Say Yes to a Mess (Dreamspun Desires Book 103)

by Elle Brownlee

  Holt had been right; something had happened inside him. That click.

  He’d decided to ask Holt to come home with him tonight.

  Chapter Seven

  OH, I Do!

  I’m starting with getting preachy, which I resent even has to happen but. But! Little Odalia PD has released a statement for roving fans to stop climbing on the statue of the town founder and that there’s been a rash of incidental—but very real—burglaries in the area since filming started and for residents to be “aware and prepared.”

  Also, I am releasing a separate statement to share to all the socials that I’ve seen fans post photos of Wiley’s house and some candids of Wiley and Holt about town and, no. Nope. This is not cool. Don’t make me get my squirt bottle. Be enthusiastic, not creepy!

  Absolutely stop climbing onto the plinth to get a selfie with the founder. I realize it’s become ~a thing~ and someone will bust into the comments to defend it, but one, no, and two, no. I’m not absolutely convinced it’s a fan-involved crime spree, because we’re just not about that. But, as Chief Wilkins rightly said, be aware and prepared out there. And pass your tips on to the Odalia PD if you see anything sus.

  Thus closes my PSA. Thank you.

  So, what’s the what otherwise? The wedding is almost here, and I have butterflies. I also have my outfit selected, on-theme snacks ready to go, and champagne on the chill. I can’t wait for us to pick apart every detail together, live.

  Speaking of, watching the livestream shows a very different Holt. This Holt, all cute and besotted, has me feeling quite the identity crisis. What if I’m—gasp—turning into a Holster?

  It’s just… the pictures and clips Holt posts from their dance lessons are total adorbs time, and speaking of again, who else had to lie down after seeing that picture of Holt catching a catnap propped on Wiley’s dear head while Wiley catnapped on his chest, all surrounded by gorgeous flowers?

  They disgust me.

  I might have printed and framed it.

  The contest winner is about to be announced, and full disclosure, I’m not eligible because I’m media and so I leave it to one of you OID devotees to snag it and provide the intel. Don’t let me down!

  Not a lot of goss to report. Things are getting locked down over there, but there’s no grumblings or rumblings either, which is a good sign. It feels like the bigwigs are really happy with this format and special episode, but I also can’t shake feeling like they’re kinda making it up as they go along. Just me? hm.

  As always: Claws out and drills drawn, let’s get into it in the comments!

  “YOU look terrible. I’m making you toast. Toast fixes almost everything.”

  Wiley laid his head on the counter and groaned. “We’re up to three years. It’s been three years since you dragged me to the park, and instead of reacting like a sane person, I said ‘oh sure okay I’ll pretend to be getting married on TV, no problem.’”

  “Four, at least. Time is exponential when you’re pretending to get married on TV.”

  Carla set something down and the vibrations tickled Wiley’s head. He’d heard that distinctive sound on this countertop enough to make a noise of appreciation and reach for the mug of coffee and drag it closer without looking.

  “Five.” Wiley hunched over the cup and slurped coffee as Carla buttered his toast. He inhaled three pieces and had a bite of a fourth before he paused. “Okay, so I was hungry.”

  “Did you forget to eat last night? Or lie down thinking you’d get up any minute and shower, then eat, but instead wake up with your alarm this morning?”

  Wiley polished off the toast. “Exactly that.”

  Carla read his longing glance at the empty plate and cut several more slices of bread.

  “Did you get an invitation? To my non-wedding?”

  Carla’s vigorous slicing slowed. “It wasn’t phrased that way, natch, but I did.”

  “Were you going to tell me about that? Like, didn’t you think it was worth mentioning that invitations were sent for a wedding that won’t be happening?”

  She set the slices to take their spin in the industrial toaster and wiped her hands on her apron. “I assumed you knew or maybe one of you was messing with me. It arrived a few days ago. They’re nice,” she added almost apologetically. “Here.”

  Carla ducked into the kitchen and returned with a thick envelope, which she handed to Wiley.

  He held it like it might bite.

