Dinner last night was eventful to say the least.
Wyatt thought it would be a good idea to head over and talk to Ryland, who just stood in the kitchen for the longest time, stunned. I don’t blame him. If the roles were reversed, I’d be just as shocked, because I haven’t been acting like someone falling in love. I haven’t even mentioned one word. If anything, I’ve expressed my displeasure about Wyatt and his part ownership of the farm. I was mad about that. So for me to suddenly be in love is probably startling.
Of course, being the good big brother that he is, Ryland shook Wyatt’s hand, and we sat down and ate dinner.
Wyatt was careful with being overtly affectionate—probably got the vibe that I wasn’t into it in front of my family—and kept things minimal with just an arm draped over my chair.
After dinner, I helped Ryland with the dishes while Hattie, Wyatt, and Mac played Space Escape in the living room. I occasionally glanced in their direction to see how Wyatt interacted with Mac, and it was nice to see him playing with her . . . not because I’m thinking of future children or anything like that, but because it’s nice for Mac to have another person in her life who she can love.
Once Mac started yawning, we said our goodbyes, and Wyatt walked me to the guest house, where he leaned in and whispered in my ear that he’d contact his lawyer to get a prenup drawn up.
I thanked him, and then when the coast was clear and Hattie was gone, I pulled away from him, slipped into my house, and stared up at the ceiling for an hour, wondering what the hell I was doing with my life.
And let me tell you, nothing came to mind.
I eventually fell asleep but woke up early this morning with bloodshot eyes, a heavy feeling on my chest, and the need to get out on the farm and do something with my hands.
So that’s exactly what I’m doing.
I shut the door to the guest house and take a walk out back toward the barn, where I see Wyatt’s SUV parked.
I let out a long exhale.
Yup, why would he be anywhere else?
Coffee in hand, I close the distance, and when I reach the barn, I find him sitting on the tractor with a bakery box next to him and wearing a bright smile.
How is this man happy all the time? Does he take uppers every morning?
He doesn’t even have any coffee with him.
I don’t get it.
“Morning,” he says, hopping down and grabbing the box. “I was going to knock on your door this morning, but I wasn’t sure if you were awake and didn’t want to disturb you. I came here and did some touch-ups on the chicken coop, making sure we covered everything with paint.”
I walk over to a bench in the barn and take a seat, crossing one leg over the other. “You could have knocked on my door. I was awake.”
He follows me and takes a seat as well while popping open the bakery box to reveal my favorite muffin again. It’s a sweet gesture, one that I’ll always accept. He might annoy me, but underneath it all, he’s a nice guy.
“Let me guess, you didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Barely any,” I say.
“Me neither,” he says. That surprises me. He seems so untouched by this entire scenario like he wasn’t mentally affected by any of this.
“Really?” I ask. “That doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“Why do you say that?” he asks as he takes the paper wrapper off one of the muffins.
“Because you just seem so chill, like this isn’t a big deal.”
“I know what kind of sacrifice this is, Aubree,” he says softly. “That doesn’t escape me. I just tend to keep things positive if I can. But yesterday, when Hattie hugged you because she was so excited about you falling in love . . . I don’t know . . .” He stares down at his muffin. “It made me feel guilty. I didn’t think she was going to be that thrilled.”
“I think it’s one of those things where she’s in love, so she wants everyone to be in love, you know?”
He nods in understanding. “Anyway, I just felt bad and started thinking about everything.” He looks up at me, those deep brown eyes so sincere that it’s almost hard to keep our gaze connected. “If you want to bow out, it’s fine. I understand.” He sighs while dragging his hand over his face. “I just feel like I went about this the wrong way, and now—”
“You’re getting cold feet,” I say.
“No,” he replies. “I’d still do this. I just feel bad about the way I pressured you. We’re not talking about being fake boyfriend and girlfriend; that would be way less of a stress for me. We’re talking about getting married. And the guilt I feel about dragging you down this journey is consuming me. So . . .” He wets his lips and picks at his muffin. “You can just take the land, Aubree. I know I don’t want it, and you do. I feel like a dick, forcing you to do something just so you can cherish a piece of your sister. It makes me feel like a total asshole, and I don’t want to feel that way. So it’s yours.”
I am stunned.
Because that was the last thing I thought he’d say when I saw him in the barn with a bakery box.
I assumed he was here to talk logistics and to let me know when and where he’d propose. Maybe give me an update on the prenup.
But to just offer me the land . . .
“Wyatt, you don’t—”
“I do,” he says, his demeanor changing. “I laid awake all night thinking about it. Thinking about the way Hattie hugged you out of pure joy, and it just hit me that this isn’t just our lives we’re messing with. This is a lot of people’s lives. And I don’t want to ruin what you have going on here. You have a great support system and a great town. I’m just going to mess it up with this plan, so . . . yeah, you can have the land, and I’ll figure something out when it comes to the cabin.” His eyes meet mine. “I’m sorry I brought this stress on you.”
He smiles softly and rises from the bench, stepping away from me. And at that moment, the weirdest thing happens to me. I’ll probably never be able to describe it properly, but with that one step, that slight distance, it feels like something inside me is being pulled with him.
It’s an odd feeling.
It’s something unexpected that forces me to reach out as he passes and grab his wrist.
Surprised, he pauses and stares down at me, looking for answers.
