Say Yes to a Mess (Dreamspun Desires Book 103)

by Elle Brownlee

  “Less.”

  Holt snickered and spun them in a wobbly circle.

  Wiley’s pique evaporated in Holt’s arms. He could tell himself someone might be camped down the street with a telephoto lens and getting this shot through his bay window or a small troupe of fans had followed them and were reeling with delight hiding in a nearby bush. He should. He didn’t.

  The spell broke when his elbow whacked into the wall and Holt mashed his foot.

  “Good thing we’re practicing,” Wiley said dryly. The stinging vibrations running through him warbled in his voice.

  Holt lifted his foot and ran his hand down Wiley’s arm to massage Wiley’s elbow.

  “Ouch.” Holt laughed in sympathy. “I’m sorry. You should start stepping on my foot.”

  “A little retaliation to keep you on your toes? I like it.”

  “Har-har.” But Holt smiled and his fingers slowed, and then his focus shifted to Wiley’s mouth.

  Wiley’s lips tingled with awareness and since he very much wanted to kiss Holt, he moved sharply back.

  Holt let him go.

  “It won’t even take an hour, but I should get the T-shirt done before the day gets away from me.” Wiley yawned and pointed toward the kitchen as he headed to his office. “Help yourself to anything.”

  “Okay.”

  Holt sounded almost hurt, but that would be silly. There was nothing to be hurt over.

  Wiley fired up his computer and monitors and dug into existing files to patch together a design. He put Marry Me! over the CarlaCakes logo, added dates and the episode number, surrounded that in clouds of tiny cupcake-shaped confetti, chose an ombré dye T-shirt base, uploaded the whole thing, sent Carla the info, and called it done.

  Then he sat until an hour and fifteen minutes ran out.

  He took some deep breaths, set his shoulders, and marched into the living room.

  Where he promptly turned gooey-centered and sighed with a longing he didn’t fully acknowledge.

  All the figurines and village buildings were returned to the shelves, spaces left for those they’d chosen for their not-wedding centerpieces, and those pieces were in a box on the kitchen table wrapped in old washcloths and towels.

  Holt was dead asleep on the couch.

  The couch was a rare indulgence—he’d searched and searched until he’d found one he could lie on outstretched end to end without his feet or head touching the arms, and double the width with removable back cushions. He’d gladly paid the exorbitant price to have it.

  Holt lay curled on his side but fit comfortably, and Wiley was even gladder he’d gotten it.

  Wiley grabbed one of Grandma’s enormous afghans and was about to toss it over Holt, but he hesitated. Maybe Holt ran even hotter while sleeping and would overheat. Maybe it was weird to think of doing this and then do it and want to tuck Holt in. Maybe he should tiptoe back to his room and fold the laundry and answer the emails he’d neglected since this whole thing started.

  A corner of the afghan tumbled from the piled-up fold in Wiley’s arms and puddled over Holt’s hip.

  Holt’s eyelids twitched and Wiley held his breath.

  The afghan shifted farther and more landed down.

  Holt’s brow furrowed as he murmured. Wiley stopped breathing.

  The afghan enthusiastically answered gravity’s call and flumped in ribbons until all Wiley held was the opposite corner.

  Holt’s mouth lifted and he scooched backward on the couch. He cracked an eye open, peered up at Wiley, and mumbled, “Hmm, hi, nice.” Then he reached and insinuated and moved until Wiley was spooned to his front and both of them were more or less under the afghan.

  Wiley thought about Carla’s list of questions they didn’t know and hadn’t answered, wondered if their dance by his front door counted as enough practice, and determined that he should pry loose and do anything but this.

  Fatigue and warmth and a wonderful sense of security rendered those worries as nothing more than brief flickers that quickly passed as he fell into a deep sleep.

  HOLT pulled Wiley closer and sighed contentedly. Wiley was so warm and soft under his hand, and he grinned when Wiley twitched and muscles jumped as the slow rub of his thumb tickled something.

  The syrupy intoxication of sleep hadn’t fully cleared. Remnants of a heady dream with the man he woke to find in his arms lingered and teased him. He didn’t fight past it—he’d had errant fantasies of doing just this for years—it was too good to give up on.

