Page 15 of Dear Hattie

It’s an unfortunate moment for the video to freeze. She looks insane, and I’m overloading here. Rigid and sweating in my chair, while my brain fritzes out with all the implications.

It was obvious all this time? My crush on Wesley Tanaka?

Didheknow? Is he… is he laughing at me somehow? Is everyone else in on the joke, and I’m the oblivious punchline?

It’s not like we see each other outside work. Not like this is anything long term or real.

“—feathery little jackass!” Simone’s video cuts back in, and the serene kitchen of a minute ago is in disarray. A chair has toppled over, there’s an explosion of flour on one counter, and my best friend is chasing a squawking chicken in and out of shot. “How the hell do you keep getting in?!”

Ooh-kay. She’s busy.

“I’ll call you later,” I say, wincing at a loud crash out of shot.

“Bye, Hattie!” Simone yells, and then I tap the button to end the call. For a long moment once she’s gone, I do nothing but stare at my own bedraggled image in the webcam. I look tired.

A chicken. My glamorous best friend, the girl who uses eighty dollar moisturizer, is chasing a chicken around her kitchen table.

My first thought is: Wesley will love this.

My second thought is: Wesley. Huh.

Did he know?

So I don’t rush off to find him and tell him about the chicken. I don’t text him or think of chicken-themed puns.

I bite my lip and stay firmly in my chair and wonder for the millionth time whether Wesley Tanaka will break my heart.

* * *

I sneak into the recording studio long after the workday is over. There are a few stragglers on the fourth floor, working in the glow of their desk lamps, and the water cooler gurgles as someone fills their bottle. But it’s quiet and dark, and no one even glances up as I slip into Wesley’s domain. This is becoming a habit.

The door closes with a soft thump behind me, and I press my shoulder blades against it. Wesley spins in his chair and watches me hungrily as I flip the lock behind my back. His black hair is all rumpled from the headphones looped around his neck.

“Small Fry,” he says, and something aches deep in my chest. That nickname used to irritate me to high hell, but these days it fills me with unbearable longing.

Wesley turns and taps a button on his control station, and the red recording light flicks on above the studio door. “No one will come in now,” he says quietly, sliding off the headphones and placing them on the desk. “Not unless the roof is on fire.”

“Okay.”

It’s so natural, lunging for each other. We’re well practiced at this now. Wesley’s strong hands are familiar as they grip my sides, squeezing and palming and coasting down to knead my butt. His mouth is hungry against mine, always so demanding and possessive—but I’m used to this, too. There’s comfort in it as well as desire.

My conversation with Simone rattles around my head as we cling to each and kiss endlessly, staggering sideways until Wesley’s hip hits the desk. He shoves his keyboard back, and then I’m climbing up his body to straddle him again.

It was really obvious this whole time? Why didn’t he kiss me sooner? Didn’t he want me back then?

“You’re not gonna throw me on the floor again, are you?” I murmur, winding my arms around his neck just in case. When we’re together like this, all dignity flies out the window and I become this feral creature of pure sensation. Like now, for instance: I’m rubbing up against his toned, hard body like a cat in heat. My breasts ache, I need him so badly.

“Only if it awakened something in you,” Wesley says with a sly grin.

I scoff and nip at his throat.

And here’s another thing I’ve been wondering: Wesley always seems so happy to just make out endlessly, grinding on each other and getting all breathless and red faced. Wrinkling our clothes and mussing up our hair, maybe rubbing me through the layers if we can risk it. But he never tries for more; never slips his hands under my skirt or undoes his belt. Even though he’s hard right now, harder than granite between my thighs, he doesn’t try to progress things along.

Doesn’t he want to? I mean… the door’s locked. The room is sound-proofed.

AndIwant to. Jeez, if I don’t feel this man’s bare skin against mine soon, I’ll scream.

Holding my breath, I rub my cheek against his. The words are right there, on the tip of my tongue:Take me, Wesley. Touch me. Let’s do this.But for some reason, I can’t spit them out.

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