Fall for Me by Claudia Burgoa
Chapter Seven
Hunter
Planningfor an entire day of fun was easy. It included going to watch a play. The logistics were easy to handle, too, except I was unable to reach my date. Willow didn’t answer her phone. Hazel called around five, telling me it wasn’t a good day to visit. Her clipped response after I asked what happened worried me.
“It’s a family thing.”
Calling their grandfather got me an alarming answer. “Willow and Hazel have been in her room all day. I believe that girl has the same mental issues as her mother.”
“Who, Hazel?”
“No, Willow. I recommend you stop coming around.”
Clearly, Grant Beesley isn’t the person to contact when I am trying to woo Willow. Fuck, his recommendation made my gut churn. He’s not a professional who can just diagnose a mental illness. That call explained why Willow crumbled by the mere thought of having to move into his house. Asshole. The complex of the knight rescuing the damsel kicked in, and here I am, bearing presents for her. My Saturday plans have included chasing down mango mousse pie and the perfect bouquet of flowers. Tyler has once more saved my ass and come through with a combination of sunset colors.
As I made phone calls asking for pie, I came to the realization that finding the perfect pie is more fulfilling than flying her to an island for a fun weekend. Next, I have to convince Hazel to let me go upstairs. When the doors of the elevator open in the penthouse, Hazel is waiting for me. She stares at the peach-colored box before she turns to the arrangement of flowers.
“Can you be gentle?” she whispers, pain etched in the corner of her eyes. “I screwed up big time.”
“What did you do?”
She rubs the back of her neck, chewing her lip. “It’s complicated to explain. Distract her, redirect her mind to something fun. I trust you, Hunt. Let’s hope she does, too.”
Smart woman, she’s aware her trust won’t help in the matter. I need Willow to open up to me.
“Hey, gorgeous. I heard you needed some flowers.” The boxes are gone, and some of the pillows I brought last night decorate her bed. She’s in the corner, pinning pictures on a corkboard. As I approach, I notice it’s almost full. It has magazine cutouts, quotes, landscapes, and portraits of Hazel and her. “Can I interest you in a piece of pie?”
Turning around, I get knocked in the gut by the sadness she carries inside her eyes. “What kind of pie?” A ghostly smile takes over her beautiful rosy lips.
“Mango mousse.” I hand over the flowers.
She touches the orange-pink roses and smells the lavender. “Is this part of the ‘rescue the damsel’ package?”
“Do you need saving?” She shakes her head. “Good, that package includes dragons, unicorns, and a fleet of doves.”
“Doves?” She chuckles, twisting her lips to the side. “Why on earth would you need doves for a rescue?”
I roll my eyes, pretending to be annoyed with her lack of knowledge in the procedure. “After the salvaging of thy fair maiden, the knight marries the mademoiselle, and doves are released as she says ‘I do.’”
She squints, laughing at my ridiculous explanation. Hunter one, sadness zero. Pulling out the plastic forks from inside my jacket, I give her one.
“You carry forks with you?”
“How else are we supposed to eat the pie?”
Caressing the petals of the pale pink flowers, she shoots me a you should know better look. “We need plates, a knife. You have to cut it in pieces, it’s easier to eat.”
Shaking my head, I take the flowers from her, placing them on top of the nightstand. I take a seat on the floor, pat the space beside me, and open the box.
“How many pieces of pie can you eat at a time?”
With a frown, she sits where I indicated. Staring at the pie, she swipes the whipped cream peak with her fork. Thrusting it into her mouth, she moans as she sucks on it. I clear my throat, ordering my dick to behave. My brain, though, imagines her lips around my cock while sucking me hard. Her long fingers cupping my balls. My hips thrusting hard as I push all the way down her throat.
“One,” she answers, licking her lips.
I clear my throat, staring at her mouth. Finding my voice. Not having sex with her until I get to know her is going to kill me. Grinding my teeth, I compose myself, recalling what I wanted to say about the pie. Pie. Mango mousse pie we should eat together to explain my point. Mom, bless her heart, used too many treats to explain the meaning of life and how things can work better. Like with pie.
“This is one piece of pie.” I found the words, begging for my blood to move from my dick and flow normally. Sinking the plasticware into the pie, I take a spoonful and feed it to her. I scoop another piece of pie and eat the creamy custard filling. “Mom used to say life can’t be cut into multiple pieces. That you have to learn how to eat it all, and most of the time, it’s easier if you let others help you.”