But I have none. I’m just as stunned as he is.
Because this is what I wanted. I wanted the land, no strings attached. I wanted to be able to just focus on the farm, making it grow, and carrying on Cassidy’s dreams of what this place could become.
But here I am, grabbing Wyatt’s hand, preventing him from leaving.
And I have no idea why.
“Yes?” he asks after a few seconds of silence.
Nothing comes to mind.
Not a word.
Not a thought.
It’s just all blank in my head.
“Aubree.”
“Hmm?” I ask.
“You’re holding my wrist.”
I wet my lips. “I know.”
“Why?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Well, do you want to let it go?”
“No.”
“Okay.” His Adam’s apple works up and down. “Do you want me to sit back down?”
I think about it for a moment and then nod. “Yes.”
“Okay,” he says as he moves back to the bench and sits down.
When our eyes connect, I feel that guilt he was talking about, but it’s not guilt over deceiving people. It’s guilt over what he’s giving up.
Ever since he got here, I’ve been annoyed with his presence. Irritated that he thought he could waltz on in and act like everything was fine, like he owned this land, could help make choices, and no one would hold him accountable for it. I think I was so annoyed that I missed one important aspect of it all—he’s grieving the loss of something that I’ve grieved as well.
I want the farmland just like he wants his family cabin.
I know the desperation he feels. I know what it means to hold something so close to your chest and want it as badly as he does, which is why I grabbed his hand.
Why I didn’t ask him to leave.
And why I’m staring back at him, ready to say what I’m going to say.
“We can get married, Wyatt.”
He shakes his head. “No, Aubree. I know you’re just saying that to be nice, and I really don’t want to create something bigger than it should be. This is my problem, not yours.”
“Let us get one thing straight,” I say as I bring my feet up on the bench and my legs close to my chest. “There is one thing I never do, and that’s ‘be nice’ just for the hell of it. I think anyone who knows me can attest to that. And I’m not going to just take the land for free. So you have two choices.” I hold up my fingers. “We have someone come out to the farm, assess your part of the property, and tell us how much it’s worth so I can attempt to find a way to buy it off you, even if that means I take out a loan. Or . . .” I pause for a moment and collect myself. When I meet his eyes again, I say, “We go through with the original plan and get married. That’s it, those are your two choices. I’m not going to take the land just because you feel guilty. I don’t take handouts or anyone else’s pity.”
He looks away as he grips the back of his neck. “Aubree—”
“Two options, that’s it,” I repeat, wanting to make it very clear that I won’t listen to any other suggestions.
That’s when he turns back to me and asks, “What’s with the change of heart?”
“There’s no change of heart,” I say. “I went to bed last night with the knowledge in my head that I’d be marrying you. I woke up this morning expecting the same thing. You’re the one with the change of heart, and just because you feel guilty doesn’t mean I’ll allow you to take pity on me.”
His brow creases, and his head tilts ever so slightly. “I’m not taking pity on you, Aubree. I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“The right thing isn’t giving me the land for free. Clarke and Cassidy left that to you for a reason. I’m not sure why, but they did. That means it’s your land, and if you’re willing to sell it or trade it, then I’m willing to participate in such an exchange. But I won’t accept it for free. I’ve worked for everything in my life. I’m not about to stop that now because you have feelings.”
He chuckles. “Because I have feelings, huh? Nice way to put it.” I just shrug. He blows out a heavy breath. “Okay, if you insist, then I guess we’ll get married because there is no way I’ll take your money.”
“Great,” I say. “I guess we’re getting married, then.” I glance away as my stomach turns upside down with nerves. I know that feeling distinctly, but I dare not show it. I don’t want him to know how I feel about all of this.
I wasn’t allowed to show emotions growing up, and I’m not about to show them now.
“Are you okay with that?” Wyatt asks.
“Yup.” I smile at him, putting on that faithful mask of mine that got me through the nights of my dad screaming at Ryland. Of the mornings when Dad beat Ryland with a shoe because he hadn’t put out the trash the night before. Of the days when I longed so desperately to be held by anyone . . . anyone who would comfort me like a mother or tell me that everything would be okay when I knew deep down it wasn’t.
“Are you sure?” It’s as if he can see right through me, and I don’t like that.
So I roll my eyes at him. “Jesus, Wyatt, yes. Like you said, it’s a year. It’s not a big deal. We will get what we want and go our separate ways. Works out great. Does your lawyer need anything from me for the prenup and agreement?”
He eyes me.
Studies me.
Watches over me for a beat too long. Please stop examining me. I don’t think you’ll like what you find.
But finally he says, “I’ll let you know if she does. Oh, and it might help if I actually have your information in my phone.” He pulls it out from his pocket, unlocks it, and hands it to me.
I stare down at the wallpaper on his phone and back up at him. “What’s this?” I flash the screen at him.
“My phone.”
“Uh, no, the picture on your phone?”
He smirks. “That’s you. It’s my screensaver too. Pretty clever, huh?”
“When did you take this picture of me? I’m squatting over a paint tray like a chicken as if I’m ready to lay an egg.”
He chuckles. “I know, I found it funny.”
One year of tolerating his grating sense of humor. One. Year.
“You could have asked for a more flattering picture,” I say.
“And stare at your pretty face all day?” He shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good.”
My body goes still, a blush creeping over my cheeks.
Pretty face.
