“Thanks, Ethel,” Wyatt calls out as he gets into the driver’s side of my truck—he insisted on driving—and takes off down the road, away from where we’re supposed to turn to return to the farm.
“What are we doing, and why did you grab pillows and blankets from Ethel?”
“Can you not just sit back and allow me to surprise you?”
“No. I don’t like surprises.”
“Shocking,” he says as he drives down toward the general store where Dee Dee Coleman herself is waiting by the curb with a bag.
Wyatt pulls the truck to the side and says, “Can you roll down your window?”
“What is happening?” I ask while I roll down the window.
Dee Dee walks up to the truck and hands us the bag. “Put it on the tab for you, Wyatt.”
“Thanks, Dee Dee, you’re the best. I appreciate you.”
“Not a problem,” Dee Dee says. “Have fun.”
“We will.” And then he pulls back out on the road and then makes a left, right into The Talkies, our drive-in movie theater. That’s when I see what’s playing today—The Shining.
“How?” I ask. “How did you even know this was happening?”
“Had a hunch that you were going to like murder, so I texted around for some help. In that bag are fixings for a sundae, the perfect sundae defined by you.” He rolls down his window and speaks to the attendant to purchase a parking spot for us.
I’m shocked, stunned, completely caught off guard that someone who isn’t romantically interested in me has put so much thought into something so nice for me.
I’m honestly surprised I was so wrong about Wyatt. I learned at a very young age to be watchful of people. Watchful of their behavior and how it can change within a second. But I feel confident that he won’t make changes to the farm that Cassidy wouldn’t have wanted.
He’s been helpful, patient, kind, and . . . sweet.
I don’t get it. What is the catch? Why is he so kind to me?
He backs up into a parking spot that’s not too close but not too far away either, and then hops out of the truck, only to jump into the back. I glance behind me to see him arranging the blankets and pillows Ethel let him borrow. When he’s done, he knocks on the window and waves for me to come out.
With the bag of sundae fixings in my hand, I hop out of the truck as well and hand him the bag. He holds out his hand to help me up, but I step up onto the tire and then into the bed of the truck.
“Take your shoes off,” he says as he does the same. So I follow suit because honestly, I’m so stunned and confused as to why he’s being so kind to me when I’ve been, well, guarded at times, that I just listen. “Now, come back here. I’ve tried to make it as comfortable as possible. Let me know if you need me to move pillows or blankets around.”
“No, this is fine,” I say and then look him in his eyes. “This was really nice of you, Wyatt. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know, but I wanted to.”
“Why, though?” I ask before I can stop myself. In front of us is a commercial of a talking drink and pretzel singing a song about concessions, but I ignore it as I look for an answer from Wyatt.
“Why did I want to do this?”
“Yes,” I say. “You’re being so nice, and I’m not sure I deserve your kindness.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “You deserve it and so much more. That’s why I’m doing this, because I feel like you’re someone who hasn’t experienced kindness in the past, and well, you’re due for it.”
“My past isn’t of your concern,” I say, the words registering in my head just as they fall out of my mouth. I hate myself for saying it, especially since he’s been so thoughtful. I blow out a frustrated breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m just . . .” I drag my hand over my forehead.
“Guarded,” he finishes for me. “I get it, Aubree. I really do. You don’t need to apologize.”
“I do because I shouldn’t be so snappy with my responses. I see that you’re trying to be my friend. I notice you trying, and I’m, fuck . . .” I look away.
“Not good with emotions, having a hard time opening up, not fully trusting of me yet,” he says as if he can read my mind.
“Once again, I get it. It takes time, and hopefully, I can earn that trust as we move forward. Just remember, I’m here for you. I’m your partner in this, not your enemy. What we do with each other, what we say to each other, it’s sacred. You don’t have to worry about me spreading any truth or lies about you. This right here”—he motions between us—“this is a vault. Just you and me. Got it?”
I hate that I feel emotional, that if I fully let down my guard, I could possibly see myself with watery eyes and a grateful posture of relief. But I hold back. I just nod and whisper, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome even though you don’t have to thank me.” He squeezes my leg in reassurance, then opens the bag from Dee Dee. “Look at what this angel did for us. She provided us with a bowl and a spoon as well.” He takes out the whipped cream can and pops it open only to tilt his head back and squirt some into his mouth. When he looks at me, his mouth is full, cheeks puffed, whipped cream ready to fall out of his mouth.
