Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(21)

Her eyes widen as she reads it, then pokes my stomach. “I am not a Sunshine.”

I huff a laugh that’s all air. It slipped out, calling her that. It’s the color of her eyes in the rare moments she’s not livid, the sound of her voice, filling my ear. But I can’t tell her that.

Ever heard of sarcasm, Sutter? I type.

She reads the text and her eyes darken with irritation, the irises switching from rich coffee brown to murderous copper. It’s intoxicatingly fun to coax reactions from her.

I tap a finger on her nose. She smacks my hand away and then shoves me. I don’t even budge which just makes her scowl deepen. I try and fail to hide my grin. So easily provoked.

Taking her by the elbow, straight to the table, I pull out a chair, lift Willa’s bag off her shoulder and set it on the surface. I pat the seat gently. Sit. Get comfy.

She drops down, that scowl still tightening her face.

Both the guys have recovered enough to silkily drop into their chairs at the table. I take one look at both of them, then type in my phone, Say hi, then be scarce.

They read their phones and then obediently both stand.

“Hi,” Becks says. “I’m the tall, dark, and handsome roommate—”

Tucker facepalms him. “That’s actually my description. Tucker Wellington at your service, and that’s Becks. Do me a favor—don’t shake his hand.”

Willa bites her lip again as she boots up her laptop, her eyes dancing between them. Something funny happens in my stomach when I see she gives them both only a perfunctory glance. I’m comfortable enough in my masculinity to acknowledge neither of my roommates are bad-looking dudes. By some deranged women’s standards, they might even be called attractive. Willa, it seems, could care less.

“Hi,” she says, finally. “Willa Sutter. Nice to meet you both.”

After I give them another death glare, the guys finally make their exit. As they back away behind Willa, Becks mimes the bang action with his hips, while Tucker flashes both hands. Ten out of ten, he mouths.

I flick them off and mouth, Go!

I thought Willa’s speaking voice was the best sound I’d heard, but then once again she proves me wrong. Her laughter settles like windchimes in my ear. For the first time in years, I want to laugh right along.





At some point, I should have considered the murky ethics of telling someone I’m deaf and then neglecting to inform them when I corrected my hearing, even if only partially and temporarily.

I didn’t want Willa to know about my hearing aid, because I don’t want anyone to know I’m still trying to figure out hearing and speaking again. Because I know what comes next. Pressure. Pressure to get back to aural processing and speech therapy, pressure to use my voice. And that hasn’t worked so far. It’s just not happening. Not yet, at least.

But now, I feel bad, because I didn’t realize up to this point—thanks to my shit hearing—that Willa talks to herself constantly, and I’m pretty sure there’s plenty of it she would prefer I didn’t hear.

“Asshole lumberjack,” she grumbles. “Shooting down another one of my ideas that I only spent—oh, ya know—hours researching.” She drops her voice, imitating how she must imagine I sound. It’s gruff and surly. “Hah. What a stupid idea, Willa. We can’t offer a sliding scale of payment. What is this, communist Russia? Small-brained woman.”

I open my mouth, about to defend myself when I remember that will reveal I’ve been eavesdropping on her. She’ll have every right to be pissed about it, and as much as I like ruffling Willa’s feathers, I’m not sure I’m prepared to see her that angry.

Carefully, I type a response, based on where we left off at our conversational impasse. How about this: we take your concept of making the business financially accessible, but instead of offering a sliding scale, we offer service trades, like a co-op. Then, maybe we can do some sponsored ads with willing brands in exchange for them comping us gear that we can gift to people in extenuating circumstances. How’s that?

Willa frowns, her hands flying over the keys. You’re serious? You’re actually considering a compromise?

I scowl, typing back, It’s not uncommon. A couple of places I used to buy gear from allowed you to do that.

She taps the table and I glance up at her.

“Where’d you buy gear, Lumberjack? Shredding black diamonds. Mounting summits. Wrestling grizzly bears.” She bats her eyelashes.

My guilt about the hearing aid is quickly offset by her ribbing.

It was mountain lions, mostly, I write.

That earns her smirk.

Washington State, where I grew up. I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the keys, before I finally give in. I want to run my own store up that way after graduation. Offer rentals and for-sale, stock accessible gear, too. Maybe learn how to be a guide for people like me for hiking and kayaking.

Willa’s grin is wide and genuine. “That’s badass, Bergman.”

I shrug. Doesn’t beat playing professional soccer, but at least it was my retirement plan, minus the accessibility part—that’s a recent addition obviously. I just skipped a few decades.

You want to play? I type.

She nods. “As long as these old bones will let me.”

I write back, I’m sure you will.

Shockingly, it doesn’t hurt to wish her well on the journey that I wanted to be mine. Willa’s a hard worker, a brutally determined and gifted athlete. All I can be is happy for her.