  Carla’s bakery address was printed on gray paper with a rose-gold sheen. Inside, the envelope was lined with darker rose-gold foil with the invitation tucked in a smaller vellum envelope. The invitation was flat and embossed and ornate and matched the items he could kind of recall from their décor segment.

  Holt’s full name and his full name in looping, intertwining script dominated the design.

  Dread, a bit of defeat, and absolute undeniable longing pooled in Wiley’s gut.

  “This seems… way more official than I was prepared for.”

  “I think that sums up pretty much everything so far.” Carla dropped the washcloth she halfheartedly had been pushing around and drew a stool to her side of the counter. “I never should have pestered you about your year of mostly-no yes.”

  “You couldn’t know it’d lead to this.” Wiley pictured Holt. “It’s okay. Really.”

  “Is it?” Carla tilted her head. “I’ve been wondering, and you don’t get that dopey look easily.”

  “No,” Wiley said with enough force to stop her before she got further.

  “No what?” Holt appeared in the kitchen doorway with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a day-old danish in the other. “Whatever it was, it sounded like you meant it.”

  Wiley tried but couldn’t stop smiling at seeing Holt and Holt’s endearing comfort at the bakery. Holt settled onto the stool next to him and grinned back.

  “Hi.”

  “Morning.” The way Holt sat put them too close together, but Wiley didn’t move. “Carla got this.” He slid the invitation over.

  Holt shoved the danish in his mouth and inspected the envelopes and invite. “That’s quite something,” he said through a disappearing bite and swallowed. “And that leads you to no?”

  “No. I mean, it does, yes, but not no to that. It’s just everyone is apologizing and taking responsibility for me getting into this when I got me into this. Maybe I didn’t have the full scope, but I certainly was aware of the stakes when I agreed, and I’ve held up my end. And I want credit for that.” Wiley carefully put the invitation into its vellum envelope and that back into the larger envelope. “Credit isn’t quite the right word. This fake wedding has been good for me, and I’m still not sorry I said yes.”

  “How so?”

  Wiley looked at Holt and smiled. After a moment he realized that couldn’t be his whole answer.

  “It forced me out of my rut, not by taking some big lavish trip but how it jolted me from inertia, here.” Wiley swept his arm behind him toward the bank of windows. “And I’ve rediscovered how much I like Odalia, and being a baking assistant, that I show promise at ballroom dancing, that I’m not stuck here.”

  “You’re still taking the trip, though, aren’t you?” Carla raised her hands when Holt and Wiley stared at her. “What? Life epiphanies are great and all, but he’s earned it and should have some fun and relaxation after this.”

  “And then some.” Holt turned to Wiley. “Book one of those private tropical cabanas that are way out on the water. Then it’s all ocean all the time.”

  “I’ll add it to the list. I still haven’t decided.” Wiley finished his coffee and snagged the pot to refill everyone’s mug. “I do think I want to renovate the kitchen, but otherwise, saying yes has gone pretty well.”

  “As soon as Kit gets here, we’ll figure out an exit strategy to keep it that way.” Holt checked his phone. “If he doesn’t answer my text, I’ll call him in a minute.”

  Wiley ate more toast and tried not to be glum.


  “We can get a start.” Carla reached under the counter and pulled out her notebook.

  “I’m starting to think I need to keep one of these.” Wiley pulled it to him and flicked the pages. “Notebook, planner, binder. Think of all the stickers I could buy.”

  “I’ve never kept one either. I do okay.” Holt’s phone chirped and he looked at it and grunted. “Kit is unavoidably delayed and won’t make it but says whatever we come up with he’s behind 100 percent, unless it’s totally wrong, and he’ll go over the plan later for necessary tweaks.”

  “Okay, so we’ll start and finish a plan.” Carla tugged her notebook back and flipped to a blank page. “First we should establish what and we can work back to why. From what I’ve read online, I think going with delaying the wedding versus outright canceling will cause way less grief.”

  Unexpected noise from the kitchen made all three snap to attention at once.

  Ben stopped short as he walked in. “Hello, good morning.” There was a certain expectation in his arrival, in coming through the back unannounced at this hour, which made him seem quite familiar with the bakery. “Am I interrupting something?”

