Wilde Magic (Wilde Women Book 3) (49 page)

Being relegated to fuck boy status did not make him happy. Not when what he really wanted was the exact opposite. The curse of knowing and feeling the difference between making love to ‘tessa held against what they were doing now, well … that shit wasn’t working. But he didn’t have a clue how to change it.

Ever since the snowstorm, every day, several times a day, she sought him out. When he was working. Or sitting at his drafting table doing a design sketch. One time, when he was on a ladder measuring for lumber.

That time really messed with him in a big way. There he was, several rungs up, his hands managing a tape measure for a piece of crown molding needing to be replaced, and suddenly a hand was massaging his crotch. No. Seriously. He nearly fell and cracked his skull open from the shock. Clearly, his personal safety didn’t bother her.

His conscience sniggered at the glib retelling—probably because being frightened to death on a ladder ended with him taking her against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist as he … Yeah. As he.

Caleb groaned. No two ways about it. He was a fucking idiot. In his own defense, never having given much of a shit about feelings and connections before didn’t exactly prepare him for the ton of bricks crashing onto him, triggered by falling for someone.

He’d asked himself a hundred times—should he just drop on his knees and admit he was in love with her? Would that be enough to make the mistrust she felt go away?

Thinking about all this was why he wasn’t getting any real work done. Tearing off his work gloves, he growled as they flew onto the worktable. Throwing shit was his new thing. Kept him from punching the walls.

Storming out of the big house, he put his head down, shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and marched in the direction of the studio. Fuck this crap. She’d kept him up half the night—first by sliding naked into his bed and second for the never-ending dreams that wouldn’t let him sleep. He needed a nap. Using power tools just wasn’t a good idea in the absence of a clear mind.

They literally collided when she bumped into him where the two paths—the one to the studio and the other veering off toward the bakery—intersected.

“Oof,” she yelped when her body bounced off his. He reflexively reached a helping hand, which she promptly swatted away.

Oh, for God’s sake. Enough. He’d fucked up—well, not really, but he had to let her have it—and she’d left him before they could resolve their problems. Now, providence or whatever the fuck she liked to say, was forcing them together. She’d had her chance to be mad at him. But he was over it. There was mad and then there was torture.

Ordinarily, when she got snippy, he backed down and tried to soothe her ruffled feathers. Wasn’t it supposed to be easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar? And what about all that crap over a smile versus a scowl?

Well, guess the fuck what. None of that worked.

“Grow up, Charlize. I was only trying to help.”

“Yeah?” she snapped. “Well, I don’t need your damn help.”

Maybe not the right thing to say but he really was bone-weary tired and grumpier than usual. “Fuck you.” And then he kept moving along the path, her shocked gasp ringing in his ears.

Two large mugs of coffee later—he’d given up on taking a nap after she’d infuriated him yet again—Cal was standing at the drafting table, a pencil tapping out an unconscious rhythm on the edge, as he looked over a design sketch.

It was a house. A house he’d been ruminating on for a long time. He called it his thicket home. A place hidden in the trees where he designed a unique retreat, a safe place, a refuge from a world moving way too fast. Wilde House kind of reminded him of it. He liked that the home was behind the business, nestled out-of-sight in a stand of trees. It was private but not so far removed that you’d feel cut off.

Couple of days ago he started adding elements to the property and not just the building itself. A garden spread across the back edge of the yard. A potting shed for her and a workshop for him. That’s right. Now, as he let his imagination fly and worked on the design, she was a big part of it.

A noise caught his attention. He turned to look at the door. She was standing there, the sunlight backlighting her body, as she hesitated in the doorway.

“May I come in?”

Generally speaking, she didn’t usually ask. He sensed a change in the air. Nodding curtly, he went back to staring at the sketch and waited to see what she was up to.

Like her beloved dragonflies, she flitted here and there around the studio. Stopping to examine this or that. Sighing occasionally. She’d done two complete circuits before finally approaching him.

“Ty,” she murmured. He swung his eyes to her face. She instantly blushed. “Caleb,” she corrected oh-so-politely. “I was rude before. And, um … well, I’m sorry.”

Polite and politically correct. He was so over it.

“What do you want Ms. Wilde? I’m a little busy.” He looked at his watch, eyed her dispassionately, despite the throbbing in his groin, and sneered. “Your daily fuck appointment isn’t until later and I’ve got shit to do.”

“Now who’s being rude,” she snapped back. “Didn’t Kate teach you to be civil when an apology is offered?”

His jaw cracked open and he gaped at her. For real? She was bringing his goddamn mother into this? That’s when the yelling started.

“An apology?” he snorted derisively. “Little girl, that was no apology. That was you spouting some hippy–speak and pretending to give a shit about my feelings. Nice try buttercup, but your bullshit doesn’t have an audience. Go away, ‘tessa. Leave me alone. I don’t feel like dancing to your childish tune right now.”

He’d hit every one of her triggers with his remarks and he didn’t fucking care. She was all but rubbing salt into the wound he carried in his heart, so she could pretty much fuck off right about now.

“This is my home you asshole,” she screeched. “How ‘bout you be the one to leave?”

Oh. No. She. Didn’t.

Throwing the pencil down, he watched it bounce off the table and land on the floor. Part of him was so angry he almost overturned the drafting table and picked up the nearby stool to send it crashing through a window.