I chuckle. “That’s a great look.”
He swallows. “Yeah? Should I make it my new signature? Maybe it’s my next influence on the town. Tomorrow, you’ll see everyone walking around town with a whipped cream can in their pocket, mouths and cheeks puffed.”
“If I do, we are no longer going through with this arrangement. No way in hell will I be able to deal with such an idiotic influencer.”
“Then I better put the can down. I can’t lose you, not now,” he says dramatically. “Not when you’re about to make my taste buds scream with delight over this perfect sundae.”
“Once again, with the dramatics.”
“I’m an author, babe. It’s what we do.” He winks and then hands me a bowl.
We split the pint of vanilla ice cream, divvy out the hot fudge, which Dee Dee also warmed up for us—seriously, he must be really good friends with these people for them to go to this trouble—and then we top it off with chopped peanuts, whipped cream, cherries, and chocolate sprinkles.
As I lean back with my bowl in hand against the pillows that Wyatt propped up, Wyatt grabs the speaker from the docking station and sets it between us just as the movie begins.
“Have you ever seen this?” he asks.
“It has murder. What do you think?” I reply.
“That would be a yes.” He chuckles and then scoops some ice cream into his mouth. “I actually stayed at The Stanley Hotel in Estes Park once.”
“That’s where the movie takes place, right?” I ask.
“Technically, the inspiration, and before you ask, yes, the place was creepy as shit. It might have been just my head, but I was in there for one night and then told myself no more. Not again, and I fled. I stayed in a nice place on the main strip, devoured an entire tub of English toffee from the candy store, and watched reruns of Friends to shed the creep off me.”
“Did it work?”
“Partially. I still felt like I had ghost on me for a week later.”
“Explains the little streaks of white in your hair.”
His mouth falls open in abject horror. “Pardon me?”
I let out a loud laugh, even surprising myself. I point toward his temple and say, “You have a few grays. That’s mid-thirties for you.”
“Wow, Aubree.” He shakes his head at me and dips his spoon into his ice cream. “Just wow. And I thought we were becoming friends, but then you go and say something like that. You know what? I rescind my ice cream.”
He reaches for my bowl, but I curl away from him. “You can’t take my ice cream. It’s mine.”
“I can take whatever I want when you insult me with such hideous accusations.”
“It’s not an accusation, it’s facts.”
“Facts that you should look past, that you act like aren’t there. You don’t point them out.” His voice grows to a low, comical growl. “You think I don’t know about those grays? I try to color them with a Sharpie every morning, but they’re not taking to the ink kindly.”
“Shut up,” I say with a laugh. “You do not.”
“I do. I don’t think I’m using the right shade. I’ve put in a color match request with Sharpie, but I’m still waiting on an answer. Told them if they can help a guy out, I will forever and always sign my books with their pens. But right now, Bic’s imitation of the Sharpie is looking like my new best friend.”
“Wow, quite the story there. Also, have you tried the Bic imitation?”
“Of course not,” he scoffs. “Nothing is going to be better than Sharpie. Where’s your head at, Rowley?”
I laugh. “Clearly not in the right place.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch him running his hand over the hair near his temple, and it makes me laugh some more.
He’s just so ridiculous. I’ve never known anyone like him.
And strangely, with every day that goes past, I like it more and more.
“FUCK, I love those twins so much,” he says.
“I don’t understand how they’re so creepy. They’re two nice girls in matching blue dresses, but they cause an ungodly shiver to roll up your spine.”
“The best kind of shiver,” he says. “And the innocent but not innocent factor makes them creepy. Stephen King took an element that seems to be harmless—Danny riding around on his little tricycle, enjoying life—but paired it with sinful music that makes your toenails curl. To then abruptly stop at the end of a hallway because two identical humans are at the end, calling your name . . . It’s so easy, so simple, but packs a serious punch.”
“Also, you have to mention the knee-high socks. This would be a completely different scene if the knee-high socks weren’t involved,” I say.
