Repercussions (The Hot Mess Duet Book 1)

by B. L. Olson

  I still have momentous guilt and shame over what occurred, but I will no longer allow it to hold me back. I am moving forward with Annie and I hope with everything in me that she doesn't give up on me like I had so quickly following the accident with Brielle. I know I need to fully explain to her at some point what had happened, but I can't afford to set myself back when I have made so many strides forward.

  Pulling into my driveway after work that evening, I see Annie typing away on her laptop from the swing on her parents wraparound porch. Putting my truck into park and turning it off, I sit for a moment and study her. She's so absorbed in whatever it is she is writing that she hasn't even looked in my direction.

  The evening sun is shining on her honey-colored hair, making her look even more like the light I think of her as. She is sitting there typing away, oblivious to the outside world and zeroed in on the one she is creating. I am beyond ecstatic that she picked writing back up and took to it so quickly, especially since it sounds like she had abandoned it quite a while ago and not looked back. Kind of like my own profession.

  I am finding we share more and more in common: damaged hearts, loneliness, and holding ourselves back because we don't feel like we deserve, or are worthy of, our chosen professions. Especially given the pitfalls we both experienced shortly after those careers going somewhere.

  Shaking myself from these thoughts, I climb down from my truck and head over to the Ellis house. Annie is lost in whatever she is writing and I try to make as much noise as possible so as not to scare her. Apparently it isn't enough, because she still jumps a foot when I sit down next to her, a blush creeping up her neck and across her fair cheeks.

  I give her a knowing smirk and gesture at the computer in her lap, "What are ya writing there, Stormy, that has you so flustered?"

  She hits save on her document and closes her laptop with a click. "It's nothing. Just a new story idea I have been playing with. "

  I lean back and wrap my arm around her shoulder, rocking the swing with my foot. "Why do you look embarrassed? I think it's amazing that you're writing again."

  She gives me a shy smile, the blush still staining her cheeks. "It's more the content that has me embarrassed."

  I raise an eyebrow at her in amusement. "And what, pray tell, is happening that has you so red?"

  "I'm not telling you!" she lets out with a squeak and tries to get up to escape me, but I am too fast for her.

  Wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her back down into my lap, her laptop crushed to her chest, I whisper in her ear, "Did what you're writing turn you on, Annie?"

  She wiggles in my lap, trying to get out of the grip I have on her to no avail, before she sighs in resignation, "Well I am a romance writer."

  "So that's a yes?" I smirk into her ear.

  She wiggles some more, and for both our sakes considering she is in my lap, I let her go this time. "I am neither confirming nor denying your theory." Peering through the window behind me, probably to make sure her mother isn't around and listening per her MO, she gestures towards my house next door. "Should we get dinner started?"

  I unfold myself from the porch swing and gaze down at Annie. "I know you're trying to change the subject, but just know that when we get to my house there is no escaping me or avoiding my questions."

  She nods her head and moves to leave her laptop behind me but I stop her with a hand on her arm. "No, bring it with you. Maybe after dinner, I can talk you into reading me a bit of what you were writing."

  She seems to war over my question a moment before ultimately deciding to follow me with her laptop in tow. Jogging slightly to catch up with my long strides, she reaches for my hand and asks, "So, what's for dinner?"

  Slowing down to match her stride, I glance down at her before pulling my keys from my pocket with my free hand. "I threw some orange chicken together in the crockpot before I left this morning. I was hoping I could convince you to come over."

  Giving me a smile and tugging her hand back out of mine so I can put the key in the deadbolt, she responds, "You certainly didn't have to do a lot of convincing. Especially since I am the one who went seeking you out."

  I jab my key in the front door and unlock it, pushing it open. Besides my dad who helped me move in, not a single soul has been in my house. That includes both my grandma and sister, who prefer visiting with me from the comfort of their own home. Or rather, my father's.

  I gesture for Annie to go in ahead of me, which she does with only slight hesitation. I finished unpacking the weekend before, and try not to appear awkward over the small number of belongings I own. I purged a lot of my possessions before moving here and bought most of what I have now with my savings.

  Annie wanders through the foyer and living room towards the kitchen at the back of the house. The layout is much like her parent's house next door, so navigating it isn't too difficult. I trail behind her, flipping on lights to make up for the sun setting and the dimming natural light in the house.

  She sets her laptop down on the counter and sits at one of the bar stools I purchased and set up a few days before. She glances at her computer forlornly before turning her attention back to me, clearly having not stopped at a decent spot since I interrupted her flow.

  I step behind her and wrap my arms around her, murmuring into her ear, "If you want to finish up what you are working on, feel free. I am just going to run upstairs and change, then finish up dinner."

  She stiffens for a moment before finally relaxing into my embrace. "Are you sure? I don't want to check out and ignore you."

  I peck her on the cheek and release my hold on her, "I told you I am happy you are writing again, and I mean it. Clearly, you still have some words in you, and I have more than enough to keep me busy while you type. Your presence is enough."

  Annie swivels on the bar stool and peers up at my face. Seeming to detect the truth, she gives me a small smile and replies, "Okay, I just have a couple more pages before this chapter is wrapped up."