Imitating what I did, she feeds me pie and then eats some herself. We don’t speak until we are halfway through. Patting my stomach, I set my fork inside the box. “Though, you also don’t have to eat all of the pie in one sitting.”
“Sounds like your mom was brilliant. You must miss her,” she states the obvious. “Mine is strange. I used to imagine my parents had died. It was easier to pretend than knowing they didn’t care about us.”
Taking the fork away from her, I place my arm around her back, giving a chaste peck to her warm lips. “Give me a little of that sadness. I think sharing will make you feel better.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
Make her forget for at least a little while. What if I give her an eternal succession of moments distracting her from the burden she carries? “Dancing, you love dancing. How about I take you out tonight?”
“Rain check?” I fake disappointment. For the first time, she kisses me without me initiating it. It’s sweet, fast but fulfilling. “Can we go to your room and watch musicals again?”
She touches the box with her knee. “We can continue eating life together. I just don’t think I can handle other people.”
“I think your plan is better than mine.”
With my help, she prepares an overnight bag. We’re going to jog in Central Park in the morning, then have breakfast at my place. We’ll have lunch in Brooklyn, and dinner at her grandfather’s because she promised Hazel. In between, we will become tourists in our own backyard. I’ve asked Scott to lend me his camera. This is going to be us trying to beat the sadness away and bring some sunshine into her life.
How am I handling someone else’s emotional baggage when I can barely carry mine? The answer is simple . . . I have no fucking idea. It has nothing to do with her tight ass, my reaction to her throaty voice, or the fact that I want to taste her. I’ll address that when the time is right. Mark my words, it’ll happen sooner rather than later. The lesson about patience and how to make the best rice pudding is a tale for another day.
We arriveat my place within twenty minutes. She’s quiet during the car ride. We settle her things in my room and then it’s time to face my fears. Willow has demons, and I have some of those too. At home. They live in Mom’s craft room. Which ironically it’s where her collection of DVDs are stored. She loved musicals and has many I know Willow will love. I haven’t been inside the room since she died.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Willow holds my hand.
“Where?”
She rubs my arm gently. “You said your mom has a few of those movies in her room.” Pointing at the door, she continues, “I take it it’s hard for you to go inside. You’ve been standing in front of this room for about ten minutes without blinking.”
I hold my breath, not knowing what to say to her.
“I think this is like the pie,” Willow says. “Trust me.”
We both hold the handle, pushing the door open, and enter the room I’ve avoided for years. As I feared, Mom’s scent is gone. Nothing has been moved. The same piece of fabric she was using for my Halloween costume is still next to her sewing machine. I was going to be Harry Potter that year. Her bookshelves are to the left. Books and movies are organized in alphabetical order. Everything is clean. I think Jensen continues sending the cleaning crew to keep the place tidy.
“She painted?” Willow moves to the easel where the half-finished portrait of my father is set. “He’s handsome.”
“Harrison looks a lot like him.” I stare at Dad’s eyes, blue like the sea, darker than Harrison’s, more like mine.
“Whenever you’re ready, I’d love to know more about them.” She turns around and hugs me, resting her head on my chest and easing the heaviness when I realized what I’ve just done.
“Everything you remember. It’ll be like meeting them through your memories. Like eating pie, creating those kaleidoscopes I saw on the working table. How often did she paint?”
“My parents loved each other so much.” I set my gaze on the picture hanging on the wall. It’s the six of us during our last Christmas together. It’s not the typical family photo where the boys wear suits and the parents look like sophisticated aristocrats. No, we were on the terrace of our apartment in Monaco, wearing our most comfortable clothes, laughing at one of my father’s silly jokes. That’s how Mom wanted us. The best part of us. “They’d love you.”
“I hope they would.” Her words are unexpected, welcomed.
I don’t tell her how I feel as if they still watch over my brothers and me. How I imagine them laughing at our stupidity or worrying about Harrison when he’s working. They would be proud of Scott because he continues Dad’s legacy, and happy that Fitz found himself after so many years of partying. Maybe they would be relieved I’m trying my best to swim against the current and my shitty emotions. Having Willow in my arms feels great. My heart feels fuller. I’m not sure if it’s because I defeated another monster or that she’s with me. Seems that the two blind people are helping each other feel the sunset.
