Knock, knock.
Echo pokes her head into the doorway and says, “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” I say as I close my laptop and welcome the distraction from the numbers I’ve been looking over for hours. I have no lead as to what’s going on.
Instead of being outside today, I decided to come back to the office and look through the books with a fresh pair of eyes. And the fresh pair of eyes has done nothing to solve the problem. And since I wasn’t finding a solution, all I could think about was what Wyatt said. We’re spending a lot on farming our potatoes but not making the most dollars out of them. Which makes me think . . . do we need to cut down on the amount of potato fields like Wyatt suggested and use the land for something else, something that will bring more profit to the farm?
Ugh, I’d hate if he was right. He was literally here for two seconds before pointing it out, and it’s something I’ve been trying to figure out for a while.
“What’s up?” I ask. “How was your weekend?”
“Weekend was good. I settled more into my apartment. Hung up some curtains and potted some plants.”
“Sounds relaxing.”
“It was. It was nice.” She takes a seat across from me. “I see that you did the chicken coop, which leads me to believe you didn’t do any relaxing this weekend.”
Relaxing? No.
Making huge, life-altering decisions? Yup.
“I’d like to say I did the chicken coop all by myself, but well . . . Wyatt helped me.”
The slight hitch in her expression leads me to believe she must have heard talk around town this weekend. God, what she must be thinking . . .
“I heard he’s been out here all weekend.” She pauses, looking uncomfortable, and I don’t blame her. The last time I talked to her, I told her how I thought Wyatt was up to something suspicious, and now she probably knows that we’re dating. She has to be confused. If I were in her shoes, I’d be confused as well. She’s the only one I told about my Wyatt suspicions . . . so maybe I can trust her to tell her what I agreed to this weekend.
“I know what you must be thinking,” I say.
“I don’t think you do.” She laughs.
“Let me guess. Last you heard, I thought Wyatt was here to steal the farm away. You take a few days off and over the weekend hear that Wyatt and I are dating. And then of course he’s here all weekend, helping me out. Hattie told me that people bought all of the cherry pie from The Sweet Lab because Wyatt and I were eating a pie together, and well . . . I must seem like a total hypocrite. I swear there’s an explanation, but I need to be able to trust you as a friend to talk about this.”
She chuckles and crosses one leg over the other. “Well, I guess you did know what I was thinking.” That makes me smile. She grows serious and says, “When I say I’m looking for a friend, I mean it, Aubree. You can trust me, I promise. You have given me a new chapter in my life with this job and helped me find an apartment. My loyalty is with you and no one else.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “Can you, uh, lock the door?”
“That serious?” she asks as she gets up.
“That serious.”
She locks the door and then scoots her chair closer before sitting on it. “Okay, what’s going on?”
I take a deep breath. “You’re the only one I’m telling this to, okay? And I need you not to judge me either.”
“I won’t, I promise.”
“Thank you,” I say before taking another deep breath. Here we go . . . “Uh, Wyatt came into town, and I was rightfully annoyed. I knew he wanted something, and I was right. Long story short, a family cabin was supposed to be passed onto him, but because of a technicality, it goes to the first married grandchild in his family. That person will be his cousin, who apparently has no sentimental regard for the cabin and wants to knock it down when he gains possession. Wyatt owns a part of this farm that he doesn’t want. So he asked me to marry him for a year in exchange for the land so he can get the cabin, and we’re both happy.” I let out a deep breath. “And I can’t tell my family because they’ll tell me not to do it and call me crazy, but I feel bad for Wyatt and his cabin because I know how much it means to want something . . . like this farm. And oh God, saying it out loud makes me sound like I’ve completely lost my marbles, but I haven’t, I promise. I think this is the right thing to do.”
Echo stares blankly at me for a moment before leaning back in her chair. After a few seconds, she says, “Wow, that’s a lot to take in.”
“Is it too much? Did I cross a line? Are you uncomfortable? If you need to excuse yourself, please feel free to do so.”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “No, I mean, it’s just not what I was expecting. I heard you two were dating, and that was confusing, but this . . . this makes the suspicions you had, the way he’s been lurking around here, the gossip about you two in town—makes it all true. The dates out in public, that’s to convince people that when you get married, you’ve been dating all along.”
“Exactly,” I say.
“That’s actually pretty smart. And you get the farm, he gets his cabin, then you go your separate ways?”
“Yes,” I say, feeling a little lighter now that I got that off my chest . . . and it seems like Echo is not going to judge me.
“Honestly, if I were in your shoes, I’d probably have said yes as well. Wyatt seems like a good guy, at least from what I’ve experienced and heard, so it’s not like you’re going to marry an ass. The deal seems fair. And you’re both gaining something very important to you. I don’t see what the problem is. Why do you have to be secretive about it?”
“Because of his cousin,” I say. “Wyatt told me the moment he finds out about us getting married, he’ll be pissed, which means we need to keep this farce a secret. We want to make him believe that we’re together and we’re in love.”
“Ah, makes sense, and if the town knows about the lie, then that will probably get back to the cousin and ruin Wyatt’s chances of getting the cabin.” She scratches her cheek. “This feels like a well-plotted idea from the author who writes thrillers. Please tell me there isn’t going to be a murder in the end.”
“Only if he continues to annoy me.”
That makes her laugh. “Is there a threshold for the annoyance?”