He studies the screen for a moment and then nods. “You’re fucking right. The knee-high socks do pack a powerful, frightening punch. Gives that old Victorian picture in the haunted house vibe.” I can almost see him making a mental note.
“Going to use that in your next book?” I ask.
“You can bet your pretty little face on it,” he says, scooting closer. To my surprise, he pushes me forward, drapes his arm around me, and then settles me back onto him, pulling me in close.
“Uh, what are you doing?” I ask him.
“People are watching, Aubree. Do you really think your ever-charming and handsome boyfriend would let his beautiful and grumpy girlfriend watch two freaky, knee-high sock-wearing twins all by herself without the protection of his arm wrapped around her?”
“I’m assuming the answer is no?”
“You are correct. Now, in a few minutes, you’re going to need to slip your hand under the cover of the blanket right to my crotch where you’re going to make a motion that looks a lot like—”
“Oh my God, you can’t be serious.”
He lets out a roar of a laugh so loud that the car next to us tells us to be quiet. He waves an apology toward them and still chuckles near my ear. “No, I’m not serious, but fuck, that reaction was priceless.”
“Glad I could entertain.”
“You know, though, it might not hurt for you to sit on my lap and make out with me. I know I’m not mac and cheese, but if you can see past that, it might help our image.”
“You think making out while watching The Shining, one of the creepiest movies ever made, is going to help our image? It’s going to make us look like deranged psychopaths who get off on things like murder and creepy twins.”
“Umm . . . don’t you?” he asks with mirth in his voice.
“No,” I say sternly.
He chuckles. “So then what do you think the collective opinion is of the red car over there to the right that is suspiciously rocking back and forth?”
I lift to take a look at the car in question and notice the steamed-up windows and the rocking. “Um, two horny people who apparently can’t have sex in their home, so they’ve chosen a public place to do so.”
“Do you have anything against public sexcapades?”
“No,” I say as I lean back against his arm. “But I have something against the fact that they kept the speaker in their car. That means they’re having sex while listening to the twins calling after Danny.”
“Hmm,” Wyatt says, thinking about it. “Not sure that would be the soundtrack I’d want while wielding a massive erection.”
“Was massive needed in that sentence?” I ask.
“Of course,” he replies. “You see, Aubree, by using adjectives, we’re able to portray—”
“Skip the English lesson, please. I know why adjectives exist. I just didn’t think it was needed at that moment.”
“Why?” I can already hear the smile in his voice before he speaks his next words. “Does it make you wonder if my erection is massive?”
“You are so predictable,” I say. “I knew you were going to make some sort of sexual innuendo. You seriously have a problem.”
“Uh, no, I’m a guy. That’s what we do. We think about sex all the time. Hell, I looked at a mailbox this morning and thought about sex.”
“How on earth did a mailbox make you think about sex?” I ask, ignoring the movie in front of us.
“Do you really want the rabbit trail?”
“I do,” I say.
“Okay, you brought this on yourself.” He takes a deep breath. “I was driving around this morning, not going to tell you what exactly I was doing because that is a surprise—and yes, I know you hate surprises, but you will find out soon—anyway, I drove by this house with a mallard mailbox.”
“Oh my God, please don’t tell me you found sexual desire from a mallard duck?”
“Aubree,” he says in a tone that says he’s trying to be serious, but I can hear the underlying mirth. “Is your opinion of me that low that you would think I’d get off on the thought of a luscious feathery animal?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe?”
“That’s insulting. Animals don’t do it for me, thanks. But . . . the feathers did remind me of a feather-down pillow.”
“Dear God, you humped a pillow.”
“No,” he says in an annoyed tone, which makes me laugh. “But it reminded me of this hotel I once stayed in that had feather-down pillows. I was so insulted that they’d use such a thing—because you don’t even want to know the horror that goes into anything that’s feather-down—that I charged right to the manager’s office of the hotel.”
“And let me guess, you had sex with her.”
“Uh, no,” he says. “I did not because I didn’t make it to her office, not when I slipped on a wet floor, flew up in the air, and landed on my back, throwing out the entire thing. And before you mention anything about me being in my mid-thirties and having old man back issues, this was mid-twenties for me.”