He really said pretty face. Just so casually, as if it’s a natural thing to compliment your fake wife. Compliments were rarely handed out when I was growing up. Ryland rarely complimented us. Cassidy would, but it was few and far between as well. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who just says what’s on their mind, and that . . . that worries me. “I can see you’re trying to process my comment.” His smile is infuriating and also . . . comforting. How is that possible? “Do you not take compliments well?”
“They’re . . . they’re just not needed,” I say, shaking my head.
“Well, it’s true. You do have a pretty face.”
“Stop that,” I say as I plug my phone number into his phone. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“Fair enough,” he says. I finish typing my info into his phone and hand it over to him as he says, “I’m here to help you, Aubree. I need you to know that. I’m not your enemy. I’m not here to harass you or to make you feel bad. I’m not here to treat you like shit or to dredge up any ill will. I’m on your side. I’m your support. I’d like to be your friend. I think the more we recognize that we’re in this together, the easier our time as a married couple will be. Okay?” His brow crinkles with his question, and I find it kind of cute.
“Okay,” I say. I figure I should give him a rundown of what he’s working with. It’s only fair. “But I need you to know that I don’t trust a lot of people. I didn’t have the best childhood, which I don’t plan on discussing, so please don’t ask. I hate dealing with emotions and feelings. I like to work and get things done. I have two goals in life: to make sure Mac is cared for and loved and to ensure this farm prospers for many years. Don’t get in the way of those two things, and we can be friends.”
“That seems simple enough,” he answers.
“Good.” I set my feet on the ground. “Then if this is all done, I think I’ll get to work.”
He stands at the same time I do. “How can I help?”
“Go back to your room at the inn and do whatever you need to do. I just need some time to myself.”
His lips twist to the side as he studies me. “Normally, I wouldn’t want you working alone, but I can understand the need to be in your own head. So I’ll leave you alone, but tonight, I’m taking you out.”
“Why?” I ask, confused.
“Because I think it would be good for you and so people can see us around town. I can make a reservation. I’ll pick you up.”
“I can just meet you in town, so there’s no need to drive all the way out here for no reason.”
“Aubree—”
I hold up my hand. “I can drive, Wyatt. I’ll meet you at the inn, and we can walk to wherever from there.”
“Fine,” he says, capitulating, which is kind of funny because it appears very painful for him. “Be at the inn around six. Does that work?”
“Yes.” And before he can leave, I ask, “You’re not expecting me to dress all fancy for you, are you?”
That makes him grin. He leans in and cups my chin. “Wear whatever you want to wear . . . wife. I’ll proudly walk with you on my arm.” And then he takes off, an extra pep in his step.
Why do I fear that I just made a big mistake . . . but also, possibly a great decision?
BETWEEN YOU AND ME, it took me two hours to get ready.
I know what you’re thinking. Why on earth are you taking two hours to get ready for a simple date? It’s called overthinking. Every outfit I put on felt too conservative, too dressed up, or too revealing. Something was wrong with every article of clothing I owned, so much so that I almost contacted Hattie to ask her for something to wear, but then I realized how absurd that would be, so I skipped out on that idea.
I settled for a simple red sundress with sleeves and a pair of sandals.
When doing my hair, I went back and forth between curling it or letting the natural curls take over with a little help from mousse. I went with the natural style. Curling my hair would have made it seem like I was trying too hard, and I don’t want him to think I was eager to impress him.
Because I’m not.
I put on some light makeup, a small dab of gloss on my lips, and then headed out the door so I wouldn’t analyze myself any more than I needed to.
And now that I’ve parked my car and am walking up the front steps of the inn, I’m starting to second-guess everything about this arrangement. I don’t do well with situations like this. The last time I was out on a date was with Matt, and I think we all know how that went. And even though this isn’t really a date, we have to treat it like a date, and that makes me nauseous and nervous and all the things in between.
“Oh hello, dear, don’t you look lovely,” Ethel says, startling me out of my thoughts. Wearing one of her many kaftans, Ethel is perched in her rocking chair, iced tea in hand, and surveying the town.
“Hey, Ethel,” I say.
“Are you here to pick up your man?”
Here we go . . .
“Yes,” I answer. “We’re going to dinner.”
“How lovely.” She sips her tea. “It’s so nice to see you out and about, all gussied up.” Not too gussied up, just not wearing dirt-dusted clothes.
“Well, figured I could kick the boots for some sandals tonight,” I say, feeling so freaking awkward, like I’m talking to the parent before the date.
“You did a lovely job, and from here, I can smell your beautiful perfume.” I swear I only did two spritzes. “Is that gardenias?” She sniffs the air.
“Uh, not sure. I just liked the smell of it and bought it.”
“I believe that’s gardenias. Do you know what they symbolize?”
If she says it’s some sort of sexed-up aphrodisiac, I’m rinsing myself in the bathroom.
“Not sure,” I answer.
She sips her tea again and stares out at the quiet road. “Purity and gentleness.”
Oh-kay.
“Huh, didn’t—”
“Are you trying to present yourself as gentle and pure?”
How does one answer that question?
“You know,” she continues, “given your hard exterior.”
“Never really thought about it that way.”
She nods and rocks. “Must have slipped into your subconscious while you were picking out the scent that will grace your bosom tonight.”
Dear.
God.