“There is,” I answer.
“And what would that threshold be?” she asks.
“Anything embarrassing in public.”
“Makes sense. I’d probably be the same way.”
“Do you have any love interests or fake love interests?” I ask. “Possible marriage of conveniences in the works? You know, something so I don’t feel so alone here?”
She chuckles. “Uh, no. I’m still trying to settle in. There is absolutely no room for love at the moment.”
“But maybe something interests you here in town? There are some single men, you know. Like . . . Ryland or Abel.”
“Are you trying to marry me off so you’re not the only one?”
“You know it wouldn’t hurt for you to step up here, ensure a friend’s less lonely.”
She leans forward and places her hand on the desk between us. “I like this friendship, Aubree, but I don’t think we’re at the place of taking a groom for one another.”
“Damn,” I say with a laugh, feeling much lighter. “Had to try at least.” I let out a sigh and meet her eyes. “Thank you for the chat. All of this felt pretty heavy on my chest, especially with having to keep this a secret from my family, so I appreciate you being an outlet for me.”
“Anytime.” She clasps her hands together. “Actually, can I talk to you about something?”
“You mean the reason you came in here in the first place?”
She smiles. “Yes, but I do appreciate what we did talk about. I’m glad I could be there for you.”
“Oh, I know. Is this about work?”
“It is. I was thinking this weekend about how we can best use every bit of the bees’ hard work. I know we spoke about candles and lip balm, but what are your feelings about making beeswax food wrap?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“An eco-friendly version of cling wrap. I’ve seen some hype around it recently, and I thought that it might be something we can sell in the honey section of The Almond Store. I don’t mind making them. It would keep me busy between my adventures of going out to different properties to take care of unwanted beehives and maintaining the garden and whatnot. I know a place where we can get some discounted fabric, and I can easily build an extension to the bee house where I could make the wraps, dry them out, and package them up.”
“I think that’s a great idea,” I say. “People around town would easily buy them, and I feel like tourists might find them a neat and unique gift, especially grandmas. You know they love the kitschy things.”
“They really do.”
“I can help you extend the bee house if you want.”
“That would be great. I have a few appointments this week to take care of some hives, but maybe we can at least map it out later in the week?”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Great.” She pats her legs. “I need to go make some more bee boxes. The owner of the house for one of the appointments today sent me a picture, and it’s an enormous hive under the floorboards of their barn. They just found it and have a wedding this week. I’m hoping we can grab a big stock of honeybees from them.”
“Well, be careful.”
“I always am.” She stands from her chair. “Thanks for the chat, and don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
“I appreciate it, Echo.”
She waves and takes off. I lean back in my chair and pick up my phone, where I see a text from Wyatt. A picture. Confused, I open it and see him with Hayes and Rodney, all wearing the same hat, a very generic hat with the number 576 on it. Odd.
Aubree: What’s with the hat?
After I text back, I stare down at the picture and take in Wyatt’s smile. Straight white teeth, he must have had braces growing up. Scruff gracing his jaw—didn’t bother shaving this morning. And a few crinkles in the corners of his eyes, showing off his mid-thirties, something I hate to admit I like about him.
Not that I should be admitting anything I like about him, but I do like that.
Can’t tell you why.
I just think it’s nice that he’s not just older than me, but by seven years.
He’s also wearing a shirt that seems to cling very tightly to his chest today. His pecs are defined, pressing against the fabric. Once again, not something I should notice, but I do.
Oddly, the most disturbing thing about the picture is that it looks like he fits right in with this town and all its eccentricities. Like he belongs in the railroad museum, laughing it up with Rodney. As if he belongs in this small town of Almond Bay and should have been here all along.
My phone dings with a response.
Wyatt: Rodney got it for me at the train convention he went to this past weekend. It’s engine 576, the last standing J3 from the World War II era. Duh, Aubree.
I snort. Ugh, why can he make me laugh so easily? It’s infuriating.
Aubree: Didn’t know you were a train nerd.
Wyatt: Just one of many things you need to learn about me. I think trains are pretty neat. I like planes as well, and I’m a fan of automobiles. Basically, I enjoy all sorts of transportation other than human-propelled toboggans, suspension railways (elevated monorail that dangles from the tracks), and any horse/reindeer/elk-powered sled for obvious reasons.
Aubree: I have so many questions.
Wyatt: Please, ask away.
Aubree: 1. How do you know that many forms of transportation? 2. What human is propelling a toboggan? 3. There are monorails that dangle? 4. What about horse-drawn carriages?
Wyatt: I’m so glad you asked. 1. My protagonist in THE NIGHTLY WALKER (NYT, USA Today, WSJ bestseller, thank you) was an educator on all things transportation, so I researched different forms. 2. There are many versions of a human-propelled toboggan. You would be surprised. 3. Yes, there is a monorail that dangles from the tracks in Germany, and there is no way in hell you would ever see me on that thing. The only objects I approve of dangling are tits and testes. 4. I do not approve of any sort of animal-led carriage or sled, especially in any major city. The animals are treated horribly. Look it up. You’ll never think a ride in Central Park by a horse-drawn carriage is romantic ever again.
Aubree: That was . . . a lot to take in.
Wyatt: Want more? I have other forms of transportation I can talk about as well.
Aubree: No, really, that’s okay.
