Only When It's Us (Bergman Brothers #1)(65)

It’s as loud as I thought it would be. Ren and Sigrid—Ziggy as we call her—are incapable of talking without it being a yell. Viggo and Oliver are Irish twins who’ve always bickered terribly, so they’re at each other’s throats. Ironically, while I’m on the cusp of correcting my hearing, all I want is silence. Sneaking away from the chaos briefly before dinner, I take the stairs up to my old bedroom that’s frozen in time from high school and drop onto the twin bed.

Sighing with relief at the blissful quiet, I close my eyes. As I’m falling asleep, I find myself picturing a cabin in the woods, at the foot of some snowy mountain. A fire roaring, some kind of stew bubbling in the pot over it. I’m sitting in a worn armchair, listening to that soothing crack and pop of firewood as it catches and bursts into flames. Breathing deeply, I smell woodsmoke and evergreens, herbs in the stew and that damp mustiness of a cabin. But then a new scent punctures it all. Roses. Citrus. Sunscreen.

Willa.

She slips her hand along my neck and her fingers massage my scalp as she slides onto my lap. My breath leaves me in one long pained hiss as her ass wiggles right over me, and she tucks her feet up on the couch.

Hi, she says.

I can hear her. I hear her voice and it’s liquid gold in my ears. It’s a soft, low purr. Her eyes look like a jungle cat’s in the hearth’s glow, butterscotch and amber as the firelight dances in her irises. Her hair’s wild. It looks how I picture it might after she’s been in bed, tumbling around.

Everything thickens beneath the fly of my jeans, need tightens low in my stomach. Dream Willa shifts again, her hands cupping my face. Her lips are a breath away, her eyes locked with mine. She inches closer, closer— A bang on the door makes me jerk awake. I glance down. My dick’s raging hard, straining against my fly. I’m obviously, painfully aroused. Scrambling up off the bed, I pull open the door just enough to hide behind it and see Dad on the other side.

What? I mouth.

Dad looks apologetic. “The boys and Freya ran an errand for Mom and Ziggy’s too small to help me. Joy wants me to move her bed so she faces out toward the glass doors, but to do that, I need to move Nana’s dresser. You’re healed enough by now, moving something heavy should be okay.”

I groan. That thing weighs tons. I swear it’s lined with lead or has some secret safe with bricks of gold hidden in it. That’s not what’s freaking me out, though. Willa and I still haven’t talked. Meeting her mom before we have seems like a terrible idea.

Pulling out my phone, I type, Can it wait?

What happens if her mom says something to Willa? Willa will kill me for not talking to her about it, even though I’ve tried everything I can think of. I can hear her saying it. I’m gonna kill you, Brawny, I’m gonna kill you dead.

Dad gives me that disappointed-in-my-son look. I’m sure he assumes I have balls enough to have somehow strong-armed Willa into talking about all of this. He’d be wrong. I appreciate his faith in me, even if it’s misplaced.

I wave my hand, finally giving in. Okay. Talking about Nana and looking at my father has done wonders for the discomfort inside my jeans, so I open up the door, close it behind me and follow Dad downstairs.

Walking down the hallway to meet Willa’s mom, dread tightens my throat. I’m sweating, on the verge of panic.

Dad says something to her as we enter the room that I can’t hear except for his upbeat doctor pitch. A smoky voice that’s even harder to make out says something to Dad.

Dad takes me by the arm, stands on my good side and drags me next to him. “Joy,” he says loudly. “This is my son—well, one of my sons—Ryder. Ryder, this is Joy Sutter, Willa’s mom.”

I elbow Dad.

Joy looks like her photo on Willa’s phone. She looks like Willa, but painfully thin, with a headscarf and a couple of decades to her.

I wave hello, and feel guilt twist my stomach. Willa should know about this. I want her to know.

Dad turns so I can read his lips as he directs himself to Willa’s mom. “Ryder’s deaf, Joy. He came down with meningitis a few years ago which damaged both his ears, and we’ve had a hell of a time getting his auditory and speech processing to happen since. He can read your lips if you speak slowly and clearly, or you can text him. I’ll send you his number.”

I swallow a strangled noise as I watch Dad send Willa’s mom my cell. Joy just smiles, hands in her lap, her phone sitting on the side table. She looks like the cat that ate the canary.

“Ryder,” she says clearly. “Nice to meet you.”

I nod.

“Well.” Dad glances over his shoulder at the ancient dresser. “Let’s do this, son.”

It’s hell moving it, but we do, before carefully unlocking the breaks on Joy’s hospital bed and spinning her. I can see why she wanted the change. There’s a cheery view out the glass doors to the backyard this way. It might be December, but it’s still sunny out, plenty of plants thriving. A soccer net sits toward the edge of her view. I wonder if Willa’s used it at all.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she says.

“Anything you need, Joy?” Dad steps up to her and sets a gentle hand on her frail shoulder. “Patty will be in soon for your meds and such but if I can do anything to keep you more comfortable right now, just say the word.”