“I was still in high school.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Not something to mention.” I laugh, and he continues. “Anyway, they called the ambulance, even though I told them that wasn’t necessary, and I was taken to the hospital and put on some painkillers. Well, that night, my nurse came in . . .”
“Oh my God, did you have sex with your nurse?”
“No,” he says.
“Then my God, Wyatt, where is this story going?”
“You asked for the rabbit trail, and I’m giving it to you.” He clears his throat. “The nurse was wearing a carrot pin on her scrubs, which took me back to a moment when I was twenty-one and at a Halloween party. I was dressed as a stoplight, and there was a woman dressed up as a naughty carrot. Her tits were propped up to her chin, and she was—”
“So you did it with a carrot?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “She was too drunk, but her friend, who was dressed like a mallard, she and I did it in the bathroom that night.”
I lift from where I’m resting on his chest and look him in the eyes. “Why didn’t the actual mailbox mallard remind you of the slutty mallard at the Halloween party?”
“Because,” he says so casually. “That’s not how author brains work.”
And then he pulls me back to his chest as if he didn’t just expose himself as one of the weirdest humans I’ve ever met.
After a few seconds, I say, “What am I getting myself into?”
“A world of fun, babe. That’s what you’re getting yourself into.”
WYATT POPS out of the bathroom, freshly showered and ready for bed. He let me take a shower first, which was nice, and while I was drying off, I heard him tapping away on his computer. I asked him if he came up with a new idea or if he was still reminiscing about the mailbox mallard, but he told me he was just answering some emails from his agent. He also said he’d include his rabbit trail in his next book.
“Surprised you’re still awake,” he says as he checks the lock on the door—his paranoia makes me slightly intrigued because there’s either a backstory behind that or all his research for his books has turned him into a safety officer. When he’s satisfied with everything, he slips into bed and turns toward me. “I thought you’d be passed out by now.”
“Why would you think that?” I ask.
“Avoidance of the night we shared,” he says.
“That doesn’t sound like me.” He lifts one brow, and that’s all it takes to make me smile. “Fine, maybe that is me.”
“So what changed?” he asks.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “Guess I just didn’t think about it.”
“Or you were waiting up for me because you had so much fun tonight that you wanted to tell me in person before I drifted off to sleep.”
“That’s not it,” I answer.
“Keep telling yourself that.” He brushes a stray hair behind my ear, his fingers lightly caressing my cheek in the process. It makes me wonder what it would be like if this man was actually my real-life husband. Would he act the same way? Would he be as attentive, or is he doing all of this just for show to keep me happy until I say I do?
Even if he was, I can’t blame him. There’s a lot on the line for both of us.
“I was thinking about something tonight,” he says.
“Oh?” I ask.
“Yeah, because well, we’re getting married and that will entail a ceremony.”
“Yes, that’s usually what happens when people get married,” I say.
“Which means we’re going to have to kiss.”
I feel sweat break out on the back of my neck. “Yes, that’s something we’ve mentioned before.” His hand slides under the covers to my hip where he gently grips me.
“And I mean nothing sexual about this, and I don’t want you to think this is me trying to extend the date, but don’t you think we should, I don’t know, at least kiss each other good night so we get used to the feel of it?”
“The feel of kissing?” I ask, my nerves starting to shoot up.
“The feel of kissing each other.”
“Oh . . . uh, why?” I ask even though I know why. I’m just trying to prolong this because I’m so nervous I could actually throw up.
His thumb rubs against my hip in a soothing motion as he says, “So when I kiss you on our wedding day, you’re not completely disgusted with me.”
“I’m not . . . I’m not disgusted with you,” I reply.
“Then how come I can feel you slowly leaning back, farther away from me?”
“Am I?” I laugh nervously. “Oh, didn’t realize.”
“Don’t you think it would be smart to try kissing if we’re trying to sell this?”
“I mean, yes,” I answer.
“Good,” he says. “Then I propose every night before we go to bed, we kiss each other just to get used to the idea. How does that sound?”
I involuntarily wet my lips. “Sounds fine,” I say, trying to hide the shake in my voice.
“Okay.” And then to my surprise, he pulls me in closer so our knees knock together and our faces are only a few inches apart. The smell of his soap mixed with his fresh breath hits me all at once as he says, “You ready for this?”