Wyatt: If you ever change your mind, I’m your guy.
Aubree: Won’t be changing my mind.
Wyatt: Fair. So how’s your day so far? Do you need anything from me? Currently, I’m lounging on the back deck of the inn with a pad of paper and a pen, plotting an idea for my next book.
God, he’s nice. Not sure Matt ever asked me if I needed anything, and we were actually dating. I knew Wyatt had a good heart because he was Clarke’s brother, but he just seems to go the extra mile.
Aubree: I’m good. Is the plot about a marriage of convenience?
Wyatt: Actually, it is. The heroine marries her stepbrother so they can both take advantage of the trust fund the stepfather left the daughter. But what the daughter doesn’t know is that the stepmother and stepbrother are in cahoots, and they’re actually lovers who killed the father together.
Aubree: Umm . . . wow, that’s pretty dark and twisted.
Wyatt: Has that Lifetime movie “My Stepson, My Lover” vibe.
Aubree: Just a little.
Wyatt: Smells like a bestseller to me.
Aubree: How does it end?
Wyatt: Can’t be sure. Sometimes I like to make the good person win, and sometimes I can picture them gurgling blood out of their mouth as they see the person who betrayed them right before they die. So you know, just depends on the mood.
Aubree: You say that so casually. Don’t you care about playing with readers’ feelings?
Wyatt: All I care about is if they have feelings toward the book.
Aubree: What do you mean by that?
Wyatt: Well, if they read my book and my words don’t elicit any sort of emotion, good or bad, then I didn’t do my job. I didn’t captivate them. But if they read my book and they rain over me with praise and love for a job well done, or one-star me because they were pissed about a choice I made as an author, I’m happy because guess what? I made them feel something.
Aubree: You like one-star reviews?
Wyatt: I mean, no. I could do without them, but I read them because sometimes they go on and on about how I should have done something differently, that they’re mad a character ended up dead, or I didn’t write the love story they expected in the end. Sure, it sucks having to see people not like the end product, but I still pat myself on the back because I was able to make them think, feel, and escape into a world where they could immerse themselves so deep into a storyline, that they have their own opinion on how it should have worked out.
Aubree: I see what you’re getting at. Yeah, I’ve read books I haven’t been happy with, but it was because I was so involved in the story. If I didn’t care about the story, then I probably wouldn’t have developed an opinion. I would have just . . . forgotten about it.
Wyatt: I’d rather have a reader be mad at me for not writing the story they pictured in their head, than forget about the words that I wrote.
Aubree: So if I told you I completely forgot about what The Maid in 5B is all about, you’d be pissed?
Wyatt: You’re bluffing, no way you forgot about that plot. That plot still lives in the soul of everyone who’s read it. Don’t fuck with me, Aubree.
Aubree: LOL. Sensitive much?
Wyatt: With The Maid in 5B, yes. I put my entire soul into that book.
Aubree: You could tell. One of your best.
Wyatt: Wait . . . hold on, was that . . . was that a compliment? I’m screenshotting this and printing it out. My wife, Mrs. Preston, she complimented me! Huzzah!
Aubree: And now I take everything I said back.
Wyatt: Can’t, you already put it out there in the universe. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to give you a signed copy as a wedding gift. I know it will be your most treasured possession.
Aubree: And I’m going now. Bye.
Wyatt: See you later . . . wife.
I LOOK up into the rearview mirror of my parked truck and wipe under my eyes. Fresh from the shower, hair still wet, I drove into town to pick up Hattie because Hayes was meeting her at the farmhouse, and she needed a ride. Plus, I wanted to check out the space in The Almond Store to see where we can move things around.
Good to go, I hop out of my truck and head toward The Almond Store wearing a simple sundress with a built-in bra, one of the comfortable outfits I like to wear after a long day out on the farm.
The bell above me rings when I open the door to the store and find Hattie by the register closing up.
“Hey,” I say when she looks up.
“Hey, almost done here, and I’ll be ready to leave.”
“No rush. I wanted to check out the store to see where we can add a cooler and a honey spot.”
“Oh, I was thinking over there on the right. The cookbooks need to go. They are the worst sellers by far. I know Cassidy had good intentions with them, but there are like two recipes that include almond extract, so they’re pointless for us to sell. They focus more on actual almonds than the extract when we’re trying to sell the extract. They have to go.”
I walk over to where the cookbooks are, and she’s right. Some of them look bleached by the sun.
“I sold one of these to Hayes when he was trying to get back into your good graces.”
“Yeah, that was the only one that was sold in like a year. And he doesn’t use it.”
“That doesn’t shock me.” I lift one of the books and flip through it, a collection of dust particles flying up at me. “What will you do with them if you don’t sell them?”
“Donate to the library. What you see is all that’s left in stock. So we can easily just donate what’s left and be done with them. It opens up the space there, and we can start talking about how you want to set up the honey station.”
“It’s perfect,” I say. “Might have to build some new shelves, though.”
“I can have Hayes help me. Just let me know whatever you and Echo need, and we can make it happen.”
“Perfect,” I say, walking over to the center islands in the store. “Think you can free up some space over here in the front when we have the honey ready to sell? It would be nice to have it front and center at first, so people know it’s new.”
“Yes, of course,” Hattie says while she turns off her iPad and moves to my side. “I’m always moving product around, especially if I want it off the shelves.”