“I just sprayed it in the air twice. I wasn’t pointing it at my bosom,” I say just as the screen door to the inn opens and Wyatt walks out.
He must have caught my last sentence because he greets me with a raised brow and a question in his expression.
“There he is,” Ethel coos as she stands and walks up to him. She straightens the collar of his polo shirt and pats his shoulders. “Looking handsome as ever.”
“Thank you,” he says. “This color is quite beautiful on you, Ethel.”
She waves her hand at him. “Oh, you flatter me too much.”
“Not flattery when it’s facts,” he says and then directs his attention toward me. “Wow, Aubree, you look beautiful.” And then, to my surprise, he leans in and presses a light kiss on my cheek.
It’s a peck.
Just a featherlight touch from his lips.
But for some reason, I can feel it all the way down to my toes.
When he pulls away, he smiles at me, and I know it’s my turn to say something about him. “I, uh . . . I like that your shorts don’t have pleats.”
His smile turns into a full-on grin just as Ethel scoffs next to us. “You’re talking about his non-pleated pants? Goodness, Aubree, look at the man’s chest and how his shirt is snug in all the right places, or the dark five o’clock shadow that accentuates his eyes, or the way his hair falls over his forehead deliciously. Focus on those things, not the pleats.”
I don’t want to focus on those things.
Focusing on them will make me more nervous because despite not wanting to admit it, Wyatt Preston is extremely attractive, has a soothing voice, and has turned out to be a very nice guy. I’d like not to focus on things that could change my opinion of him, which right now is just . . . regular.
Yup, a regular opinion.
If anyone even knows what that means.
“I’m sure she’ll tell me how devastatingly handsome I am without an audience.” Wyatt winks, and that seems to soothe Ethel.
She starts rocking again in her chair and says, “Well, you two have fun tonight. Treat her well, Wyatt. She’s been through a lot.”
“Don’t worry, I will,” he says as he places his hand on the small of my back and directs me down the stairs and to the boardwalk.
When we’re out of earshot, Wyatt says, “Do you want to hold my hand?”
“Uh . . . I don’t know,” I answer, keeping my hands clasped to my purse.
“You don’t have to,” he says. “But the offer is there if you want to take it for the show of everything.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say.
“Not sure you want to hear this, but you’re looking a little uncomfortable.”
“That’s because I am uncomfortable,” I reply. “I haven’t done this in a long time. I’ve never fake done this either.”
“Long time?” he asks. “What does a long time entail?”
“Long enough that I don’t know what to say or how to act.”
“Want me to give you a quick rundown on what the dating world is like at the moment?”
“Even though I don’t particularly care for a condescending conversation, I wouldn’t be opposed to it.”
He chuckles. “No condescension here. Just education.” He drapes his arm over my shoulder as we walk past a couple holding hands. “Now, the dating world is the same as years ago. Two people agree to go on a date, they meet up for coffee or food or a mutual place, and during that time, they talk. Now, how these people meet up depends on the circumstances. Some are online, some are by friends and family, and others are from shared farmland. No matter where they come from, the date should always be the same. You ask questions, you get to know each other, you tell witty anecdotes about the picture on your phone and the girl who looked like she was laying an egg in a paint tray.”
Strangely, I feel almost calmed by his charm and choice of words. I’m sure he’d know all about dating, looking like he does. Will he miss that in our year together?
“So nothing has changed.”
“Nothing. Well, that’s not true. There’s a lot of catfishing, ghosting, and people don’t put up with a lot on dates anymore. So if the person they’re going on a date with makes an absurd claim like . . . whales are actually tiny fish that are made to look big in pictures, then instead of enduring said date, they take off and just leave, right then and there.”
“Oh God, that seems harsh.”
“Time is a valuable commodity, Aubree. You can’t get it back, so why waste it on a two-bit chump who thinks whales are mini fish?”
“I guess so.” I glance up at him. “Do you believe whales are tiny fish?”
“No, I think they were all blown up by Wayne Szalinski, and that’s how they’ve come about.”
I pause in our pursuit toward the restaurant. “Wayne Szalinski? Who is that?”
He turns toward me, eyes wide. “Who is that?” he asks as if I’ve insulted him. “Aubree, I know I’m older than you, but not that much older. You have to know who that is. It’s pop culture. Everyone knows who it is.”
“Doubtful,” I say.
And of course, just at that moment, another couple walks by, so Wyatt stops them. “Sorry to bother you, but my girl and I have fallen into a bit of a debate. Would you be able to help us?” My girl, how do those terms just come so easily to him? He can say my girl and how I look beautiful, while I’m spouting off about the no-show of pleats in his shorts.
“Sure,” the woman says.
“This is Aubree, and she says she doesn’t know who Wayne Szalinski is, and I told her everyone does. Do you guys know?”
“Isn’t that the dad from Honey, I Shrunk the Kids?” the man asks.
“Yes, it is,” the woman says, and then I’m lucky enough to see the annoying grin that spreads across Wyatt’s face as he turns toward me.
“See,” he says. “People know.” He thanks the couple, and we’re on our way again.
“For the record, I’ve never seen that movie,” I say.
“What do you mean you’ve never seen it? I think I saw it when I was in school once. It was a classic growing up.”
“But, like you said, we’re not the same age, so my class was probably moving on to something more new age.”
I can practically hear his eye roll. “What are you? Thirty?”