No.
Not even a little.
What if . . . what if he thinks I’m bad at it?
What if he regrets this deal after he kisses me? That would be so humiliating and not something I think I’d recover from.
“Uh, yes.” Even though my insides are trembling with nerves.
But there’s no stopping him because he leans in closer and then runs his hand up my side until he’s lightly touching my jaw.
I hold my breath as he closes the space between us, and when his lips reach mine, I still, my mind whirling as he applies the lightest of pressure.
He’s kissing me. Oh my God, he’s—he pulls away before I can even reciprocate the kiss.
Oh God.
I had . . . I had dead fish lips.
They weren’t even puckered.
“Great,” he says as he moves away with a smile. “See, you didn’t explode or anything. You’re still alive and well.” He casually wets his lips . . . probably because the death of mine sucked all the moisture from his. “You didn’t get poisoned by my lips.” He’s trying to make a joke out of it, but I’m still in shock over how fast that was.
I wouldn’t have even called it a peck. It was . . . a whisper of a kiss.
“Nope, no, uh, poison,” I say, my stomach flip-flopping inside me. “Didn’t die.”
“Maybe I’m not so bad after all.”
“You’re not,” I say, which makes him smile but, in return, makes me feel weak.
“I think I might be growing on you, Aubree.” He smirks and pulls me up against his chest, somehow flipping me to my side at the same time. He curls up against me and holds me, snuggling in close just like the other night.
And as I lie there, slowly relaxing and sinking into his embrace, I think about that kiss. Maybe next time I won’t be so stiff. Maybe next time I’ll kiss him back.
If we’re going to pull this off, I’ll have to kiss him back.
THE NEXT NIGHT . . .
“I’ve noticed a trend with you,” Wyatt says as he checks the lock on the door.
“What’s that?” I ask as I plug in my phone and lie flat on the bed, just my head tilted to look at him.
“You tend to wear Almond Store shirts to bed. The color varies, but they’re all oversized.”
“These are actually the shirts Cassidy ordered when the store first opened. She didn’t notice the error on them until Ethel pointed it out when she went to buy one.”
“There’s an error?” he asks as he slides under the covers and moves toward me. “Where?”
I sit up and straighten my shirt out. “Right here. The ‘O’ and the ‘N’ in almond are out of place.”
“Oh yeah, look at that.” He smiles as he stares down at my shirt. “So did you just take a bunch for sleeping in?”
“Yup, and then we donated the others to a shelter in San Francisco. Hattie took them for us since she was going to school there at the time.”
“At least they were put to good use. So I’m guessing that’s all you wear?”
“Pretty much. I have a few others I trade out, but these are it.”
“I like them. Might steal one for myself.”
“Umm, isn’t it the wife who’s supposed to steal clothes from the husband?”
He holds up one finger. “First of all, really pleased that you referred to our scenario as husband and wife. Clearly, I’m rubbing off on you. Now, we just have to get you to start going on rabbit hole tangents about mallard mailboxes.” I chuckle as he holds up a second finger. “And that shirt would fit me. Therefore, I might steal it. Fair game.”
“Does that mean I can steal your clothes?” I ask, only teasing.
“Have at it, babe,” he says. “Take whatever you want.”
“I’m not going to wear your clothes, Wyatt.”
“Why not?” he asks. “I’m going to be your husband after all. Might as well take advantage. Although, some shirts are off limits.”
“And what would those be?” I ask.
He curls his lips to the side. “Nice try. If I tell you which ones, you’ll make it your mission to grab those shirts specifically to wear. Not falling for it.”
“I guess you’re starting to understand me better.”
“Oh, I can read you like a book,” he says as he pulls me closer by the hip. “Normally, you don’t talk this much, but you know what’s coming, so you’re procrastinating and prolonging our conversation.”
“I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”
He gives me a get real look and moves in closer, cutting down our space to mere inches. “Good night, Aubree.” He cups my cheek and very lightly brings his mouth to mine. This time, I’m prepared, and when he kisses me, I kiss him back right before he pulls away. Looking down at me, he smiles but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he curls into my back and goes to sleep, leaving it at that.