“Besides the cookbooks.”
“The cookbooks are trash. Those don’t deserve center island space. The second island is always the extract and vodka, our best sellers. And then the front island is whatever I want to get off the shelves that week.”
“Very smart. Well, I’d love some center island space for the new honey line. Echo is working on balms, candles, beeswax wrap, and of course honey.”
“I’m excited. I love having new things in the store. I’m especially excited about the almond honey.”
“Me too. She’s fine-tuning it, and we’ll taste test soon.”
“I’d like to be a part of that taste testing.” Hattie raises her hand.
“Of course you’ll be. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, let me grab my things real quick.” She hurries to the back, leaving me alone in the main part of the store.
So crazy how a little while ago, we weren’t getting along. Well, I wouldn’t say not getting along. Tensions were high. The stress of Cassidy’s death made me closed off, which, in turn, shut her out, and well, it was a recipe for disaster. Now . . . I’m grateful for being able to talk to her without those tensions and stressors. I’m grateful she’s no longer in school and that she’s here. I had a hard time being around her for a while because she reminded me so much of Cassidy, but now, it feels comforting. She has the same warm energy, the same smile, and the same joyful spirit.
“Okay, ready,” she says, entering the main store with her bag and keys.
We head out the front door, she locks up, and then we walk around the store to the back, where I’m parked.
“Thanks for picking me up.”
“Not a problem,” I say as we get in my truck.
“Were you in town for . . . other things?” she asks, her voice full of innuendo.
“Uh, no,” I say, starting my truck and pulling out of the parking spot.
“Are you sure you weren’t here visiting anyone?”
“Oh my God, just say it,” I reply as I make a right out of town.
“Were you here visiting Wyatt for an afternoon delight?”
“Jesus, Hattie.”
She laughs. “What? Why else would you be in town?”
“Literally to pick you up. I just arrived, I grabbed you, and I’m leaving town now.”
“Really?” she asks, disappointment in her voice. “You weren’t here, sneaking around at the inn?”
“Uh, no.”
“Huh.” She sighs. “Well, he doesn’t stay the night at your place.”
“How would you know that?” I ask.
“Because Ryland and I have a text thread about you and Wyatt.”
“Umm, pardon me?” I ask, blinking a few times.
“Yeah, we talk about you. I asked him if Wyatt ever spent the night, and he said never. And if you’re not going to the inn for an afternoon delight, then . . . when are you doing it?”
“What on earth are you talking about?” I ask.
Hattie turns toward me in the car. “Wait . . . have you two not had sex yet?”
Oh, dear God. You see, this is why I don’t do nice things like pick up my little sister at her place of work because these are the kind of questions I have to deal with.
“Don’t you think that’s a little private?”
“Yes, but this is what sisters are supposed to talk about.”
“I have never once asked you about your sex life with Hayes.”
“You should,” she says on a wistful sigh. “It’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. He’s amazing. And trust me when I say we haven’t stopped once we broke the seal. Which makes me think that either you are sneaking around in the barn or you haven’t done it yet . . . oh wait.” I glance over at her and catch her cringe. “Oh no, is he . . . is he bad at the sex?”
Lord fucking help me.
“He’s not bad at the sex,” I say, very irritated and uncomfortable with this conversation.
“Is he just average? That happens. It’s okay. You might just have to teach him a bit, you know? Not that I can be absolutely sure about this, but I got the vibe from Cassidy that Clarke was never one hundred percent on, so maybe it runs in the family.”
If I weren’t driving right now, I’d throw myself out of the car. I’d just toss the door open and chuck my body onto the road to avoid the rest of this conversation.
“It doesn’t run in the family,” I reply even though I honestly have no freaking idea. Knowing Hattie has a voracious sex life, the last thing I want is for her to pity me for my average one—or lack thereof.
“Soooo . . . you have had sex.”
I grip the steering wheel tighter. “What do you think, Hattie?”
“I mean, I’d say yes, but I just don’t know when. I haven’t even seen you two hold hands or kiss or anything.”
“You’ve been around us like once, and I don’t believe you knew we were together.”
“Either way, you were giving off more brother-sister vibes than we’re ripping each other’s clothes off every chance we get. And you know Cassidy was in a lackluster marriage, holding out for someone else. I don’t want that to be you. I don’t want you caught up in a relationship that doesn’t fully satisfy you, you know?”
“I get what you’re saying, but you have nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure?” she asks. “Because you could tell me.”
“Tell you what?” I ask, trying to tamp down the annoyance pulsing through me.
“Tell me that, you know . . . Wyatt can’t deliver on the orgasms.”
Mother of God, why is this happening to me?
Feeling my cheeks go red, I say, “That’s nothing you need to worry about. All, uh . . . orgasms are accounted for.”
“Really?” She claps her hands. “Yay, that’s so exciting. So you have done it. How come you’ve been able to hold back since he’s been here? I would not be able to do that with Hayes.”
“It’s called self-control, Hattie.”
“I still wouldn’t be able to do it. I’d be sneaking off in the middle of the night.”
“What makes you think I haven’t been doing that?”
“Have you?” she asks, leaning in closer. “Oh my God, does he meet you halfway, and you do it in a field somewhere?”
“I’d prefer not to get into details,” I answer because frankly, she doesn’t need to know I have zero details. “Let’s just say we’ve kept it quiet out of respect for all of you.”