  "Take all the time you need." I give her a reassuring grin--after all, I am just happy that she is here with me at all--and head upstairs to get out of my dirty work clothes. I don't even make it out of the room before I hear her click-clacking away at the keys on her computer.

  I quickly change into a clean pair of jeans and black t-shirt and head back downstairs. Annie is absorbed in whatever she is writing as I re-enter the kitchen and head over to the crockpot plugged into the wall beneath my mounted microwave. The moment I open the lid and the smell of spiced oranges and chicken wafts in the air, she lets out a long groan.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I give her a little smirk, "Hungry?"

  She nods her head in assent at me. "I am just now realizing that I brought you lunch, but wrote through my own."

  I turn to reach into the cupboard next to my stove for a pan and head to the sink to fill it with water to make some white rice. "Well, we will get some food in you shortly. Like five minutes shorter."

  She doesn't respond, just begins clicking away at her keyboard once more. I put the filled pan on the stove and turn the dial on, adding a little dash of salt to quicken the process. While I wait for the water to heat up and boil, I tug open the fridge door and scan the contents before asking Annie, "Do you want water, beer, or lemonade?"

  She looks up from her laptop and gives me a grateful smile. "I'll take a beer."

  Nodding in response and grabbing two beers from the fridge, I close the door with my hip and set them on the counter. Twisting off the top of one, I hand it to Annie and do the same to my own. We both take a sip, locking eyes, and I can't help but feel a little domestic. It isn't like I haven't lived with a woman before, going through the motions of dinner and after-work conversation. But this is the first moment since meeting Annie that we have gone through these steps together. While I expect to feel some guilt over that, it isn't nearly as much as what I have been carrying around in my heart. Could it be that I am finally starting to move on?

 
I set my beer down on the counter next to my plate and turn back to the now-boiling water. Measuring out the appropriate amount of rice, I dump it into the pot and put the lid on snuggly and remove it from the burner. Once I click off the stove top, I reach into the cupboard that holds my bowls and grabs two and place them on the counter. I then yank open the drawer with my silverware and dig out two forks and a serving spoon, and toss those into the bowls I set aside.

  Once the rice is done, I take the lid off and use one of the forks I grabbed to fluff it a little before dishing some of it into each bowl. After the rice, I grab one bowl and move to ladle some of the orange chicken on top. Setting it in front of Annie, I gesture at her, "Dig in." I turn to switch off the crockpot and grab my own food before settling in next to her at the bar. We eat in comfortable silence, stopping here and there to discuss our days. It all feels so normal, so real.

  When I tell her about Char being fired, she lets out a booming laugh, "Yeah, I kind of expected that when your boss showed up. His daughter and I were inseparable in elementary and middle school, but then we just sort of drifted apart. He had that look on his face that he used to have with Trina whenever she tried to pull a fast one on him." She sets her fork down in her now-empty bowl and continues, "Thank you for dinner. I don't remember the last time someone cooked for me. Well, other than my mom. And well Maddie."

  Finishing up my own food, I nod and collect her bowl and stack it in my own, "So now that the small talk is out of the way, do you want to discuss the new story you have been working on?"

  She goes from relaxed to uncomfortable in seconds flat, squirming around in her seat in embarrassment. "I don't know. I'm not sure that it's any good or that it will go anywhere. It's more that I am doing it than what I am writing at the moment that matters."

  I get up to dump the dishes in the sink and turn to level her with a look. "Don't sell yourself short, Annie. You don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to, but I am here if you do. Or if you want to bounce ideas off of someone."

  She looks down at her hands resting on the bar in front of her, seeming to be at war with herself in her mind. It's a moment before she responds, "You know, the day Travis and I broke up was sort of like this. But also the opposite in every way. He came home after working and I had been writing all day. I got lost in the story as well and didn't get anything started for dinner beforehand. He was upset and got mean, vindictive almost. I guess I just kind of held onto what he said. The only person I showed besides Makayla was him, and so his response is just always there at the back of my mind, telling me it's not good enough or that people will think I am trash for penning it."

  Our dinner went from casual to serious in no time, my body tensing in anger at Travis for instilling self-doubt about her writing. Granted, I have never read a single word she has written, but I just know that, like with her life, Annie would instill that same passion and fire within it.

  Sensing her unease over her confession, I wander back around the bar and swivel her to look at me. When she doesn't make eye contact with me, I guide her chin to do so, her blue-grey eyes clashing with mine. "Travis isn't in your life anymore for a reason, and it's time to let that part of your life go. He didn't support you in the right way as someone who cares for you is supposed to, and took his own insecurities out on you. Write for no one else but you, Annie. Pen the words that are in your heart, and I know there will be readers who fall in love with them when you do."

  She looks thoughtful for a moment before gripping her hands at the bottom of my t-shirt and tugging me closer to her, "You really are something, you know that, Haynes?"

  I rest my forehead against hers for a moment before giving her a kiss on the nose and pulling back away from her grasp. "Stop trying to distract me. You know I speak the truth."