  He made a low seeking noise as he feathered kisses at Wiley’s nape and then nibbled at Wiley’s ear. Wiley was wonderfully responsive, making small noises in return that had his pulse already pounding, arching into his hold and twisting so Holt could kiss the column of Wiley’s neck.

  Holt tenderly scratched along Wiley’s ribs and then pinched Wiley’s nipple. He pushed hard enough to feel Wiley’s answering pulse in that sensitive spot, and it echoed where he lapped over the fluttering skin in the cup of Wiley’s collarbone. Wiley’s small noises grew in urgency and strafed Holt like a physical touch.

  They tangled but kept on as Wiley turned beneath him and Holt rose onto his palms. He let his knees take his weight and his hips rolled instinctively—he shuddered as Wiley’s legs opened just for him and kept him held tight. He had to bow his head and clench his teeth so he didn’t rush and miss every last moment to savor.

  Wiley’s hands ran up his arms. Not as confident as Holt but without hesitation. Holt held still as Wiley explored the width of his shoulders and the texture of his hair and the angle of his spine. Then Wiley’s fingertips crept under his waistband, barely there, but the direct contact ignited him.

  Holt groaned, wrapped his arms around Wiley, and sat backward, pulling Wiley with him to straddle his lap. He needed to kiss Wiley, to get his hands everywhere, unimpeded.

  Wiley tasted sweet and cinnamony. His hair was thick and wavy and slinky between Holt’s fingers. His kiss was generous and giving to Holt’s demands, and his hands, hooked on Holt’s shoulders, felt like fire.

  Wiley broke their kiss—to bite at Holt’s jaw and a corded tendon straining in his neck—and as Holt cradled Wiley’s head, he looked across the room and was jarred to awareness by a framed photo of GB staring at him.

  The enormity of what they were doing crashed over him. He summoned every ounce of his strength to stop, to catch Wiley’s hands and halt them, to not kiss Wiley a final time as he moved decidedly away.

  Wiley’s gaze was unfocused and heated, but Holt watched a dawning of similar awareness with dread.

  There was no immediate reaction other than Wiley sliding from Holt’s lap to the couch. Holt remained painfully immobile. To move would be to gather Wiley back to him, and he couldn’t risk that.

  “Holt?” Wiley finally asked.

  Regret swamped him but he didn’t look at Wiley. He didn’t want Wiley thinking the regret was over their kiss.

  “Wiley, I must apologize. Forgive me.”

  “No—don’t be sorry. That makes it worse somehow.”

  “Worse?” The implication in that one word shattered Holt, but he forced a smile. Which wasn’t fair. He never should have kissed Wiley at all, much less how far he’d pushed.

  “Let’s not dwell on it. It’s not a big deal.” Wiley sounded anxious for Holt to accept that and move on.

  “Yes, agreed. I get what you mean.” Holt wasn’t sure he did, but he didn’t want to know if it had upset Wiley somehow. Or hadn’t been a big deal.

  This house and its memories and how he’d always been safe and welcome here plus the wide inviting couch had lulled him. All he’d meant was to have a short nap while Wiley worked. Instead he should have found something to fix or asked outright for a task. He could have read or stopped ignoring the backlog of texts from Kit and Elaine and Janet. No way should he have presumed that welcome was still open to him.

  He stood and put the couch cushions and throw pillows back. The afghan was still warm as he folded it and
he did so with mindless precision, leaving it in a neat pile at the end of the couch.

  Wiley hovered, and it killed Holt that he seemed nervous.

  “Should we… it’s later than I realized. Do you want some lemonade or need dinner before our lesson?”

  Wiley’s offer was so ingrained and familiar that Holt had to smile. He retrieved his phone from the coffee table and marveled at the hour. They’d slept the day away.

  Holt made a show of flipping through screens and messages and sighed. “I will meet you there, but thank you. Like the T-shirt—I should just get all this,” he said and waved the phone about, “attended and resolved sooner than later. That way it’s simply done.”

  “Sure. Makes sense.” Wiley moved toward the door, eyes darting to Holt and back several times as they crossed the living room.