“Wow.” She shakes her head as we pull onto the farm and make our way down the dusty dirt road toward the house. “I’m impressed, slightly insulted that you won’t give me all the details, but impressed.”
“Why would I give you the details of my sex life?”
“Like I said,” she answers, exasperated. “Sisters share those kinds of things.”
“Well, I don’t think we’re that kind of sisters.”
“We should be,” she says as I loop around the house only to find Wyatt standing on the front porch of the guest house with a suitcase next to him.
Oh God, what does he think he’s doing now?
“Ooooo,” Hattie nearly screams in delight. “That’s a suitcase. Is he moving in? Oh my God, we have this entire conversation about hiding your sex, and you didn’t tell me that he’s moving in? We’ll have to tell Mac all about knocking on doors, and if she hears a whimpering animal, it’s just her aunt Aubree having fun.”
“My God, Hattie,” I say as I put the truck in park. “What is wrong with you?”
She chuckles. “I just love this for you.” She hops out of the car and waves to Wyatt. “We were just talking about you.”
I quickly get out of the car as well so I can potentially interrupt her if she says anything inappropriate to him.
“Is that so?” Wyatt asks while his eyes meet mine. “Good things?”
Hattie pats his shoulder. “Great things. And I know I don’t have to say this, but I think it’s necessary. Thank you, Wyatt, for fully satisfying my sister. I know she needed it.” And then she takes off toward the farmhouse as if she didn’t just light me on fire with embarrassment.
Smiling broadly, he asks, “What have you two been talking about?”
“Nothing you need to know,” I say, pointing at his suitcase. “What is that doing here?”
He spreads his arms wide and says, “Moving in, babe.”
I glance over at the farmhouse where Hattie watches us, hands clasped in front of her chest. Which means I have no other choice but to step forward into his arms and allow him to hug me.
And I do just that, but I keep my arms tucked in close.
Whispering, I say, “Why the hell are you moving in?”
He leans in close and whispers in my ear, “Better to get used to it now rather than later. Plus, I miss you, my snookums. I want to be around you all the time.”
“This makes me hate you.”
He chuckles and then turns us toward the guest house, letting us both in, along with his suitcase. When he shuts the door, I turn on him and say, “You’re not moving in here.”
“Like it or not, it’s going to happen, Aubree, so we might as well start it now. People are asking why I’m not staying here. I’d rather squelch any talk in case Wallace comes waltzing in, asking questions. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on jogging around the guest house, dick out. Everything will be tucked in tightly.”
“I’m not worried about your . . . flopping appendage.”
“You’re not?” he asks. “Well, in that case, I prefer to sleep naked.”
“Wyatt, can you be serious for one freaking second?” I ask.
“I can,” he answers.
“Then please be serious because this is . . . this is different for me. I’ve never done this before.”
“The marriage of convenience, I know,” he says. “Neither have I, but—”
“I’m not talking about the marriage of convenience aspect. I mean living with a guy other than my brother. I don’t know how to navigate this situation.”
“Oh,” he says softly. “Well, if that’s the case, what do you want to know?”
“It’s not about knowledge of the situation. It’s about comfort and well, like . . . there are things I do at night.”
He studies me for a second and then says, “Oh . . . like, relax yourself?”
“What?” I ask confused and then understanding falls over me. “No, not that.”
“But do you do that?”
I feel my cheeks blush again. “That’s none of your business.”
“It is if I need to know when not to disturb you. I mainly get off in the shower. Just easier that way.”
Oh my God, my cheeks feel like flames. I didn’t need to know that. I didn’t need that image in my head. And now all I’m going to be thinking about when he’s in the shower is that he’s pleasuring himself.
“By the ghastly expression on your face, I’m going to guess that’s not what you expected to hear.”
“No,” I say, shifting uncomfortably.
“Well, it’s shit we should talk about because we’re going to be together for a year, and even though I like to say I have self-control, the fact of the matter is, there is no way I’m going to be able to sleep next to you with blue balls for a year. Sorry. Not happening.”
“Sl-sleep next to me?” I ask.
“Yes, sleep next to you. Sleeping next to a beautiful woman, who is probably going to smell good. It’s just nature. There’s nothing creepy about it. It’s not like I’ll be thinking about you in the shower, but men wake up hard, and I’ll want to take care of it. Maybe when I’m doing that, you can take care of yourself. We could have a self-pleasuring party every morning.”
My nose turns up. “That is not something I’m participating in.”
“Well, the option is there.” He takes a seat on the bed and places his hands behind him, leaning back ever so slightly. “What else do you want to talk about? I understand that you have a period, so I can assist you with anything during that time. If you need feminine products or chocolate or someone to rub your lower back. Not sure what your pain points are, but I’m here for you. Also, don’t worry about me snoring. That’s not something I do. I’m very clean and orderly. I’ll just need a small portion of storage. If you don’t have anything under your bed, I can use that. I’m easy, Aubree. I’ll make it as comfortable as possible for you, so you don’t have to worry. Okay?”
“What about . . . the toilet seat?” I ask, trying to find anything to ask him at this point because everything he’s saying sounds like it will be okay besides the self-pleasuring party. And despite everything sounding okay, I still have this sickening feeling. I’m not sure I want to do this. Or that I can do this.