Okay . . . but . . . was that better for him? Did he notice any improvement? Does he want to do it again tomorrow?
I guess only one way to find out.
THE NEXT NIGHT . . .
“You know I already checked the lock on the doors,” I say to him as he finishes making sure everything is secure before slipping into bed, wearing the same thing he wears every night. A fresh pair of boxer briefs and nothing else. His hair is damp from his shower, and his chest is freshly lotioned—something I wasn’t aware men did. But he does, and when the light hits it just right, he glistens.
Not that I’ve noticed his glistening chest in great detail.
“I won’t be able to sleep unless I personally check it,” he says as he moves in closer to me. “How was your day? Sorry I didn’t make it out to the farm.”
“You don’t have to come out every day. I told you that. I’m fine.”
“I know you’re fine, Aubree, but remember, I’m here for support.”
“I’m aware, and thank you, but seriously, everything is fine.”
“Good,” he says, his hand going to my hip like it has the last two nights. “Hey, can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Well, I wanted to check in with you and see where you were with me holding you at night. Wanted to make sure you were okay with that. I know we never talked about it. I just kind of . . . made it happen. Now that it’s happened a few nights in a row, I want to make sure you’re okay, that you don’t want me to stop. Because I will.”
“Oh, umm.” I wet my lips as he peacefully waits for my answer. His patience and understanding are unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. Growing up, my father was anything but patient. He was a tornado, sweeping through the house every night. We were always on high alert, waiting to see what kind of man would appear. Was he going to hurt us? Yell at us? Ignore us altogether?
But with Wyatt, he offers this sense of peace, of structure. I know what to expect from him, at least now that we’re in a routine, and it’s weird to say, but it’s comforting.
I know every morning he’ll wake up and work out, usually go for a run. Then he’ll take a shower and spend his day either helping around town, visiting Rodney, or working on the farm. At night, he either asks me out to dinner or we spend the evening with the family. He jokes around with Ryland and Hayes and then helps me with the dishes. At night, he takes another shower, he lotions, maybe answers some emails, then he checks the locks and holds me.
It’s a routine I’m starting to get used to, that I’m starting to count on.
“Is that a no?” he asks.
“What? No. Sorry,” I answer. “Was just thinking. I, um, I’m not good with this kind of stuff, you know that. But I don’t mind you holding me at night. So you know, if you want to keep doing it, you can.” I shrug, trying to play my answer off as casual.
A light smile tugs on his lips. “Glad to hear it.” Then he pulls me in close again, and his hand cups my cheek. “Good night, Aubree.”
“Good night,” I say right before he brings his mouth to mine once again. I brace myself, and when his lips connect with mine, I kiss him back, but this time, his mouth slightly parts. It’s so small, but it’s just enough that I follow his lead and do the same. And instead of one peck like the last two nights, this is different. This is a step up in intimacy. This is two kisses molded into one.
It’s brief as he pulls away, but it was a small glimpse of what this man could really do with his mouth, and when he pulls me into his chest, I worry for a moment because . . . I think I liked that.
Wait, no, I know I liked that.
I liked it more than I should have.
THE NEXT NIGHT . . .
I curl into my pillow, listening to the sound of Wyatt typing away on his computer. He told me he had to address something and asked if it was okay that he took care of it before bed. I told him it was fine, and I rested in bed for a bit, but as he continued to type away, I started to drift to sleep, so I turned into my pillow, turned off my light, and now I’m resting my eyes just as I hear him click his computer shut.
He moves around the room, checks the locks, then slips into bed, only to slide across the mattress and right up against me, getting in his cuddling position. But instead of resting his head, he leans up on his elbow, hovering over me, and then I feel his hand come around to my jaw. He gently tilts my face in his direction. His strong grip not only sends a euphoric chill through my limbs, but it also creates the right angle for him to lean down and kiss me.
Just like last night, he parts his lips, and I part mine. His mouth works over mine as his hand holds me in place, and I sink into the mattress, relaxing as he kisses me once, twice, three times, and on the last one, his tongue runs across my lips, and I swear on this entire farm that I nearly moan from it.
But luckily, I clamp down on my mouth before I can let out the sound.