  As if he was worried Holt would pin him down again or something.

  “Did you get the T-shirt all designed, then?” Holt’s voice almost cracked but he smiled smoothly. “I’m certain whatever you did, Carla was thrilled.”

  “You could say that.” Wiley opened a screen and held up his phone.

  Holt scanned the message from Carla: 38 sold already! wtf! it and this are amazing TY!

  He didn’t wait for Wiley to precede him and was mostly out the door when he half turned and paused but didn’t say anything.

  Wiley waved. “See you later, then. Um, don’t forget to eat something.” He blinked. “You’ve mentioned that happens when you get busy, is all.”

  “So I have and so it does. It’s a running bit on the show, even.” Mention of the show had Wiley retreating a step into the darkened house. He took the hint. “All right, now I’m going. I will see you at the studio, where I again make another promise not to stomp your feet any more than I can help.” He sketched a wave and strode away.

  Coward, he thought. Better part of valor, he corrected.

  WILEY loitered in the stairwell leading to the studio, waiting for Holt.

  Not quite waiting for so much as waiting so Holt could see he’d gotten here first and was headed upstairs without having waited.

  Which meant every passing noise had his heart throttle him as he posed with a foot on the stair above the one he stood on—fourth from the bottom—and swinging his arms as if in midmotion. Only for the outside door not to open and his nerves to unspool and he’d go back to standing on the step with both feet.

  It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

  He’d thought up all manner of recriminations since he’d let Holt leave earlier. After the best sleep he’d had in months nap. After their kiss. After that amazing disaster of a kiss.

  Wiley sighed and dropped his face into his hands. He scrubbed it with enough force to bring floaty dots in front of his eyes. Holt probably thought him an even bigger weirdo and left wondering what the huge deal was—it was just a kiss and they were just pretending and what was the harm in getting more used to each other when they weren’t under scrutiny.

  Sense memory of the span of Holt’s hands around his waist and Holt’s raspy stubble against his throat and under his tongue and the heat of Holt all around him zinged through Wiley.

  Getting used to each other seemed like a bit of an understatement.

  That wasn’t Wiley’s first kiss by any stretch, but it definitely wasn’t a kiss among many. Wiley had kissed a few people many times, and in that he’d figured out what he liked and…. Wow. Holt’s kisses proved to be everything he liked and then some, and then even more.

  He’d wanted so much of that more, and then Holt was apologizing and no longer with the kissing, and he had not handled it well at all.

  Major understatement.

  At least he’d offered lemonade like a champ.

  “Hello, Wiley. I worried I was running late, but I’m glad you haven’t beaten me here by much,” Holt said behind him.

  Wiley sighed again. Twenty minutes of readiness to treat Holt with breezy friendliness and douse any lingering worry that the kiss affected him and Holt caught him out flat-footed.

  He almost tripped, rolled his eyes, and trudged up the stairs. “I am closer than Fernleaf, so I have an advantage.”

  “Yes, true. I did get some dinner, thank you for the reminder. I hope you did as well.” Holt sounded friendly and casual in the ways Wiley had wanted to.

  Wiley huffed and retreated to the far side of the studio.

  “Miss Sarah, how are you this evening?” Holt stayed by the door. “I have to confess first thing that we didn’t get much practicing in. Our schedule has been pretty demanding.”

  Holt camera-smiled without glancing his way, and bile burned Wiley’s throat.

  Sarah arched her eyebrows. “Well. We will do what we can in the time we have.” She tapped the floor with her foot, indicating they should join her. “I appreciate your honesty. That’s best, as it allows me more accurate assessment of your progress and needs to help you.”

  Wiley approached Holt and decided he wouldn’t take Holt’s hand until Holt created the frame, but Holt only stood there.

  “Without music to start. I’ll count.” Sarah moved their arms and hands and built their frame.

  Holt’s nostrils flared at the clasp of Wiley’s hand, but otherwise he didn’t react as she inched them closer.

  Wiley gazed at the wall past Holt’s stupidly tall shoulder and concentrated on Sarah’s steady one-step, two-step, one-step, two-step counts.

  Sarah stopped counting. “You’d better tell me this as well or we’ll get nowhere.”