“Pee with it up, leave with it down. And I even wipe the seat before I put down the lid because that’s just polite.”
“And what about . . . snot rockets.”
The corners of his lips tilt up. “What about them, Aubree?”
“Do you blow them?”
I can see that he wants to chuckle, but he remains serious for me. “I do, but into tissues like every other decent human out there.”
“Okay, um, what about, you know, your, uh . . . morning deposit?”
His cheeks grow even wider. “You mean my cum in the shower?”
“Yes.”
“All washed down. Nothing to worry about there. I even rub some soap on the floor of the shower.”
“Dirty laundry?”
“In the laundry basket.”
“What about your bedtime?” I ask, crossing my arms. “What kind of hours do you maintain?”
“I work best with seven to eight hours of sleep, so if you’re wondering if I’m a night owl, the answer would be no. I like to read before bed, and once I start feeling tired or ten at night rolls around, I’ll turn off my light and go to sleep. Depending on the day, I’ll wake up between five and six. I fell off my workout schedule for a moment there, but I started running again and doing pushups. In case you were wondering.”
He fell off his workout schedule, and that’s what he looks like? What does he look like when he’s on his workout schedule? My God!
“What about . . . uh . . .”
“Let me stop you there,” he says. “I can see that you’re trying to find something that will displease you, but I can tell you right now, if I do something that you don’t like, all you have to do is tell me. That’s right, Aubree. I can change. I’m not a man stuck in my habits, so you just tell me, and I’ll fix the problem.”
“Fine,” I say. “The problem is I don’t want you living here.”
“Ooo,” he says on a wince. “That’s the one problem that can’t be fixed. Sorry. But anything else, I can adjust.”
I sigh and lean against the wall. I know this is part of the deal, and I get it, but I didn’t expect him to move in tonight. I would have liked to have prepared for what’s to come.
Feeling defeated, I ask, “Are people really talking about how you’re not staying here?”
“They are. Ethel even mentioned it, and you know when she mentions something . . .”
“Won’t it be like you’re trying to cover something up by moving in right away?” I ask.
“No, because I mentioned that it would be soon. Didn’t give it a specific date. I’ll keep my reservation at the inn just in case you change your mind after tonight, but we might as well give it a shot, right?” May as well give it a shot? I don’t really see that I have a choice. By all standards, Wyatt is doing everything, saying all the right things, to placate me. He’s so selfless. And that speaks to me in ways I don’t want to analyze at this point. I said yes to marrying him, and this is the next logical step. And . . . as he said, we may as well give this a shot.
“I guess so,” I say.
“Great.” He pops up off the bed and comes up to me. With a smile plastered across his face, he brings me into a hug, and I stiffly lean into his chest. “Oh yeah, giving me the good stuff. God, you’re so warm and inviting. This hug, it feels like you’re accepting me.”
“I don’t even have my arms around you,” I say.
“It’s called sarcasm, Aubree.”
“Which should indicate to you that you should read the room and maybe not touch me.”
He lets me loose. “Doesn’t hurt to share in affection.”
“I don’t need affection,” I say as I straighten out the skirt of my dress.
“From the mood you carry around on a daily basis, I’d say that you do.”
“Affection means nothing,” I say as I move toward the bathroom and grab a scrunchie so I can throw my hair up into a messy bun. “Affection doesn’t help, it just hinders.”
I walk out of the bathroom to find Wyatt standing in the middle of the room, staring at me with a concerned look.
“Do you really mean that?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say as I attempt to move by him to get to the farmhouse. Ryland and Hattie are probably having a field day with their speculation about what’s happening in the guest house, but Wyatt stops me by pressing his hand to my stomach, not letting me by.
“Aubree, every human needs and deserves affection.”
“Not every human,” I say. “Some people out there have done terrible things and deserve nothing.”
Softly, he says, “But you’re not one of them, so you deserve affection.”
“I don’t want it,” I say.
“Why not?” he asks.
“It doesn’t matter. Let’s get to the house so we can help with dinner.” I try to move again, but he doesn’t let me.
“Does this have to do with an ex?” he asks. “Or maybe your dad?”
My eyes snap up to his, and I pull away from him. “What do you know about my dad?”
He slips his hands in his pockets. “Just that he wasn’t the best guy. He hurt you and your siblings, just little things that Clarke told me. That people around town have mentioned.”
“Well, forget about it. Nothing about him has affected me as an adult.” I’m saying the words, but I don’t even believe them because I know they’re not true.
Everything that happened in my childhood has affected me as an adult now.
The abuse.
The yelling.
The lack of structure and balance.
I’m the way I am today because of the things I wasn’t granted as a child.
I’m cold and moody because I don’t want to get close to anyone.
I’m meticulous and organized because I can’t function without it.
I’m off-putting and distant because I’m trying to calculate in my head what needs to be done so I don’t fall behind.
So I don’t disappoint.
So my dad’s words that he spoke to me, yelled at me, drilled into me aren’t right.
You’re a nobody.
You’ll amount to nothing.
You’re a waste of my time.
I don’t want him to be right. I refuse to let him be right. So I stay on task. I don’t get distracted. I take what I need and make sure I’m moving forward, not living in the past.
“Aubree—”
“I said forget about it, Wyatt. Okay?” My voice cracks, and I hate that. I hate that he gets a glimpse of that emotion in me because I keep my feelings locked up. Tight. So no one can touch them.