“Twenty-eight,” I say.
“Twenty-eight?” he nearly yells and stops us again. He gives me a scan, and when his eyes meet mine, he says, “Fuck, you are pretty young.”
I chuckle, the sound feeling odd, but also . . . nice. “Thanks for the confirmation, I guess. Should I be calling you grandpa?”
“No,” he scoffs. “I’m not that much older.”
“How much is not that much?” I ask, liking how he’s squirming.
“Seven years. Not bad.”
“You’re in your mid-thirties? Yikes.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “No yikes. There is nothing yikes about mid-thirties. Mid-thirties is great. You don’t care about what people think about you, you have a more established career, and you’re in tune with your body, which means you don’t abuse it with late-night drinking and hangover cures. You get an honest night’s sleep and understand the importance of vitamins, drinking water, and exercise. And if you want to host a dinner party, you don’t have to ask people to bring something because you can provide the food yourself.”
“Wow, you paint the mid-thirties like a theme park. All fun, all the time.”
“You’re welcome,” he says in such a sarcastic tone. “Now, is there any wisdom I can impart on you?”
“Not sure, Granddad. I’ll let you know if I think of something, though.”
“Such a wise-ass,” he says as we turn toward Provisions, the burger and fries joint here in Almond Bay.
He opens the door for me and presses his hand to my lower back once again when we walk up to the hostess.
“Hey, Aubree,” Meredith says. Her eyes fall to Wyatt, and she lightly pushes her hair behind her ear. “Table for two?”
“Actually, we have a reservation under Frogmore? I believe I asked for a second-floor table looking out over the ocean.”
“Yes, Mr. Frogmore, right this way.” Meredith collects two menus and guides us up the wooden stairs to the second floor and the back deck. The sun is starting to set, and the sound of the ocean blocks out the people around us.
Wyatt pulls out my chair while Meredith sets the menus on the table. “Your server will be with you soon.”
When she’s gone, I lean forward and whisper, “Frogmore?”
He smirks and opens his menu. “Why give your real name when you can give a fake name?”
“Because it’s weird.”
“How is it weird?” he asks. “No one knows me here, so I might as well have some fun.”
“They know you just enough to know that Frogmore is a fake.”
He shrugs. “Let me add, when you’re in your mid-thirties, you easily start not giving a fuck. Very freeing.”
“Apparently.”
I don’t bother opening my menu. I know exactly what I like to eat here. The Hawaiian burger with fries and sweet and sour dipping sauce. The perfect combination.
“Hmm, there are a lot of burger choices. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many. Jesus, and look at all the dipping sauces.”
“That’s what they’re known for here. The fries—courtesy of the farm’s potatoes—are crispy and delicious, and they offer different dipping sauces to go with them.”
“Okay, what’s your favorite?”
“The Hawaiian.” With one eyebrow raised, he glances over the menu.
“That has pineapple on it.”
“And your point?” I ask.
“Burgers should not have pineapple on them.”
“Says who?”
He sets his menu down, and with that signature smile, he says, “Says me.”
“Oh.” I cross my arms and lean back in my chair. “And who made you the authority of burgers?”
“The burger man.”
I snort. “Oh, I see. And when did you meet the burger man?”
“To keep a long story short, I met him a few years ago when I was at a book signing in Omaha. He told me that he was the burger man, so I asked him what the dos and don’ts of burgers are. After he told me, I asked if I could impart that wisdom to others. He anointed me, and now we’re here.”
“Wow,” I say with a shake of my head. “Is this how it’s going to be for a year? You making up short stories about your life and expecting me to believe them?”
“Yes,” he says with conviction.
“Ridiculous.” I reach across the table and take his menu from him.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Ordering for you.”
“Uh . . . how do I know you’re going to order me something that I like?”
“Just going to have to trust me now, aren’t you?”
He leans back in his chair. “That’s what marriage is built on, trust. Well, here’s my first test.”
“I’VE NEVER HEARD OF HIM,” I say while sipping my iced tea.
“You’ve never heard of Holt Green?” Wyatt asks, looking so perplexed that it’s actually kind of cute.
Wait, I mean funny. It’s funny . . . not cute.
I don’t know why I’d say cute.
Cute is not a word I associate with Wyatt . . . I mean sure, he’s attractive, but . . . ugh, never mind. Moving on.
“No. I don’t pay attention to sports.”
“But he isn’t just sports. He’s one of the highest paid players in the league. Your brother must talk about him.”
I shake my head. “Ryland knows better than to talk baseball with me.”
Distressed, Wyatt says, “Holt Green is the guy you see on all of those funny insurance commercials. He’s also a spokesperson for Hopper Almonds. He does that one commercial where he’s talking about the benefit of almonds, and he catches like ten in a row in his mouth without dropping one.” I shake my head. “Uh . . . he was one of the guest judges on America’s Got Talent.”
“Wait,” I say, placing my hand on the table. “Are you talking about the baseball player who gave Renita the roller skater slash singer the golden buzzer?”
“Yes,” Wyatt says, tossing his hands in the air.
“Oh, I know who that is.”
“See, I told you. Hate that you know him from a reality TV show, but yes, Holt Green would be my celebrity lookalike.”
“That’s great, but I didn’t ask who your celebrity lookalike was. You asked me, then you decided to answer the question yourself.”