  They glanced at each other. Wiley shrugged as if to say, “You think of something,” and Holt frowned. The frown created adorable crinkles at Holt’s brow, and Wiley grunted for noticing.

  “Disagreement over the seating arrangements? Future in-laws horning in with strong opinions on things? Arguing if you should bother packing a formal outfit for your honeymoon?”

  Wiley heard in-laws and his mind reeled. He hadn’t even thought about that part. How had he not thought about that part? Their frame fell apart and he whipped his head up to stare at Holt wide-eyed, and then burst out laughing at Holt’s matching expression.

  “Ah, that’s already better,” Sarah praised. “You two have such natural partner rapport I could tell immediately something was out of sorts. Remember, none of that matters. What matters is that once you’ve navigated these bumps, you’ll be married happily ever after. I’m sure it all seems colossal and stressful, but when you’re floating in one another’s arms at the reception, you’ll have already forgotten all about it.”

  She grasped their elbows, but they moved without her prompting.

  “Yes, good. There you both are. See? Nothing is insurmountable, my dears. Not even this dance.”

  Holt laughed, a low rumble in his chest that warmed Wiley to the core.

  “Keep that in mind.” Sarah pushed at the point of their shoulder blades and then their sternums. “Lifting, lifting. Now, inhale deeply, exhale deeply, and find those nice tall backs and square shoulders. We’ll do some easy steps around the room to warm up and then add the music.”

  Wiley slid his hand into Holt’s and Holt drew him near and he smiled.

  He’d have to confront that whole in-laws alarm still sounding in his mind, but for the moment they had a dance to learn and respite from the bumps, and he took it. What was a little kiss between not-getting-married friends?

  Chapter Five

  OH, I Do!

  I am screaming. Scream-ing!

  You are flooding my mentions with the same, and yes, my wonderfuls, I too distinctly heard Holt call his sweetkins “Coy” while they were dancing. I watched it at least ten times and once pausing at each second because I take Science and my duties very very seriously. #yourewelcome

  Someone make a gif of it, stat! Better—invent a way to save a video from someone else’s social story and give that video unto me.

  Coy! Ugh, my heart. They continue to be the worst.

  Also flooding my mentions are
all sorts of theories on this adorrrrrrrrrable nickname and how it’s even more adorable to watch Holt say it unguarded to his sweetgums, who then blushes like heck. (Call me old-fashioned, but I am here for Wiley’s blushes, m’k?)

  One more thing flooding my mentions and kicking up quite the ruckus in the OID Commentariat: that we desperately require a name for Wiley stans and whatever is it going to be?

  Isn’t it obvious? COYFRIENDS. Hello? #yourewelcome x2

  Which begs whatever is a Holt + Wiley portmanteau to do? I leave that one to y’all—I’ve done my bit for queen and country.

  All right, there’s old business covered. What’s the new goss?

  First order, a few right-now-show items. Ohmigosh, the contest they announced! Who but us here ever wanted to be whisked to the wilds of nowheresville more? Stuff the ballot boxes, darlings. I-Doers must represent.

  Also, anyone else notice how delightfully distracted Holt is? Gone is our resident type-A overseer. As Kit outlays details and options and all manner of everything, Holt just does this vague smile-and-nod as he steals long glances at Wiley. Who is doing a smidge better at paying attention to anything other than Holt—But Not Much. I don’t think either of them care what the wedding entails, aside from you + me = married. It’s so romantic and they’re so obviously smitten, I could perish.

  To that. As this is the season finale and a very-special-episode, they’re taking their time with it. Kit upfront secured an extension on their usual film schedule so each and every Layer could get the full everything perfection treatment. It’s clear Wilt (oh, oh no)… Hoey (worse, oof)… anyway. It’s clear Holt and Wiley are benefiting from the days together. They must be loving having this time in the open with everyone celebrating their upcoming wedding and not having to long-distance a romance on the secret side.

  …mentions like this always bring out anti-Coyfriends. You best not brigade, and I will be freezing threads and deleting comments that look to do such. He’s not a Yoko, so leave my Coy alone. (Yoko wasn’t even a Yoko—blame the band and get over it already!)