It’s the only way to survive.
“Okay,” he says softly. It’s silent for a second, and then he says, “I can wait on moving in if you want.”
Great, now he’s trying to accommodate me because he caught me in a moment of insecurity. I’m not going to let it happen.
I straighten my shoulders and say, “It’s fine. It’s going to happen eventually, so it might as well be now. Let’s just go eat dinner and be done with this day.”
And on that, I move out of the guest house and straight to the main house with Wyatt trailing me.
“SO . . . YOU, UH, SPENDING THE NIGHT?” Ryland asks Wyatt as I clean the dishes off the table. Wyatt offered to help, but I told him to sit down. Hattie was chosen for bedtime duty by Mac, so they’re upstairs, and Hayes is in the kitchen with me, packing up the food for leftovers.
“Moving in,” Wyatt says.
“Moving in?” Ryland asks, his voice rising.
“Yeah,” Wyatt says as if it’s no big deal.
Ryland directs his attention to me and asks, “You’re letting him move in with you?”
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” I say as I rinse off my last plate and stack it in the dishwasher. “We’re in love, might as well live together.” The room falls silent, and I can tell that was probably a bit shocking to them, so before Hayes or Ryland can say anything, I add, “I know this all seems new to you, but it’s not new to us. You’re just finding out about us because I was keeping it a secret. Now that it’s out in the open, well, it’s going to seem like we’re moving fast when, to us, we’re at a normal pace, probably the same pace as Hattie and Hayes. No one batted an eye when they moved in together.”
“That’s true,” Hayes says. “She has a very valid point.”
“See,” I say, pointing at Hayes. “Listen to him.” I shut the dishwasher with my foot, then head to the table where Ryland studies me. “What?” I ask, feeling the pressure under his stare.
“So . . . this is a real thing? You two.”
“It is,” I say. “Thanks for asking. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go to bed, and I believe my boyfriend will be joining me, right?”
Wyatt smirks up at me. “Would love to.” God, the way he said that was full of innuendo my brother does not need to hear.
Clearing my throat, I turn to Hayes. “Thanks again for dinner. As always, it was delicious.”
“You’re welcome.” He leans against the counter, a knowing look on his face. “Enjoy your evening.”
“We will.” I nod at Wyatt to follow. “Come on.” I head toward the door, and Wyatt trails me. I don’t give Ryland a chance to respond or Wyatt a chance to drape his arm around me. Nope, I charge right out of the house and straight to what used to be my sanctuary.
Once inside, I move to my dresser and pull out an oversized shirt just as the door shuts behind me. I turn toward Wyatt and hold up my shirt. “This is what I wear to bed.”
His eyes land on the shirt and then back at me. “Okay. It’s a nice shirt.”
“But that’s all it is, a shirt. Are you going to be freaked out if I don’t wear shorts?”
“Uh . . . no,” he says with a laugh. “Are you going to be freaked out if I only wear a pair of boxers?”
“No,” I answer even though I don’t want to see him with his shirt off. I’ve seen it already, and his chest is too nice. His arms are too toned. His body is too sculpted and perfect. Sooo much hotter than Matt would ever be.
It’s fine. I’ll just turn away from him.
“Great,” he says. “Then it’s settled. We are unbothered by each other’s nighttime clothes. Good to know.”
“Wonderful,” I reply as I walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.
I lean against the door with my head tilted back and my eyes closed. Oh my God, what is going on with my life? A week ago, none of this was happening. There was no Wyatt in my life, there was no impending proposal, and there was no man in my bedroom ready to sleep in my bed, disturbing the peace and order I’ve been able to establish since Cassidy’s death.
Now it feels like everything is all scrambled again, and I just . . . I just need to get my head on straight. This is fine. Everything will be fine, Aubree. Deep breaths.
I take a few seconds to calm myself down. Then when I can tell that I’m not going to fall into a panic attack—something that’s happened a few times since Cassidy passed—I get ready for bed, taking my time with my skincare routine, making sure I brush and floss, and then go to the bathroom at the end.
Once ready, I slip out of the bathroom only to find Wyatt sitting on my side of the bed wearing nothing but his black boxer briefs. Even his back muscles are impeccable. Look at those things. I can actually see the definition of his scapula. Those are the types of muscles you see on a man who works all day, every day on the farm, not a man who types on his computer.
He turns around and says, “All done?”
“Yes.” Then I point at where he plugged in his charger and set down his book. “That’s my side of the bed.”
“I could tell by the indent in the mattress, but I plan on sleeping there.”
“Uh . . . but it’s my side.”
“I understand,” he says. “But it’s also the side closest to the door, which means if someone were to come in here in the middle of the night, you would be the first one attacked, and I’m not going to let that happen. Therefore, it goes my body, then your body.”
I feel my expression turn into a frown. “I’ve lived here for a while, and no one’s come into my house in the middle of the night.”
“That’s great to hear,” he says. “But I’m not taking any chances. And I know I said I’d accommodate any problem you might have, but this is non-negotiable. I will sleep in front of you and protect you. You’re my wife.”
I twist my lips together, hating that his last sentence sent a small thrill up my spine. “I’m not your wife yet, and I’m not that kind of wife, you know, the kind you have to sacrifice your body for.”