“Excuse me for having a conversation,” he says with a smirk.
“Here we are,” the server says as she sets our plates in front of us. “Two Hawaiian burgers with a side of sweet and sour sauce for dipping. Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” I say, then grab my napkin and set it on my lap.
When I look up at Wyatt, he’s examining his burger with his fork, lifting the bun and checking out the pineapple.
“It’s not poisonous,” I say as I pick up my burger.
“Looks like it could be.”
“Stop, just take a bite. I promise you’re going to love it.”
“That’s a hefty promise. What if I don’t like it?”
“Then you have terrible taste buds, and I don’t think we can go through with this plan.”
“Ooo, the pressure is on.” He wiggles his eyebrows while lifting his burger to his mouth. I pause, wanting to watch his reaction.
He takes a large bite, grabbing a taste of every layer of the burger. I appreciate that. Slowly, he starts chewing, his face remaining neutral. He sets the burger down, stops chewing, and then lifts his napkin to his mouth where . . .
“Don’t you dare spit that out,” I snap, causing him to chuckle.
He finishes chewing, swallows, and then grins at me. “Pretty good, Rowley. If you keep introducing me to flavors like this, I might keep you around.” He takes another bite.
“Was the fake out necessary?”
He winks at me. “Keeping things alive, babe. Got to be on your toes with me.”
Clearly. I shake my head and roll my eyes, but inwardly, I’m chuckling. He’s such a goof.
“DO they offer a flight of dipping sauces?” Wyatt asks as he drenches his fry in the third bowl of sweet and sour sauce we ordered.
When I say this man can eat . . . he can eat. He devoured his burger in less than two minutes, then tackled his fries. They were gone very quickly as well. He’s now on his third side of fries while I’m still working on my first.
And the worst part is, he has the body of a sculpted god. I’ve seen it. I’ve drooled over it. So where the hell is he putting all of this food?
Another reason men are so annoying.
“They do,” I answer. “I could have told you that if you had paused your guzzling of the sweet and sour for a moment.”
Fry halfway to his mouth, he asks, “Are you food shaming me?”
“No,” I answer while I pick up another fry. “But I am shocked with how much you’ve been able to eat in one sitting.”
“Didn’t bother with lunch today, so I was starving. Here’s something good to know, Aubree. I can be starving but I won’t be hangry.”
“Bad news for you,” I say. “I’m a raging beast if I’m not fed.”
“Why do you think I’ve brought you muffins every morning?”
I eye him, which makes him laugh. “It would be best if you don’t poke the beast.”
“I’m glad that you’re acknowledging your beast-like qualities. It makes me feel more at ease going into this marriage. I didn’t want to be the only one who thought you were a beast. That’s a heavy weight to hold on my shoulders.”
“You poor man, how have you been able to survive?” I sarcastically ask.
“With a whole lot of grit and determination, that’s how.”
“The sacrifices you’ve made are incredible.”
“Thank you.” He presses his hands together and bows his head, causing me to laugh because he’s so stupid. He’s on another level.
I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as ridiculous as him.
Yet he’s made you laugh. Apart from Mac’s antics, not much has made me laugh lately. Maybe this year won’t be that bad . . .
“Here is your check. Pay when you’re ready,” our server says, dropping off the bill.
I go to reach for it, but Wyatt swats my hand away. “Jesus Christ, woman. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The insult on his face is comical.
“Paying for dinner.”
“No, you’re not. Not when I’m here.”
“I have money, Wyatt.”
“Good for you, but you don’t use it around me.”
“Really?” I ask, placing my napkin on the table. “That’s how it’s going to be?”
“Yes,” he says, pulling out his wallet and laying down a few bills. “I appreciate your hard work and the fact that you make money, but I’m the kind of man who will pay for our outings, our dates, and everything in between. Don’t fight me over it. It’s a sword I’ll die on.” He snaps the billfold shut, pushes it to the edge of the table, and then picks up a fry and dips it in the sauce.
“So that’s that?” I ask. “Discussion over?”
“On that topic, yes. Now, if you would finally like to tell me who your celebrity lookalike is, I’d be interested to see how you compare.”
“What if I don’t know?” I ask.
“Please, everyone knows who they might be in celebrity form. Like if a director came up to you today and said, who am I casting in the movie of you, you have five seconds to answer or I’m not making the movie, who would you say?”
“That’s really aggressive of the director, and they should probably work on their bedside manner.”
“That’s Hollywood, baby.” He snaps his fingers. “They want answers right then and there. So who is it?”
Rolling my eyes, I give it a second and then say, “A younger Keri Russell.”
Wyatt leans back in his chair, studying me. His eyes scan over my face, my hair . . . my chest and then back up to my eyes. After what feels like forever, he says, “Fuck, you do look like her.”
I laugh. “That’s quite the reaction.”
“Because I had the biggest fucking crush on her growing up.” He drags his hand over his mouth, still staring at me. “And now that I see it, I can’t unsee it.”
“Well, unsee it because I’m not fulfilling your creepy teenage fantasies.”
He shakes his head. “Sorry to say, Aubree, but you are.” He stands from his chair and walks over to my side of the table. He holds his hand out and says, “Come on, Keri, oh, I mean, Aubree, let’s get some dessert.”
“You realize just how irritating you are?”
“Yet you choose to be with me.”
