And I’m excited to meet his sister—aside from the butt snafu—when she comes out to visit in a few weeks with her family. The small child, on the other hand, we’ll have to see.
I’m nervous. I’ve never met someone’s family before. I’ve never been with anyone long enough. Or never allowed myself to get close enough. I feel my chest tighten at just the thought. Fuck, what if she doesn’t think I’m good enough?
The sight and sound of Olly carrying a giant box through the swinging kitchen door pulls me from my downward spiral just in time. “What is that?”
“Well, umm, the sign for the bakery came in.” The usually confident man, with his red flannel shirt and backward cap, dips his head, allowing me to see a sliver of his vulnerability.
“What do you mean? You came up with a name? You never told me that. What is it?”
Olly grabs my shoulders and spins me around. “Stand right here and close your eyes.” I do as he says because I’ll always do what he says.
The urge to peek is strong. Again, my patience is null. What if I crack one eye open? I doubt he’ll notice. A color, if I could just get a hint of color. That’s not really peeking. Ugh… I want to look. “Are you done yet?” I complain.
He wraps his arms around me from behind, the breath of his chuckle skimming my ear. “You’re worse than an eight-year-old.”
“Hey, I’m better than an eight-year-old… on most days,” I argue, my voice breathy. “I’m better than an eight-year-old on most days.”
With his hands on my waist, he turns me, his fingers skimming the skin just beneath my shirt, as we stand chest to chest. I can feel the heat radiating off his body.
“Keep them closed,” he says one last time before his body heat is gone. I can hear him from the right. It sounds like the box is sliding around, making all sorts of noise.
Finally, he utters the magic words, “Open sesame.” The air is thick with anticipation as I open my eyes. The oxygen I desperately need to live is trapped in my lungs, the words frozen in my throat. My eyes sting as I blink away the tears building.
“I hope you like it. My grandfather always had this theory that the name of The Diner would come to me one day, and I would justknowwhen it was ‘the one.’ It seems the same can be said for the bakery.”
“But you never named The Diner,” I point out.
He shrugs. “I have ideas.”
I look at the sign again, and this time there’s no blinking away the stream of tears streaking down my face. I’ve never been on the receiving end of a grand gesture before.
Standing in front of me is an outline of a giant cupcake with the wordsVanilla House.
“I think the work Matthew did was important. The lives he touched were important, and the impact he had on you is significant. I know I never got to meet Matthew, but he deserves to be honored.”
I can’t take my eyes off the name as all the emotions… sadness, happiness, grief rush through. And when I look up at Olly… it’s love. Love is what I see. He took something that means everything to me and made it part of his life. A big part of his life, almost like he’s makingmea part of his life, like maybe he plans on keeping me.
I take one, two, three steps until I am wrapped up in him. “I love you. Thank you,” I say, looking up into his endless brown eyes. He bends his neck, pressing his forehead to mine.
“I hope you like it.”
“Olly. No. Iloveit. I love it so damn much.” I kiss his lips, soft and slow, enjoying the feel of them on mine, while reveling in the warmth of his body pressed against me.
Somewhere among all the right and wrong turns I’ve taken while trying to find my way, I fell in love. I sure as fuck wasn’t looking for it. It started with a man who held all the pieces to a puzzle I needed to solve.
My obsession, my muse, my love.
Soon the simple, sweet kiss turns passionate, which then turns dirty. I’m for all kinds of kisses. I don’t discriminate.
“I need you,” I tell him, because, oh, do I ever need to show him exactly what this meant to me. I attack his lips, walking him back slowly until his ass hits the counter.
Olly’s hand goes to the back of my head, fingers gripping my hair with every nibble on his bottom lip.
You know what I love about Olly wearing flannel shirts? They button. So, one by one, I make my way down, popping the buttons as I go. When my lips make it to his chest, they have free range to roam.
My tongue takes up residence, swirling around his pebbled nipple. He pulls at my hair, like it’s taking everything within him to hang on.
“What are you doing, Jasper?” he says in a hollowed breath.
