15. Derek

Wyn walks over to where I'm sitting, white pearlescent notebook and matching pen in hand. He's all but drowning in a fluffy white robe wrapped tightly up to his neck. He sits and pushes his empty breakfast plate to the side. He's had two cups of coffee in quick succession and seems to have rallied.

"Right," he says, all business, despite the fact that every hair on his head is standing perpendicular to his scalp and there's a faint crease on his cheek where the bed linen imprinted on him.

It's adorable. Completely adorable. Not adorable as in I adore it. Adorable as in holy fuck, that's cute. Cute like a puppy or kitten. No, cuter than that. Cute like a rabbit. A bunny with soft, fluffy ears and a velvety nose. Unbearably, impossibly cute. Don't think I can stand it cute. So cute my teeth clench and I have an overwhelming urge to pinch him. To squeeze big chunks of him until he's pink and squealing. To shake him and bite him.

Holy shit.

Is Wyn Foster giving me cute aggression? Is that what this is? Can a person give you cute aggression?

I look down and surreptitiously tap on my phone.

Shit. I just Googled it.

Wyn is giving me cute aggression.

Great. Just great. I've managed to acquire a neurochemical reaction to him in addition to all the other reactions I'm already having.

"So, I was thinking we should just run through the questionnaire I designed real quick before we head out to meet everyone. We don't have all that long as Miller and Ryan and Barbara Anne and, uh, Sage will be here soon."

He hands me a twelve-page document—typed back and front—and a pen with the resort logo. I start working my way through, but I'm barely able to make it through the first page. "My favorite color, Wyn? Who asks that kind of thing? My family knows these things about me. They're not going to come up in casual conversation. We can't scratch the surface. We need to be believable, or it's not going to work." I flick through the rest of the questions, looking for something that might actually be useful. "Here, first impressions of each other. Perfect. You thought I was an ass, and I thought you were uptight."

"I'm not uptight!"

"Sure you aren't." I flip the page and keep reading. "How did we get together? Easy. You flirted across the boardroom table until you wore me down."

"I did not! You started flirting. You're my boss. I would never start flirting."

"You're my employee. I'd never flirt first. Risk a lawsuit? No. No one who knows me would ever believe that."

"Fine." He rolls his eyes and grits his teeth. "I flirted first. We had drinks together after work one night, and one thing led to another. It just happened. Neither of us was expecting it. It was awkward at first, but we got to know each other, and you came to realize that I'm completely not uptight and rather a delight. In fact, looking back now, you can't believe how wrong you were because I'm an extremely chill guy who just happens to like it when things work out exactly how I plan for them to work out."

"And you came to realize I'm not an ass."

He keeps his eyes down, but the left corner of his mouth quirks up before he speaks.

"But, Mr. MacAvoy, I thought we were trying to make this believable."

I do a quick double-take, mouth dropping slightly. There's that goddamn audacity again. A deep, distant chuckle starts rattling in my chest, rising slowly until it bubbles through my lips despite my best effort to snuff it out.

"Derek," I say. "Call me Derek."

Wyn nods and jots that down.

By the time we've worked through another page of questions, I've had enough. "Think there's time for a quick swim before they all get here?"

"Ooh, yeah, good idea. You go ahead, and I'll stay and get ready for the day." His words bunch up a little at the end of the sentence, and he busies himself opening and closing a lever arch file labeled Wedding while I change into my swimsuit.

A small, croaky squawk draws my attention as I open the door to leave the suite. I look back just in time to glimpse Wyn in the bathroom, standing in front of the vanity mirror, frantically smoothing his hair down with both hands.

"Ready?" I ask.

Wyn gulps and nods. "As I'll ever be."

We head down a windy, cobbled pathway flanked by orchids and sumptuous tropical vegetation. As we take the corner to the hotel reception, I open my palm in Wyn's direction. He falters for a millisecond and then slides his hand into mine. His skin is warm, his fingers graceful and slim. They fit between mine like a glove.

As we walk, Wyn prattles off questions from the questionnaire. Age, birthday, place of birth. We talk quietly, out the corners of our mouths, as we exchange information. Wyn speaks faster and faster as we walk, firing off questions until I stop moving and wait until he faces me. He seems a little breathless, so I place my free hand on his shoulder to settle him.

"Who are you, Wyn? Tell me everything I need to know in a single breath, and I'll do the same."

He blinks twice and takes a big breath. "I-I'm Wyn Foster, son, brother, and friend. I care about lots of things, but people most of all. I love the people close to me with my whole heart, and there's not much I wouldn't do to make them happy."

I let his words settle, grappling around in my mind to contain them, organize them, commit them to memory. His honesty and vulnerability disarm me. There's something incredibly sweet about the simplicity of his description of himself. I was expecting something more biographical, less personal. It throws me more than I care to admit.

"I'm Derek MacAvoy," I start without a specific plan of where I'm headed. "Businessman and divorced father of one. I love my son, but I have a hard time showing it. I'm constantly surrounded by people." I exhale, unable to say everything I need to with a single breath after all. I could stop there, but for some reason, I want to hear myself say it. I want to hear myself say it to Wyn. "And I've felt alone since I was fifteen."

Pale eyes stretch wide and flicker. A wave surges, crests, and crashes into the shore. Sun glints off saltwater as storm clouds gather on the horizon.

