Page 99 of Mom Com

No more push and pull, Wilder. This is where it ends.

My rant is abruptly halted, however, as I spot a wrought iron post on the edge of the road with a wooden sign displaying the number thirty-one. I slow my car, turning into the dirt driveway, a little surprised by it. Why does Wilder live out here on the edge of town anyway? I half expected him to live on Maple Street near his parents in some imposing house with snooty shrubs, the kind that are manicured within an inch of their lives and pointed out to guests for how difficult they are to grow. I snort, feeling justified in my assessment of him. But I’m distracted from my thoughts by the loss of light as the tall trees on either side of the driveway blot out the moon. Only a handful of seconds later, they open up, revealing a large yard and a cozy lit-up house.

As I register what I’m looking at, my stomach bottoms out. I lean forward over my steering wheel as though those couple of inches will explain what I’m seeing. The walls to Wilder’s house are made of old cobbled stone, the roof is thatched, rising high up in slanted peaks, displaying four puffing chimneys, and the windows are the kind with the small diamond panes that open outward from the middle.

“Stop,” I say in disbelief, so thrown that I almost forget to hit my brake. My car jerks to a stop just before a stone walkway leading to the front door.

I’m out of my car in a split second, barely remembering to close my door behind me as I stare up at the house, taking in the nuances of the stone walls near the soft amber glow of the windows and the wrought iron lanterns perched beside the door.

Wilder Buenaventura lives in an English cottage... in Haverberry. A goddamn perfect English cottage exactly like the one I described all those years ago when he asked me about my dreams. No, not like what I described; it’s actually far better than what I imagined.

STOP. Don’t even think it. That’s not what this is. It’s simply a coincidence. A big fat very specific coincidence.

Before I collect myself, Wilder opens the front door.

“Maddi?” he says, looking more shocked than I do, which is certainly a feat.

“Wilder,” I say back, faltering, hands on my hips, realizing I’m straining my neck to gape at his house—a house he did not invite me to. I drop my arms, trying to reclaim the frustrated determination I had a moment before, but come up short. “Liv, um... she gave me your address?”

Earth to Maddi—he should be on the defensive, not you. It’s technically his fault you’ve ambushed him and his stunning house on Christmas... right?

For a second his thrown look remains, but then he trades it for something softer, gesturing to his arched door. “Would you like to come in?”

“I, um.” For the love of God, stop sayingum. “I came here to ask you a question.”

He watches me a moment, obviously registering my awkwardness—I mean, I’m basically broadcasting it with a cabaret line. “Come, I’ll fix you something hot to drink. It’s freezing out here.”

I want to say no, that I prefer to have this conversation in the bitter cold, a perfect reflection of my bitter heart, but even I recognize how dramatic that is. Against my better judgment, I walk through his charmingly arched front door with wrought iron accents, past a stone wall that I swear is two feet thick. There’s no grand foyer or empty hallway, just a rustic bench situated under handmade coat hooks that leads right into his living room. He offers to take my coat and scarf for me, but I hang them up myself.

Despite the fact I’m doing my darnedest to look steely, I feel my eyes widening in awe. I don’t meet Wilder’s gaze, too embarrassed that he’ll be able to tell I like this place an indecent amount. Only, I can’t stop myself from ogling his living room. It’s the perfect size, big enough to fit two oversized couches in front of a stone fireplace, but small enough to feel inviting. The lamps are antique, the coffee table has uneven edges where the wood is knotted, and rustic beams run overhead, framing a large arched doorway leading into the dining room and the kitchen beyond it.

“Can I offer you a hot chocolate?” Wilder asks, watching me as I walk around the room, taking in the faux fur throw blankets and perfectly worn navy and maroon Oriental rug. Weirdly, he looks just as uncomfortable as I do, maybe even more so.

“Herbal tea, if you have it?” I reply. Hot chocolate feels too familiar; no one can be properly annoyed while drinking it. It’s bad enough I’m staring at my dream house belonging to the one person I decidedly stopped dreaming with a long time ago; I don’t need any extra lures to confuse things.

He smiles, not his usual confident grin, but something more unsure like he hasn’t fully processed that I’m here. “I think you’ll recall that I’m half British and that I’d be shaming my people if I didn’t keep copious amounts of tea on hand at all times. So name your preference and I’m sure I’ll have it.”

“Anything. Anything works,” I say, stammering a little and he nods, heading for the kitchen.

I then set to mentally reiterating all the things he’s kept from me these past couple of weeks and reminding myself that this house isn’t what I think it is. When he comes back, I’m still standing in the middle of his living room, staring at the crackling fire and arguing with myself.

He places two steaming mugs of tea, which smell of cinnamon and apples, on the coffee table. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

He scratches the back of his neck and I fidget with my sweater sleeves, both of us making an unsmooth go of sitting on the couch. And as I sink into the far too comfortable cushions, I frown. It’s all too polite and hesitant for my present state of unrest, and it only agitates me further. When I imagined this interaction in my head, it most definitely didn’t include admiring his house and sipping tea on his couch.

I turn to face him, and his shy expression spirals me further. Is he doing this on purpose? Does he realize it’s impossible to be mad at someone who looks shy? You have not bested me, Wilder. I will not fall for this again. You can take your cottage and shove it right up your—

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and I attempt to swallow. He scratches the back of his neck... again. “I was worried you’d leave without me getting to explain.” He pauses. “Not that I wouldn’t have flown to California in that case.”

I stare at him, my confusion turning to shock. “You would have flown...” I trail off, increasingly flustered and trying not to be flattered. This isn’t how this is supposed to go. I’m supposed to be formidable, nail him with my tough questions, and suss out the truth before making a striking and fiery exit. I rub my forehead, trying to clear my head. “Don’t, Wilder,” I say, trying to remember all the things I wanted to ask him. “I don’t want to hear that.”

His eyes widen like I’ve caught him off guard, and the momentary disappointment that flashes across his face makes me feel bad.

“This is what I mean,” I say, gesturing at him and his endearing expression. “You don’t get to look like that after you encouraged my mother to sell the bakery. How am I supposed to believe anything you said?”

Wilder’s eyes meet mine like he knew this was coming and he’s ready for it. “I know how that sounded, believe me, but it wasn’t an accurate portrayal of what happened. It was shortly after your father passed and your mother was overwhelmed. I never encouraged her to sell; I merely said that I understood her desire to. Which is how I started working at the bakery while she got on her feet.”

While his answer sounds downright generous, that’s the thing about Wilder—he’s kind, just not when it comes to commitment. How many times did I return to him in our youth because he said something that I needed to hear? Yet it didn’t change a thing.