I lift from my seat, not taking his hand. We walk out of the restaurant, his hand on my back instead.
Yet you choose to be with me.
Sort of. I did choose this. Not him. And even though he’s irritating, can eat a mountain of food in one inhalation, and sees the light in every-fucking-thing, I’m starting to believe I didn’t choose badly.
“YOU CAN SERIOUSLY EAT dessert after your three plates of fries?” I ask Wyatt as we step out onto the boardwalk.
“You fail to realize the endless tank my stomach is. I could probably eat a whole pie at the moment but trust me when I say that when we part, and I’m in my room all by myself, curled on my pillow, I’ll be wallowing in agony, regretting those three plates of fries.”
“Knowing that, why did you eat them?”
“You only live once, babe. Got to seize the moment when you can. If I’m going to impress you with my eating skills, then I need to take the opportunity.”
“Is that what you were doing?” I ask as we cross the street at a crosswalk. “Showing off?”
“Yup. Got you all tingly, didn’t I?” He nudges me with his elbow.
“Not even a little.”
“Dammit,” he says, snapping his fingers. “Here I thought you were wishing you were the food on my plate.”
“Oh my God,” I nearly shout, causing him to throw his head back and laugh.
“Was that not the case?”
“No!”
He chuckles. “Hmm, maybe I have to entice you some more.”
“There will be no enticing and no . . . eating,” I say.
“Shame,” he says, his voice full of mirth. “Not only am I good at eating, but I fucking love it.”
My cheeks go red hot as he opens the door to The Sweet Lab for me, and he guides me in, his hand feeling like fire on my back.
I shouldn’t let a comment like that get to me, but I honestly can’t remember the last time anyone has gone down on me. Not that I should be thinking about it, but Wyatt brought me there. Matt was okay at it, but when he didn’t make me come right away, he grew tired and stopped altogether. It should have been a red flag for me. So the thought of Wyatt claiming that he loves doing it, or at least insinuating it, makes me feel all weird and tingly inside. I don’t want to have such intimate knowledge about Wyatt’s talents.
That kind of knowledge makes my mind wander, and I don’t want my mind to wander, not when this is contractual.
“God, it always smells amazing in here,” he whispers in my ear, the feel of his lips near my head sending a chill down my arm. “It might be my new favorite place. Although that burger.” He pats his very flat, very ripped stomach.
“Wyatt, two times in one day, how did we become so lucky?” Harriot says as she greets us.
“Can’t keep me away. Also, I think it’s about time I share a slice of pie with my girl, don’t you?”
Harriot glances at me, and a large smile spreads across her face. “You know, I heard there was a new couple in town, but I didn’t want to believe the gossip. Are you telling me it’s true?”
Wyatt puts his arm around my shoulders and brings me into his broad chest. “Very true.” He kisses the top of my head, and I watch Harriot visibly swoon.
“Well, isn’t this some of the greatest news? We’ve been hoping you would find someone,” Harriot says to me. “After what Matt did to you, then for him to come waltzing back into town as if he didn’t insult the very place where you two fell in love. Just disgusting.” Okay, Harriot, we don’t need the backstory. “But here you are, with a bestselling author. How did this even come about?”
“My brother and her sister,” Wyatt says. “They left me part of the farm, and well, when I found out, Aubree and I got in touch. It wasn’t love at first call, that’s for sure, but the more I spoke to her, the more I realized she was pretty awesome. Then I met her in person, and that was it. Game over.”
Harriot clutches her chest. “So it was long distance?”
“Yup,” Wyatt continues. “Lots of texts and phone calls and FaceTimes.”
“Are you staying here for a while?”
Wyatt nods. “That’s the plan.”
“But I heard you’re staying at the inn.” Harriot’s brow creases. “Wouldn’t it be more cost-effective if you just stayed with Aubree?”
I feel myself grow stiff with nerves because, yes, that would make sense. Why wouldn’t he just stay with me or my family?
“I kind of surprised her by coming to Almond Bay. I didn’t want to bombard her, so I booked a room at the inn. Hoping she invites me to stay with her once my reservation expires.”
“Oh, I think she will,” Harriot says in a conspiratorial voice.
“Me too,” he says. “Until then, I’m going to enjoy these nights as much as I can.”
“You’ve got a good one,” Harriot says to me, and I realize . . . it’s my chance to turn on the charm.
I place my hand on his stomach and curl in closer. “I’m really happy.”
Harriot claps her hands in excitement. “Oh that makes me so thrilled to hear that. I was worried about you, Aubree. The whole town was.” Wow, okay. Good to know. “You’ve had it so hard, and when Matt left, and then Cassidy died, and well . . . it’s just been one thing after the other. We weren’t sure you would let anyone into your life, and then here he is, looking at you as if you were the only woman on the planet. My little heart can’t take this.”
“Somehow he won me over,” I say, unsure of what else to say.
“It was my wit and charm,” Wyatt says with a wink.
God, he’s good at this. I feel like a stiff robot, attempting to play along despite the subtle short-circuiting in my head.
“Oh, I’m sure of it. We’ve all become quite fond of you, Wyatt.” I’m sure they have. Hard not to when the man walks around, joking with everyone, tossing out compliments left and right. He’s likable, and it’s annoying and frustrating, and also . . . nice. Especially when I feel like I’ve been surrounded by dreadful stress since Cassidy died.