It stays trapped inside me, swirling around, making me feel dizzy and chaotic. Warm and fuzzy. Dazed and confused.
That kiss . . . that was short, but the perfect length to entice me.
I don’t want to admit this, but God, I want more.
Keeping his head right next to mine, he says, “Good night, Aubree.”
“Good night,” I answer, but he doesn’t move. He hovers above me, and I’m not sure why. Does he want another kiss? I wouldn’t be opposed because we’re practicing after all.
After a few seconds, he sighs, lowers himself to the bed, and drapes his arm over me.
Why did he pause?
Did I do something wrong?
This bouncing, pulsing energy that has my nerves rattling inside me takes hold of my voice, and before I can stop myself, I ask, “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, his body moving against mine as he holds me close.
“Are you sure? Because it seemed like you were mad about something.”
“I thought you didn’t do feelings,” he says, his head now buried in my hair.
“I don’t, but I just want to make sure that I didn’t, you know, do anything wrong.”
“Nope,” he says simply. “Nothing wrong.”
“Like nothing wrong with the kiss?”
“Especially nothing wrong with the kiss,” he replies. “That kiss was . . . fuck, it was good.”
I feel my cheeks heat as my nipples harden against my shirt from his approval. The praise, the gruffness in his tone, the male satisfaction as he holds me close.
It makes me feel . . . amazing.
Should I be happy about that or not?
AND THE NEXT NIGHT . . .
“How are you in bed before me?” I ask as I pull my hair into a loose bun on the top of my head.
Wyatt’s eyes fall to the high hem of my shirt before he moves them back up to my face.
“I took a shower before dinner. I was really fucking dirty from helping Parson out in the field.” His eyes roam over me one more time as he wets his lips.
Ignoring his wandering eyes, I slip into bed with him and say, “Parson was happy that you helped him out today. He told me how grateful he was for the help, especially when the tractor got stuck.”
“See,” he says as he turns toward me. “I am helpful on the farm.”
“Never said you weren’t helpful,” I reply as I cast the room into darkness by turning off my light. “Just that you don’t have to be on the farm every day.”
“What if I like being on the farm every day?” he asks as his fingers dance down my arm, creating a wave of goosebumps.
“Well, I mean . . . that’s, uh . . . that’s up to you,” I say as a blast of nerves hit me all at once . . . because I know what’s coming.
I know what we’ve been developing over the past few nights.
The intensity has grown.
The countdown in my head until I can slip into bed with him has kicked up.
And today, when I was washing my face and getting ready for bed, I realized that this light, airy feeling in my chest was the anticipation of how he might kiss me tonight.
“Well, I like being on the farm.” He dances his fingers down to my wrist where he encircles it and then slowly lifts my hand over my head and pins my wrist to the pillow. “I saw you looking at me through the office window.”
“What?” I say breathlessly as he lowers his head. “No . . . no, I wasn’t.”
“Damn,” he says with a devilish grin. “I was hoping to catch you. You didn’t watch me at all?”
“I, uh . . .” He brings his face so close our noses are nearly touching. “I was, um . . .” I wet my lips. “Working.”
“Maybe next time,” he says and then whispers. “Well, good night, Aubree.”
“G-good night,” I say just before his mouth descends on mine.
At first, he’s soft, exploratory, just like last night, but when I think he’s going to pull away, he applies more pressure as his mouth opens.
His body leans into mine.
And his mouth opens and closes along with mine, causing my mind to reel and my body to sing.
It’s so good.
His kisses are so delicious.
So addictive.
I cup his face softly and mold my lips against his, parting my lips as his tongue connects with mine.
Oh my God, yes.
My grip intensifies as I take a chance and slip my tongue against his.
“Fuuuuck,” he mutters as he pulls away and stares down at me, his chest heavy, his eyes searching.
I run my tongue over my lips as I keep my gaze on his. “That . . . uh, was that okay?”
“Yeah, more than okay,” he says right before he brings his mouth back to mine. This time, his body sinks into my side, the heaviness of it now falling into me like a weighted blanket. He parts my lips again, and his tongue dances across my tongue, tangling and twisting, our mouths opening wider.
He’s so good at this.