“You are to me,” he says, stepping up to me now. He grips my chin with his forefinger and thumb and says, “As long as you wear my ring, use my name, and sleep in my bed, you are mine to protect. Get comfortable on your new side because that’s where you’ll sleep.”
And then he moves off to the bathroom, not another word uttered.
Right.
Well.
That was . . . hot. Sexy. Mind-blowing.
No.
Don’t go down that path, Aubree. Think . . . outlandish, alpha-ish, and overbearing.
A part of me wants to test his theory and see if he truly means it, but the other side of me is tired and just wants to pretend this night is over. From the hard day to the conversation in the truck with Hattie to Wyatt bombarding me with this new living arrangement, I’m ready to shut my eyes and look forward to a new day where I can establish some semblance of order.
So I settle into the untouched side of my bed and attempt to get comfortable. He already set up my charger and everything else that was on my nightstand over on this side, which is thoughtful, and I can tell he gave me the pillow I was using as well.
I will say this about Wyatt—he might be sarcastic and a jokester—and treads the thin line of annoying me and wanting me to push him off a cliff—but he’s nice, he’s considerate, and he’s thoughtful. The only other guy I’ve known who is like him is Ryland . . . well, and I guess Hayes.
Every other man in my life has been a major disappointment.
Wyatt moves out of the bathroom, and I avert my eyes so they don’t wander over his chest and below his waist. I don’t need any thoughts of his body inside my head before I go to bed.
He slips under the sheets and blankets with me, and when I think he’s going to pick up his book and start reading, he turns toward me and lifts on his elbow. “Hey,” he says softly.
I keep my eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Hello,” I answer awkwardly.
He tips my chin so I’m forced to look at him. “You don’t have to avoid eye contact with me.”
“I’m not,” I say.
“You are. This doesn’t have to be awkward, Aubree. We can mutually enjoy this.”
“What does that mean?” I ask, nervous as to what he’s alluding to.
He rolls his eyes. “Nothing like that. I’m just saying if you’re someone who likes to cuddle or likes to be the big spoon or little spoon, I can accommodate. You don’t have to lie stiffly, staring up at the ceiling like it’s your first night in prison.”
“Wyatt, I don’t even hold your hand. Do you think I’m the type of person who cuddles?”
“Have you tried it?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say even though Matt wasn’t much of a snuggler—probably because I wasn’t.
Because I’m rigid.
Because I’m emotionally detached.
Cold-hearted.
Reserved.
Aloof.
All my father’s words and descriptions that Matt echoed.
“Have you?” Wyatt asks again. This time, he scoots closer.
“Uh, what are you doing?” I ask him.
“Humor me for a second, Aubree.”
“Humor what?” I ask, scooting away, but he stops me by looping his arm around me and gripping my hip so I can’t move away anymore.
“I just want to try something.”
“What do you want to try? I’m not some science experiment.”
“I understand that, but please, just for a few seconds, and if you hate it, you can push me away. Okay?”
“Will you leave me alone after?” I ask.
He nods. “Yes, but let me just try this first.”
Wanting to just get to sleep and knowing his persistence, I give in. Whatever he wants to do, might as well let him so we can move on and sleep.
“Fine,” I say. “But don’t touch any private parts.”
He smirks. “All private parts are off the table. Now turn away from me.”
“Turn away from you?” I ask, confused.
“Yes, turn away from me.”
Unsure of what he’s doing, I turn away from him and tuck my head against my pillow while lying on my side.
I wait there for a few seconds, wondering what the hell he’s doing, then I feel his warm body come right up behind mine.
His warmth to my cold immediately sends me into a panic.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I ask.
“Shh,” he says as he moves in another inch.
He’s very slow, deliberate, like he has a plan he’s wanted to execute for a while and has finally got a chance. He’s not going to make a mistake.
He slides his hand to my side and then moves in another inch so his legs touch mine and his chest is to my back.
I stiffen when his hand moves over my stomach.
And when he pulls me in the rest of the way, right up against his large, protective body, every part of me stills.
My pulse.
My muscles.
My breath.
Everything is put on hold as he scoops me against his body, and his head rests right against mine.
He’s . . . he’s spooning me.
Holding me.
Cuddling me.
My fight or flight kicks in.
I want to squirm away.
I want to donkey-kick my legs back, convincing him I don’t want anyone near me.
I want to scream that this is not what we do.
But then, something is in the back of my head, something telling me that this . . . this is nice.
It battles and wars with the fight in my head. Telling me that this is not something I deserve, not something I need in life. I don’t offer affection, and affection is never offered to me.
I feel like a scared cat, waiting to pounce, ready to flee, but with each deep breath Wyatt takes, the edge of panic creeping up my spine slowly abates. The uneasiness recedes. My body is slowly starting to relax as he holds me every second longer and doesn’t want to leave.
Doesn’t want to flee from me.
And that’s how we stay. He doesn’t say anything, just holds me with his face against my head and his nose in my hair. His arm around my stomach. His breath matching mine.
In and out.
Deep in.
Deep out.
I find my eyes starting to close.
My tension fades.
And with every press of his chest to my back as we breathe in tandem, I drop the worries, the stresses, the insecurities, and I allow myself, probably for the first time ever in my life, to enjoy a peaceful moment with another human without questioning if I deserve this.
If I’m worth it.