“And me of you. This small town has captured me just like Aubree has captured my heart.”
Okay, there’s no way someone falls for that line. It’s so blatantly—wait, is that a tear I see in Harriot’s eye?
She lifts her hand and blots at the tear. “Oh, look at you making me all misty.” She takes a deep breath. “None of this crying nonsense. You’re here for dessert, so what can I get you?”
She was crying. What on earth?
“What’s your favorite pie, babe? I trust your opinion.”
He barely trusted it an hour ago when I ordered him a burger, but we won’t go there.
“The cherry pie,” I answer.
“Mmm,” he moans in my ear. “Fucking love . . . cherries.”
And once again, my face goes bright red because I know he’s not talking about the same kind of cherry that I’m talking about.
“So should I do half a cherry pie for you two?” Harriot asks, completely oblivious.
“That would be great, Harriot. One fork will do,” Wyatt says.
What the hell is he up to? One fork?
“Not a problem.” Harriot moves around the bakery while Wyatt moves me to the register.
“Need a drink?”
“Water,” I say, my mouth and throat dry.
“And two waters please, Harriot.”
“Coming right up.” She brings us the pie, with one fork, and then grabs us two waters. Wyatt pays, and when I think we’re going to leave, he directs me over to the seating nook away from the main bakery, but right in front of a window so anyone walking by could see us sharing a pie . . . with one fork.
I’ve never met anyone who has been two steps ahead of a situation before, but here he is. Planning and making sure all of our bases are covered at all times.
Once we’re settled and he pops open the short bakery box with our pie, he looks up at me, excitement in his eyes. “This looks phenomenal. Sometimes I forget how homey small towns can be. Look at this pie, it looks like it came straight from Granny’s oven.” He dips the fork into the pie, grabbing himself a big piece. He shoves it in his mouth and moans. “Fuck . . . me,” he says in such a dirty tone that I actually feel my upper lip sweat. “This is fucking delicious.” He takes another bite, completely forgetting that I’m over here supposed to share this pie with him. “Yup, this is really fucking good.” He licks the fork. “Jesus, the cherry flavor is so rich.” He dips in for another bite. Uh . . . hello. “And this crust. Buttery, flaky. The perfect texture. Not too sweet but not bland.” He shoves another bite in his mouth. “Fuck . . . so good.”
“Uh . . . do you plan on letting me have a bite?” I ask.
He pauses as he reaches for another piece, and then the look of realization on his face is so fucking funny that I actually snort.
“Jesus, I forgot I asked for one fork.” He actually blushes as he hands me the fork. “Sorry, babe.”
I stare down at the fork and then back up at him. “You licked this.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So . . . you have germs all over it.”
His brow lifts. “And your point?”
“I don’t want your germs.”
“Better get used to my germs, Rowley. We’re going to be married.”
“That means nothing.”
“Means everything.” He snags the fork from me and takes another bite of the pie, nearly half of it gone now. “You realize we’re going to have to kiss, right? There’s no getting around it, so consider this fork sharing our first kiss.” He wraps his mouth around the tines and pulls everything off it. Then he hands me the fork and nods at me. “Your turn.”
I stare down at the utensil and look back up at him.
“Guaranteed, I’ll be the best kiss of your life. Just warming you up right now.”
“How on earth can you have that much confidence?” I ask.
“I just know. I work wonders with my mouth.” He winks and, once again, the innuendos.
Leaning forward and keeping my voice down, I decide to confront him about it. “You have made several references to oral this evening. You realize we made an agreement about keeping things platonic, right?”
“Yup, I remember.”
“Okay, so then why are you acting like that is not what’s going on?”
“This is who I am and how I talk.” He dips his finger into some of the cherry pie filling on the box. “I suggest you get used to the sexual innuendos. It doesn’t mean anything. I’m just playing around. Why . . .” He grins like a fool. “Are you getting aroused?”
“No!” I shout, pulling Harriot’s attention.
“Everything okay over there?”
“Yes,” I squeak. “Everything is great. Just, you know, trying to stop Wyatt from eating all of the pie.”
“Wyatt, don’t forget to share.” She wiggles her finger at him.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says before turning back to me. “So . . . not aroused?”
My eyes narrow. “Not aroused.”
“Good to know, just means I need to work harder.”
“Why the hell are you trying to make me aroused?”
He shrugs. “Because it’s fun.”
“Do you find it fun to be aroused with no relief?”
“Babe, I never said there wouldn’t be relief.”
“Dear God,” I whisper as I stick the fork into the pie.
“Don’t you mean . . . oh God?” That stupid smile is from ear to ear right now.
“No, it would be ‘Dear God, make him stop.’”
“Any sort of begging works for me.” He swipes up another dollop of cherry and sucks on his finger as I bring a piece of the pie up to my lips.
He watches me the whole time as I slide the fork in my mouth, wrap my lips around the tines, and pull out.
“Yeah, baby, just like that.” He nods his head in appreciation.
I nearly choke on the pie.
I cover my mouth and chew. He is pleased as punch. Once I swallow, he asks, “How did my lips taste?”
“Salty,” I answer. “And a little like garbage.”
His face falls flat.
“Okay, I get it.” He takes the fork from me. “You’re in denial. Don’t worry, I’ll get you there.”
“Get me where?” I ask.
“You’ll see,” he answers with a knowing wink.