  She nods, turning to open her laptop and going to her saved Word document. Sliding it towards me, she silently gives me permission to read what is written.

  Trust. That's what she is really showing me. And I will fight like hell to never lose that. Not from her.

  Chapter 16- Annie

  Repercussion #57: Sometimes being a "smut" writer means you leave yourself in a constant state of being turned on when you're writing one of those scenes.

  Allowing Wyatt to read the story that has been rattling around in my brain for the past several days has me a little bit rattled as well. I realize he isn't the sort of man to belittle me, especially for something I am passionate about, but I also haven't written in a very long time and know it's going to be covered in rust. My words don't flow how I want them to, my ideas not properly being conveyed between my brain and fingers.

  And yet... As I observe him delve deeper into my current work in progress, I witness him enjoying himself. He smirks at several different points, shows concern when my characters find themselves in a compromising position, and even lets out a few guffaws in several sections.

  I sense the tension and anxiety dissipate the farther he gets in, at least until he starts on the chapter I left off at. I snatch up the hand resting on the mouse trackpad and give it a squeeze. "You might want to stop there. That scene isn't very fleshed out yet and is kind of bare."

  He gives me a devious look and teases, "You mean like how your characters are stripping down bare?"

  I try and cover up my uncomfortableness with a laugh. "Yeah, sort of like that."

  He still continues though, my apprehension that he might think less of me for what he does read growing with each ticking second. While it is pretty much expected to include scenes like the one he is reading in the romance genre, it is another thing entirely to have someone peruse it right in front of you. Especially someone who I wish would do the horizontal tango with me.

  We are simultaneously moving at breakneck speed and slowly all at the same time. Calling me his girlfriend earlier was definitely unexpected, but with Wyatt, you always have to expect the unexpected. He is unsure of what he wants, but once he fully decides he goes for it and commits. He is just an all-or-nothing sort of man.

  And I want all of the man as well. I have been working on the scene he is currently reading for the last several hours, tweaking words and parts of it here and there, all the while imagining it was his hands that were touching me. His mouth that was trailing kisses down my collarbone, his hands gripping my hair and preventing me from escape.

  Getting to where I left off to eat dinner, Wyatt closes my laptop screen and swivels in the chair to level me with a serious look. "Annie, even as a first draft you are creating something truly remarkable. Your characters are very raw and real, your storyline is progressing with a natural flow, and your motivations are on point. I seriously cannot wait to see where you are going with it."

  I blink at him a few moments in surprise, trying to register what he is saying to me. Did he just say he enjoyed it and wants to read more? He waits a moment for me to gather my thoughts, and when I finally do I implore him, "You don't think it's trash? Especially that last part?"

  He gives me a look like I am crazy, and I probably am with my self-esteem at nonexistent, "You're writing a romance novel. So you kind of need to include the romance, dork." He looks thoughtful for a long moment before he continues, a sexy smirk now on his face, "Besides, reading that is a bit like foreplay. Don't ya think?"

  I roll my eyes at him, but really he hit the nail on the mother loving head. I worked myself up all afternoon writing this scene and my body has been responding to his since the moment he sat down next to me on the swing. My body has been aflame and each intentional or accidental touch notches up the flame just a little bit more. He seems to sense the direction of my thoughts because his smirk grows to a devilish grin and he hops off his stool so he can scoop me out of my own.

  Wyatt sets me on top of the bar and places his hands on the counter on either side of me. I wrap my legs around his waist to keep him from escaping, needing him closer in every possible sense of the word. I haven't been with anyone in a long time, and normall
y would feel self-conscious about that, but Wyatt has a way of putting me at ease and comforting me when I have doubts.

  And I have none about us, at least not anymore. I desire him and despite the constant war within himself, I know deep down he desires me too.

  He looks at me with tenderness in his eyes, but I am feeling anything but. I have been lusting after this man for way too long, and it is time for me to push him for what I want for a change.

  And what I want is him. Completely. Irrevocably.

  I wrap my fingers in his dark hair and tug his mouth to meet my own. At first, he kisses me gently but it isn't long before he is matching my own ferocity. His tongue stroking mine, my knees around his waist sure to be crushing him as I grip him close.

  No way is he pulling away this time, no way is he allowed to stop where this is going.

  Wyatt wraps his strong arms around me and holds me flush against his body, his hands slipping below the hem of my shirt hesitantly, almost as if he's waiting for me to be the one to push him away. We aren't stopping, I am pushing this until the very freaking end.

  Luckily his mind is less clouded with lust than mine, since he breaks contact when he remembers we are in his kitchen with windows and blinds open, overlooking my parent's house. He picks me up and looks at me questionably, as if to ask if it is okay that we take this somewhere else other than the counter. I hungrily kiss him in response, letting him know that I want this to continue. I really don't care where or if we put on a freaking show.

  Carrying me down the hallway and up the stairs, Wyatt heads to a door to what I can only assume is the master bedroom. I glance around when we cross into in, only half seeing the bed, dresser, and armchair sitting in his room, before he sets me gently on his bed.