stopping phenomenon I’ve ever experienced and I will perish before I let another man’s lips near me.”

A choking sound escapes him.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, I think? I’d rather you told me why you don’t want to kiss again if it was so phenomenal, but for as long as you feel that way, I won’t dare try.” There is no woe-is-me in his voice, no bitterness.

“Is it too much to ask that you be less nice?” I bemoan.

He gives me a once-over. “I don’t understand that thing you’re wearing. Your top is attached to your shorts. How do you go to the bathroom?”

“Yes. More comments like that. And it’s called a romper, by the way.”

“The color of it washes you out.”

My jaw drops. “Hey.”

Wesley grins and grabs my hand, pulling me along after him into the kitchen. “Just kidding. Pink is perfect on you, of course. Every color is—but pink? Pink is a Maybell color.”

My eyes are slits, and Wesley just laughs.

“SUGAR, BUTTER, NUTMEG, SALT,” I order, pointing at the ingredients I measured out. “You’re going to mix that together in the larger bowl. Once it’s thoroughly mixed, add an egg, then mix some more.”

Wesley nods once. “Yes, ma’am.”

I won’t lie, it’s nice to be the one who knows what they’re doing. It’s also nice to watch Wesley doing my bidding.

He pulls an electric mixer out of an upper cabinet with ease, and I’m right back to being jealous. I would’ve needed a chair to get that out.

While Wesley mixes, I dump flour and baking powder into a different bowl. He interrupts, delicately brushing my nose with one knuckle.

“Flour?” I guess, rubbing at it.

“A bruise. You hurt yourself?”

On the door, while imagining him naked. It’s what I deserve. “No,” I reply quickly. “That’s probably just a shadow.”

He looks skeptical as I duck my head and squirm away.

“Add this stuff a little at a time to your bowl,” I instruct, pointing at the flour/baking powder mixture. He’s marginally sloppy for my standards, pouring in too much at a time. I bite my tongue but ultimately can’t help taking over. Technically, Wesley is fulfilling the terms of the wish; he’s making Violet’s favorite cinnamon-sugar donuts. I’m merely assisting.

“If I can just squeeze in here . . .” I step in front of him, my back to his chest, commandeering his carton of milk. Wesley frowns, empty hand still raised in the air.

“Shhh.” I pat a fingertip over his lips, feeling them twist up into a smile.

Then I happily return to showing off, stirring the batter like a pro, pouring it into a piping bag. “Like this.” I demonstrate, piping batter into one of the cavities of my donut pan. “You fill it up about halfway.”

“May I?” He reaches.

I quickly pipe a second one (I love piping, it’s so satisfying), then hand it over. Wesley raises the metal nozzle to my cheek and squirts cold batter directly onto my skin. One dollop. Two dollops. One long, curving dollop.

“It’s a smiley face,” he says, gleeful.

I grab his piping bag. “That’s how you lose your privileges.”

“Aw.” He towels off my cheek as I make quick work of the rest of the pan. “Turn that frown upside down.”

I try to glare at him, unsuccessfully.

He’s all innocence. “Now what?”

“Oven. We’ll set a timer for eight minutes, but it might only need seven. And then . . .” I drift off. He’s using leftover batter to doodle a W on top of the pan. I put him to work preparing the topping: one bowl of melted butter, another of cinnamon and sugar.

“Now what?” he asks again once the pan’s in the oven and the timer’s been set.

“Trust fall!” I cry, and fall back. His sturdy arm encircles my waist well before I hit the ground, of course.

“Don’t do that! I was all the way over there!”

I cackle. “I’m pretty sure that one was on Violet’s list. Wish number five: Do a trust fall.”

“You could have actually fallen!”

“Could I have, though?”

He scowls. “No.” Then he leans in, lips at my ear. I instantly erupt in flames. “You say being close is a bad idea, but then you go and fall onto me.”

“Hm?” I spring away, busying myself filling the dishwasher.

“You heard me.” He begins to leave the room.

“Where’re you going?”

“To set up the movie. It’s sacred law, don’t forget.”

While he’s doing that, I take a much-needed breather to slap myself. Get it together! This is a critical period. If I can refrain from swooning all over him, then I don’t see why we both can’t have what we want long-term: a hotel and an animal sanctuary, without stepping on each other’s toes. We’ll likely bicker at times, but a little bickering between equal inheritors is much less damaging than bickering between salty exes forced to live in close proximity to each other for the rest of their lives. This is the mature decision. For once in my life, I am going to look before I leap, and save myself from pain.

I know I’m right in this, but knowing I’m right doesn’t make me any happier about it.

The timer dings while I’m preoccupied with an internal speech that is half pep talk, half threat. “They’re ready!” I shout.

When he doesn’t pop back in, I assume he must be busy choosing a movie and pounce on the opportunity to roll the donuts in the topping myself, which I confess I wanted to do anyway. Once I’m finished, I lay them aside, wash my hands, and set off to scold Wesley for not doing the thing that I’m glad he didn’t do.

He isn’t in the living room. I walk by the television, which I left paused on The Great British Bake Off, but instead of the charming Noel Fielding gracing my screen I get a horrifying eyeful of Pennywise the clown. “Jesus Christ.”

I wheel around, panning the room. “Wesley!”

No response.

I plant my hands on my hips. “I am not watching It.” I punch the exit button on my remote as fast as I can, then click on Legally Blonde. Much better.

Wesley jumps out at me from out of nowhere, hands in claws. I scream.

He laughs and laughs and laughs. I hate him. I really, really want to hate him. I am not even close to hating him. “The look on your face!” he howls, doubling over.

“You about finished?” I level him with the most hateful look I can muster. “Where the hell did you come from?”

He flashes a lopsided grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes.”

“You’re cute when you’re mad. Like that movie with the duck who says the sky is falling? Have you seen that one? That’s what you remind me of, and when you’re mad it’s hilarious.”

How very flattering.

“It’s a chicken,” I snap.

Whatever my face is doing is really cracking him up. I am on the fence about finding a stepstool to stand on so that I can climb up there and give him a good dressing-down when he relents. Wesley crosses the room, flattens a palm to the wallpaper, and digs his fingers into it. The edge of a camouflaged doorway gives, swinging out to reveal a black corridor.

I gape. “Where did that come from?”

“Secret passageway.”

I’m already hurrying inside. Far behind me, Wesley’s complaining that I changed the movie: “What’d you do that for? I’ve been busy setting up a joke. Now the red balloon won’t make any sense.”

“If I see a red balloon in this house, Wesley Koehler, you’re going to be in big trouble. I hate clowns.”

“Balloon?” I hear a loud noise that is inarguably the pop of a balloon. “Never seen a balloon in my life.”

The secret passageway leads to the library. I decide to teach Wesley a lesson in karma by shutting the light off and squeezing myself inside a large, deep bookshelf. When he walks by, I reach out and grab his ankle. He shouts, releasing a string of curses he then spends five minutes apologizing for.

I lie on the floor laughing.

“Oh, you’ll be sorry you did that,” he says darkly, offering me a helping hand. “I know all sorts of secret passageways in this house.”

“So do I.”

“You didn’t know about the one in the living room.”

My eyes narrow with challenge. “Close your eyes and count to twenty.”