  Wiley glanced at Carla, who blushed crimson with her arms folded on the closed notebook. The blush wasn’t guilt or nerves from almost getting caught scheming.

  “Or we can table the discussion for later.” He raised an eyebrow and murmured, “Well, well, well.”

  Carla shushed him and stowed the notebook. “I have your rolls and bear claw order ready.”

  “And breakfast still?” Ben asked hopefully. “If that’s all right for me to join in.”

  “Of course.” Carla widened her eyes at Wiley and ignored Holt’s growing grin. “Let me get you a stool. Who wants more toast?”

  HOLT drummed his fingers on the armchair in Odalia’s single, small but refined, actual haberdashery and tried not to show his impatience.

  He had endured being shoved into and trotted out in a dark blue trim-fitting suit, a process he hated, but Wiley’s roaming gaze and obvious appreciation made it more than worthwhile for once.

  Waiting on Wiley’s turn and dreading the next two rounds he’d go through proved less rewarding.

  “Are we prepared?” Kit asked as he drew the curtain back from the dressing room. “I’m going to say no. Wiley, come on out and show yourself off.”

  Wiley appeared, and Holt’s impatience evaporated. Everything evaporated except for Wiley, handsome and shy and seeking out Holt’s eyes.

  Holt stood without knowing he had and was two wide steps toward Wiley when he realized it and stopped. Then he didn’t do anything but stand there and stare as Wiley’s shyness slowly broke into a pleased grin.

  “And?” Kit prompted.

  “Stunning.” Holt couldn’t look away to answer.

  Kit pressed Wiley’s lapels and straightened the hang of his jacket. “Dark blue with light accents on you and light gray with dark accents on him. Wiley’s idea, and a fine one.” He moved away and cast a critical eye over Wiley. “Give us a twirl.”

  Wiley dutifully twirled. Holt dutifully noticed the fit of Wiley’s pants at the bulge and butt.

  Holt swallowed and discreetly adjusted.

  “Marvelous. You can go take that off. We are done here,” Kit declared.

  Holt leveled Kit with a look. “Not three?”

  “Nope. These are it.” Kit waved imperiously. “Sometimes, the powerful drama of a single strong reveal is better than any cavalcade of options followed by a cliffhanger.”

  Holt liked to think he more often than not knew when it was better not to argue. This was definitely nothing to argue about.

  Kit walk-and-talked the camera to the dressing room and reappeared, their contrasting pocket squares in hand, to walk-and-talk to Sven, the stooped tailor with his ring of white hair and keen gaze, and Sven’s daughter Helene, hovering in readiness to assist.

  “Psst.” Holt slipped past the dressing room curtains and the sharp turn that acted as another visual baffle into the open dressing room.

  Wiley had his head and both upraised arms in his shirt and the lines of his hips exposed by the undone fly of his jeans. His abdomen rippled as he wriggled into the shirt and then his head appeared, hair mussed, and somehow him twisting to tuck in his shirt was the sexiest part of all.

  “I was just going to say, uh.” Holt coughed. “I’m here to suggest we make a break for it while we can and escape out the back.”

  “I don’t think there is a back.”

  “So we improvise.”

  Wiley arched a single eyebrow.

  “Let’s just go brazen it out and ‘exit stage left’ via the front door while Sven still has Kit absorbed in darts and weaves.”

  Wiley did up his jeans, pulled on his light sweater, and plastered himself to the wall. He slid along it and peered past the curtain.

  “I’m going on three,” Wiley whispered. “One, two….” He lifted a third finger and darted away.

  Holt followed.

  They tiptoed with complete lack of stealth to the front of the store. Kit didn’t deign to turn and look at them. Holt waved at Elaine, winced as the bells on the door chimed, and dashed down the sidewalk to catch up with Wiley.

  “We’re ridiculous.” Wiley laughed and bumped into Holt. “What now?”

  “Go walk and then nap in the park? Then find lunch?” Holt said as a million filthy things burst in his imagination.

  “Yeah. I like the sound of that.” Wiley slid his arm around Holt’s waist.