"Derek!" It's a command more than a greeting and a voice I'd know anywhere. It brings me back to the madness at hand and raises my hackles. "You simply have to meet Sage."

Barbara Anne has a lei of pink and white blooms draped around her neck. She's wearing an emerald-green dress that hugs her curves and makes her look as though she hasn't quite decided whether she's here to pose for the cover of Sports Illustrated or to run for governor of the state of Hawaii. Either way, I have no doubt it would take a bus or a sledgehammer to stop her.

Sage stands dutifully by her side, long silky brown hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. He's wearing a pair of those baggy pants with a drop-crotch that always makes me think of an adult wearing a cloth diaper. His shirt, if I can call it that, is a cream-colored crocheted affair that puts both nipples on display.

Barbara Anne wraps a hand around his upper arm and nudges him toward me. "Sage, dahling"—that's a heavy H, in case you were wondering—"meet Derek."

Sage stretches a hand in my direction, his wrist and all five fingers awash in corded leather bracelets and silver rings. Each one is symbolic of something highly significant, I'm sure. Wyn lets go of my hand, and it's the loss of his touch that irks me more than the long hair, diaper pants, symbolic jewelry, or even the nipples.

"Nice to meet you, Sage," I say, crushing his hand a little harder than strictly required.

"Likewise," he squeaks.

I retract my hand from his grasp and run the backs of my fingers down the knobs of Wyn's spine. I do it once, then twice, floundering briefly before introducing him. What do I call him? Boyfriend seems a bit silly at my age and partner sounds forced.

I curl my hand around Wyn's waist and pull him against me, settling for, "This is my Wyn."

"Wyn," purrs Barbara Anne, bestowing two air kisses upon his cheeks, both of which miss him by a mile, "you're still here."

Before conversation grinds to a halt and the awkwardness of the situation comes to a head, the guests of honor appear. As always, Miller looks like he's just returned from a long vacation, and Ryan looks as if he'd rather be home in bed. My chest caves and rapidly expands at the sight of my boy, and as soon as he's within reach, I pull him into a hug that starts a little stiff but quickly melts into one of those broad-shouldered, man-hands things that leave me stepping back, looking at him, and asking the same question I've been asking myself for years.

Where'd my little boy go?

Before he can flee, I catch Ryan and give him the same treatment. Miller chuckles happily as Ryan struggles briefly and then relents, laughing too.

I introduce Wyn to the boys, and Sage begins waxing lyrical about the resort. And I really do mean waxing lyrical. The word soulful gets bandied about more than I consider strictly necessary. Thankfully, before long, Sage announces he's off to check out the waves. No doubt to assess their level of soulfulness.

"So, Mom," says Miller as soon as he's out of earshot, "how's the new relationship going?"

"Dahling!" she says sharply, "It's not a relationship. It's an awakening!"

With that, she sails off to join Sage, and the four of us are left standing, eyes watering and all but hyperventilating in our attempt not to laugh.

"All I'm saying," says Ryan, deadpan as ever, "is that if anyone calls that man anything other than The Awakening in my presence, I'm going to lose my temper."

That does it. Wyn cracks first. I feel his ribs contract and jerk as he collapses against me, eyes screwed shut as an absolute belter of a laugh rips through him. Miller's next, then me, and finally, Ryan joins us.

"Hope you boys are ready," I say when we've recovered. "According to The Awakening, we're at a soulful resort preparing for a soulful union that'll take place on a soulful, soulful day."

"Actually, Derek," says Wyn a little snippily, "it will be a soulful day."

Miller visibly double-takes, mouth dropping open in a wolfish grin. He looks at Wyn with surprise and disbelief and then at me.

"Hmph." Ryan turns to Miller, confused. "I think I like him."

Wyn's cheeks flush and he dips his head into my chest, warming me more than the small gesture warrants.

"Welp," Wyn says once he's upright again, "better get this show on the road. The flowers are arriving the day after tomorrow, and I need to ensure the installation is being built as I designed it."

He leans left and I lean right, then I lean left and he leans right. We narrowly miss each other and settle for an uncomfortable half-hug that ends in something resembling a headbutt.

We leave Wyn in the lobby, head to the beach, and find loungers near Barbara Anne and The Awakening. Ryan reads while Miller and I snorkel. Every time there's a lull in activity, a quiet moment where I can hear myself think, I think the same thing.

It should've been a kiss.

That headbutt should've been a kiss.

When I've had enough sun, I find a seat at the bar. Wyn pops into view now and again. He's wearing a different headset. It's not a headset exactly, more of an earpiece, looping over one ear with a tiny mic parallel to his jawline. He taps his ear decisively now and again to start or end a call. He's moving at breakneck speed. A hotel staff member, clad in a beige two-piece suit and sensible heels, trails behind him, notepad and clipboard in tow, shoes clapping loudly as she tries to keep up with him. Wyn gesticulates with broad, decisive motions. From here, he looks like the conductor of a philharmonic orchestra rather than a man in the final stages of planning a soulful day. If I thought I'd seen Wyn in peak wedding planning mode before now, boy, was I wrong.

I type and delete a message countless times, eventually settling for:

We should kiss next time we see each other. For believability. Just a heads-up so you have time to prepare.

I hit send and order an old fashioned to calm the rampant, near-destructive level of arousal I feel at the thought of my lips on his.