Page 48 of If You Need Me

I’ve been on the hunt for perfect gifts for my fiancée’s moms since nine this morning. I’ve been to no less than twenty stores. Before I stopped here as a last-ditch effort, I stumbled into a café/bookstore to grab some caffeine and scarf down a couple of fudge oat bars. I also managed to find what seemed to be the perfect gift for her mom who is a general practitioner. And now I’ve finally found something I think will be perfect for mom number two.

I pull out my phone, surreptitiously checking the time.Fuck. It’s already four. How have I been at this for seven hours? Willy specifically said that I needed to be at her place by 4:30. She hates it when I’m late.

The woman behind the counter—whose name is LouLou, according to her name tag—appears to be performing delicate heart surgery, not wrapping pretty jewelry. While I appreciate her attention to detail, I’m already behind. Every extra minute increases Wills’s wrath exponentially. Most days I’m more than happy to take a tongue lashing from her. Before I became herfiancé, I loved it when she laid into me. Her ire was better than nothing. But now I want more of what happened last night. I want her to need me, to rely on me, to trust me to take care of her. It’s a shift in my perspective—hence the gifts for her moms and not wanting to be late.

Seven years later, LouLou is finally finished wrapping the gift. She takes another half decade to put it in a bag and curl the matching ribbon. I thank her and rush three blocks to my car.

I message Wills to let her know I’m stuck in traffic, but I’ll be there soon.

She sends a thumbs-up.

Which is as good as a middle finger. I’m so screwed. My anxiety rears its ugly head in the form of a stupid boner.

I park in the lot across the street from her building. I give my hard-on a rueful glare. “Dude, I took care of you three times this morning.” And twice last night after I got home from servicing my fiancée’s needs. I used my left hand and sniffed the fingers that had been inside her like the fucked up, obsessed man I am.

It takes three minutes for my dick to deflate. I hurry across the street to Willy’s building, managing to catch the door as someone else is leaving.

I hop into the elevator and run my damp hand over my thighs.

Everything will be fine. I will not die tonight.

The doors slide open, and I walk down the hall, the memories of last night are still fresh. I lock those down, because they’re not helpful or appropriate for meet-the-family night.

I take a deep breath and knock on the door. Three seconds later, it swings open. An anxiety boner inspired by an angry Wills would be preferable to what greets me on the other side.

At six foot four and two-hundred-and-thirty pounds, there is nothing small about me. But for some reason, Willy’s brothers look like lethal fucking giants, standing side by side in the doorway.

Neither of them smiles. “Hey! You must be Wilhelmina’sbrothers, Samir and Isaac, right? I’m Dallas, her fiancé.” I extend a hand and pray it doesn’t get broken.

Her oldest brother takes my hand first. The shake is firm, but not life-threatening. “You can call me Sam. This is my baby brother, Isaac.”

“He calls me his baby brother because I make more money than him and his ego can’t handle it.” Isaac elbows Sam out of the way and takes my hand in a mildly bone-crushing grip.

My smile does not waver. “It’s great to meet both of you. Wilhelmina talks about you all the time.”

“Probably about how we annoy the hell out of her,” Sam says with a grin.

“Or how loud we are. She took up debate in third grade so she could win arguments.”

Suddenly, so much about Wills makes sense. “That sounds like Wills. I’m sorry I’m late.”

Sam gives me an inquisitive look as he steps aside. “You’re early, not late.”

“Right. Yeah.” I nod a couple of times.

Isaac smirks. “Let me guess, Hemi told you to be here at four thirty to ensure you’d make it by five.”

I rub the back of my neck. “She might’ve done that.” I’m already lying about enough stuff, and these two look like they’re good at sniffing out bullshitters.

As soon as I round the corner, I’m engulfed by two women. Apparently, Willy’s moms are huggers. Sandhya—who goes by Sandy—is a petite thing, at least a head shorter than her daughter. She’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with waist-length dark hair pulled back in a complicated braid. I briefly wonder if her wife does it for her, and if Wills would let me braid her hair. I learned how to do it for my great-grandma Bippy after she developed arthritis in her hands. Her other mom, Georgie, is tall and willowy. She wears white linen pants and a flowy tank top. Everything about her screams poise and elegance. They’re an interesting couple, and I love them already.

“Dallas! My goodness! The last time I saw you in person you were a teenager. You have definitely filled out!” Sandy smiles up at me and pats my chest. “Oh wow. You’re solid.”

“I spend a lot of time in the gym and on the ice.”

“That is absolutely true, isn’t it?” She laughs, and Georgie joins in.

“It’s amazing what a few years of professional hockey will do.” Georgie squeezes my biceps.

---