  Holt’s chest constricted. He covered Wiley’s hand with his, tucked Wiley against him, and didn’t hurry the several blocks to the park.

  “GENTLEMEN, let me see it from the top.” Sarah pressed Play and stayed in the corner of the studio.

  Holt took him in their frame, held his gaze, nodded the beat, and started them across the floor. Wiley hummed along as they danced. He forgot to mind his concentration point, up and past Holt’s shoulder, and Holt was in too close. Wiley’s heart floated as light as his feet.

  Their footwork didn’t stumble, and Holt led them into and around the curves, and didn’t get tangled in the final crossover arms flourish and spin.

  They stood in silence, and Wiley looked from the smolder in Holt’s eyes to the sensuous, wanting lift of Holt’s mouth. He looked back up and grinned, and heat flared behind Holt’s gaze.

  Sarah came to stand a few feet from them, clasped her hands neatly, and smiled. “I believe we are finished.”

  “Really? We just got here.” Holt glanced at Wiley. “That irredeemable?”

  “That good. At this stage I feel you leaving with confidence and certainty in the steps is better than overworking it.” Sarah shrugged one shoulder. “We could run some drills, put you through your paces, grapevine for fifteen-minute heats.”

  “Or we agree with your expertise and not overwork it.” Holt held out a hand and then did a neat bow over hers when she took it. “Thank you, Miss Sarah. I can honestly say it turned out to be a pleasure.”

  “It is all mine. At least until the reception and we see how you do,” she said with a bit less starch than usual.

  “Miss Sarah,” Wiley said and shook her hand. “Thank you.”

  “Thank me by remembering your lift, your carriage, the roll in your feet.” She smiled. “Good night, gentlemen. I trust you’ll do very well indeed. Until the big day, then—I’m looking forward to it.”

  “So am I,” Wiley said without thinking. He retrieved his things and went to the door, waited for Holt to join him, and they walked to the corner together, as had become their routine.

  Wiley readied to ask Holt to come home with him. Their engagement might be fake but what he craved from and with Holt was real, and he was determined to say yes and have it. Even if it came to an end.

  Holt held Wiley’s gaze and his lips parted. He ran a finger up Wiley’s neck.

  “Can I walk you home?”

  “Yes.” A shiver of anticipation racked Wiley.<
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  Holt’s arm enveloped him, and Wiley trotted to keep pace.

  They got to his house and up the walkway and then onto the porch.

  Holt turned and pressed their hips together.

  “Do you want to come in?” Wiley asked before Holt could say anything.

  “Yes,” Holt seemed to grit out.

  Wiley dug in his pocket and unlocked the door, and Holt pushed him inside.

  “Do you want any lem—” Wiley started to tease.

  Holt kicked the door shut, lifted and wrapped Wiley’s legs around his waist, and pulled him into a searing kiss.

  Holt’s flannel shirt, tailored for on-camera wear, split up the back. Wiley laughed and split it the rest of the way, helped Holt get it past Holt’s wide wrists, and immediately untucked his T-shirt and tugged it up and over Holt’s head.

  Holt carried him through the house, one arm slung under his butt, the other feeling along the wall and into the door of Wiley’s bedroom as they kissed.

  Wiley kicked his shoes away and worked his socks off. He leaned way back and thrilled at Holt’s ease in holding him and how Holt watched in appreciation as he stripped from his shirt and sweater in one go. Holt’s fingers dug into him, and Holt’s teeth scraped over his nipple, and he knotted his hands in Holt’s fine hair.

  Holt walked to the bed and dropped Wiley onto it, ripped off the rest of his clothes, dealt with Wiley’s using the same brutal efficiency, and then landed atop Wiley in purposeful, possessive weight.

  Awareness flooded him of how long he’d wanted this. From the moment Holt had called him Coy in the park. How much he wanted it to outlast tonight. He trembled and dug his hands into Holt’s shoulders.

  Wiley’s legs had to spread wide for Holt to fit between them, and the strain from it, the differential, buzzed under his skin.

  “I haven’t….” Wiley closed his eyes on a moan as Holt rubbed their cocks together. “I haven’t done anything in a while.”