“Is that what you want, Tesoro? Huh?” He was snorting like an angry bull. “You want me to leave?”

Her eyes flashed. If it was a warning, he didn’t care.

“So, what then? Your pussy’s had enough?” He knew he shouldn’t have said it but his mouth wasn’t choosing the words. His emotions were. And his emotions were a certifiable cluster fuck. “No more cock diversion for you?”

“Shut up!” she screeched and came at him with her hand up. He was in for a face smack. One he probably deserved.

“Don’t even think about it, baby girl,” he warned.

If she heeded the threatening tone in his voice or was simply choosing a different battle, he didn’t know. But she definitely thought better of slapping him. In that moment of her indecision, he finished the threat and stared her down.

“I wasn’t shitting you, Charlize. About tying your hands,” he clarified when her brows bumped together in confusion. “Whatever you foolishly start, rest assured … I
will
finish.”

Her eyes widened. She looked shocked. And incredibly, a little excited. Oh. Really? Why the fuck hadn’t he seen this before? That snippy thing she did was smoke and mirrors. His sexy ‘tessa wanted to be put in her place. By him. It all made sense now.

The silent fucking. The refusal to kiss him during the sex. She’d make out with him no problem, but the second the shift to sex happened—she took the kissing off the table. She was testing him and probably didn’t even realize that’s what she was doing. All the
it’s just sex
bravado wasn’t her. She’d been a virgin for Christ’s sake. Hadn’t she told him that before him she’d never even come close to being intimate with a man? Screwing him with no strings attached, no emotional strings, wasn’t in her emotional make-up. Charlize Baron-Wilde did not sleep around for the hell of it.

Now he understood. But the only card he had to play was a tricky one. If he came on too strong, she’d strike back. But if he underplayed what he now saw was his best advantage, he’d never crack through the damn wall his Crepuscolo-driven life forced her to build around her heart.

He could take her—right here. Right now. She wouldn’t say no. He could smell her desire—taste it in the air. But being completely over the furious fucking for the sake of the power play it represented kept him from acting. He was a better card player than that.

Dismissing her with a smirk, he picked up the pencil and moved to the drafting table. “Text me when dinner’s ready.”

Her mouth hit the floor and it was beyond funny to watch her slack-jawed reaction to his curt brush-off. She thought access to her body gave her the upper hand. She had a lot to learn.

H
AVING CAREFULLY SET THE STAGE
because she knew in advance there was going to be the inevitable gaps of silence, she’d queued up a playlist on her phone and snapped it into a dock thingie that pretended to be a stereo.

Brynnie must have downloaded hundreds of songs and though she still hated the reason behind the phone as a piece of vital technology, she had to give it up for the entertainment options. After recently discovering Candy Crush and something called Chuzzles, Charlie became a reluctant iPhone convert. Especially, once she started using Jax’s Beats headphones as she danced around the house when no one was around. She loved that shit.

Music playing. Nothing too rowdy and nothing too romantic. Check.

Dinner, ready to serve up. One of Ty’s favorites. Meatloaf. With mashed potatoes and gravy. She added steamed carrots because the meal looked sepia toned and not very healthy. Check.

For dessert, she made a coconut poke cake. Until yesterday when she’d been bored and cycling through Pinterest, she’d never even heard the term. But her baker sister had every cake type ingredient known to man. Once she copied the recipe and went on the hunt for ingredients, she was determined to make it. So … check.

She eyed the bar cart. Maybe the martinis were overkill but what could she do? Wine with meatloaf bordered on being nauseating, so a chilled cocktail before dinner was the better choice.

Now all she had to do was hold it together until he arrived. Before the thought fully formed, she jumped at the sound of his booted feet stomping up the stairs and onto the porch.

Reaching for a handful of hair, a nervous habit, Charlie twirled it in her fingers and smoothed her other hand down the skirt outfit she chose. She was as high-strung and anxious as she could get. This dinner felt oddly like a first date. She couldn’t’ explain why she was so, good lord. What was the right word? Wired? Flustered?

No surprise why. He’d called her on her shit. At first, she couldn’t believe he had the balls. And then she was glad. For real. She was tired of this game they played and though she knew it was her who started it—she hadn’t enough experience to figure out how to end it, without appearing to cave in.

Instead of jumping his ass when he snarled at her and making him eat his words, she backpedaled and shut up. And now here he was, expecting to be fed and in what kind of mood, she couldn’t guess.

When he appeared in the doorway, she instantly regretted her clothing choice. And why? Because a cute little skirt, with next to nothing underneath, and her favorite thigh high boots wasn’t going to cut it. Not when his smoldering good looks hit her like a fire bolt, unleashing a flood of desire her skimpy panties had no hope of containing. If he got any hotter, she was going to need a towel to sit on.

He looked at her from the doorway and she studied him. This is what they did. Tried to figure the other out. It wasn’t that difficult. At least, it hadn’t been before. Before she got an ice-cold bucket of reality thrown in her face.

How sad. That one moment wrecked so much. She didn’t want it to be like this. Didn’t want any of this. She wanted the old Ty back. The one she could make laugh and who treated her like a rare bird, only ever seen by him.

“Charlize,” he ground out. If he was going for polite, he missed by a mile.

“Caleb,” she returned with an abundance of caution. She wondered briefly how weird it’d look if she licked her finger and held it up to see which way the winds blew. It was so hard to tell with him.