His command, his pressure, the feel of him holding me in place but also treating me as if I’m fragile. It’s unlike any kiss I’ve ever experienced. And I don’t want it to end.
It’s why I move my hand to the back of his neck.
It’s why I shift, making more room for him.
It’s why I continue to run my tongue over his, causing him to groan softly as he returns the stroke.
This is unexpected, but it’s also what I thought might happen tonight. Because the tension every night has been building. The kisses have grown. And now that he has me pinned against this bed, making out with me, using his tongue, making me feel things I don’t think I’ve ever felt, I’m slowly starting to melt.
To accept this.
To be okay with it.
To want it.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, lifting up and releasing my hand. He stares down at me, his breath heavy, his eyes searching. It takes him a moment, but then he says, “Fuck, I’m sorry, Aubree.”
Wait . . . what?
“Sorry?” I ask, feeling confused and disoriented. “Sorry for what?”
He tugs on his hair. “That was . . . fuck, that was too much.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling foolish.
He’s right, that was too much.
Right, this isn’t a situation where I should want this or accept it. This is . . . business. What was I even thinking getting lost in his mouth and his hold and everything else that I was just lusting over? “Yeah, I’m sorry too. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Don’t apologize.” He shakes his head. “You did nothing wrong.”
“Well, it takes two people to kiss.”
“It does,” he says. “But I’m the one who slipped you the tongue.”
“And I slipped it right back.”
“Well then, I guess we’re both horny motherfuckers who’ve lost their minds.”
I know it’s a line that’s supposed to make me laugh, but I can’t seem to muster up the enthusiastic laugh he deserves. I just smile instead because moments ago, I was feeling something. I was feeling alive. Which is much more than simply horny. “I guess so.”
He lies flat on his back and takes a deep breath. “Fuck, I’m sorry. It’s been a while for me, and I think I just got lost in it.”
A while? That seems hard to believe.
“How long is a while for you? Because I bet you it’s been longer for me.”
“Now that you say that, I think my answer will make you mad.”
I turn toward him and prop my head on my hand. “Tell me.”
“Over a month.” He winces while my mouth falls open.
“Oh my God, that’s nothing. Try years, Wyatt.”
“Years?” His eyes widen. “How is that possible? You’re . . . you’re you.”
“Exactly, I’m me, and there aren’t a lot of people lining up to be with me.” People leave me, pity me, and mock me . . . but do not show sexual interest in me. And when this man beside me showed interest in a mere kiss, he pulled away and apologized. I think that about sums up how appealing I am to the opposite sex.
He sits up as well to look me in the eyes. “Don’t downplay yourself like that, Aubree, as if you wouldn’t make any man happy. You’re so fucking smart, and loyal, and protective. You’re a hard worker and thoughtful.”
“Yes, all attributes that scream desire to have sex with me,” I say, which makes him flip a switch from complimentary to mad.
His brows turn down.
His face frowns.
And he grows tense as he says, “Those attributes make you sexy, and if a man can’t see that, he’s a fucking moron. But if we have to relate your physical attributes to what makes you sexy, then you have the nicest, bubbliest ass I’ve ever seen, your tits are firm and perky and look amazing without a bra, and those lips, Aubree, fuck me can they bring me to my goddamn knees. Your beautiful face? It stuns me, especially when I’m rewarded with one of your hard-won and glorious smiles.”
I glance away because I was not expecting that at all. How do I process what he just said?
He hooks his finger under my chin, though, and forces me to look at him. “In case you need me to spell it out for you, it isn’t you, it’s them.”
I swallow, my nerves shaking, my body wanting to curl into him and say thank you . . . my brain wanting to deny everything he’s saying. “It’s nice of you to say that, Wyatt. But look at what you’ve had to do to even get me to stop pushing you away. You’ve had to physically insert yourself into my life. Any other guy would think that’s too much trouble.”
“Then he’s not the right guy, and he doesn’t deserve you.”
I smile softly, knowing we won’t agree on this, so I drop it and turn away from him.
“You don’t believe me, do you?” he says, clearly not getting the hint that it’s the end of the conversation. “That’s fine.” He wraps his arm around me and pulls me into his chest. “Looks like I’ll just have to prove it to you.”
