Chapter 10 #2
Directing him out of the parking lot, I demand to know more, and he finally relents that he likes fixing things. All kinds of things. He had to become good at it working on the ranch, and just as I’m about to ask him more about that, I realize the truck is slowing down.
We’ve gone a few blocks west from the bar, straight towards Cliff Drive, which I had him make a right on ten seconds ago.
The closer we get to the ocean, the bigger the houses, but on this road, the houses go from big to huge, and the lots have enough room between them to feel like you’re not living on top of each other.
It’s one of the most expensive parts of Santa Rosé, and with good reason.
The entire drive looks out over the ocean.
And every single night the entire neighborhood gets to enjoy a stunning sunset. Minus the foggy or stormy ones.
“These houses are… wow. I can’t imagine living in one. I mean, our place on the ranch is great, but these are something else,” he says, completely awestruck. “Being right on the water like this. I’ve driven this road in the daytime a few times, and it amazes me. You live around here?”
The question makes my stomach twist. There are certain people in my family who make a fuss around money and status, but that’s not my style.
Growing up the way I did, with a family who has done well in the wine business and who owns a lot of land, I’ve seen the way we’re treated with a certain regard.
And how things can change when others find out.
It’s one thing I tend not to share early on in my dating life, especially considering the jobs I work.
Making my own way for myself is important to me.
“My place is the third one ahead. The big white one with the red terracotta roof on the corner. You can pull into the driveway and up to the gate.”
Not that it fully narrows it down in this neighborhood. There are plenty of houses that feature the Spanish Colonial Revival style along here, so I’m hoping he knows how to count.
“There’s a gate?” Wyatt asks, glancing at me with wide eyes. “A gate? I’m guessing that’s a different kind of gate than I’m used to.”
“Different than the one on your back, yes. There’s a gate to get into the back garage, the side of the house, and the guest house. Which is where I live,” I tell him, and while it’s not completely the truth, it’s not a lie, either.
The guest house is where I live. It just so happens that Gran lives in the main house.
When her and Grandpa decided it was time to leave the winery, Gran’s only request was to find a house overlooking the ocean where she could watch sunsets and whales.
This was the home they bought, and they lived here most of my life.
With my grandpa gone, it works for us because it offers us both privacy if we need it, and I can still take care and hang out with her when I’m not working.
Coming up to the house with its large arched windows, and peaked roof of varying heights, Wyatt pulls into the driveway next to the sprawling green yard. Bushes line the house, foliage and tropical plants suited for the dry California summers peeking above the hedges.
He stops in front of the wrought iron gate. Leaning forward over the steering wheel, he looks through the iron pickets into the backyard where my guest house sits to the left of the house on the other side of the driveway, set back on the property.
I watch him take it all in, unable to help smiling at how stunned he seems to be.
“Damn. You scored when you found the guest house, hey? With the ocean right there? Is there anywhere you can go down to the water from here?” he asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.
Not that he’d be able to see the water from here. Not at night. Pure darkness is behind us. But if we were to get out of the truck, we’d hear the waves crashing against the rocks below.
“There’s a couple of surfing entrances a little ways down the street, but there aren’t any beaches along here. You’ve got to go back south along the drive, closer to the boardwalk for those,” I explain.
“Huh,” he says, as a statement, not a question. Absorbing the information and what’s in front of him.
His eyes squint into the darkness, gazing towards the house like he’s seen something, but when I look for myself, I don’t notice anything.
There are lights on inside, indicating Gran is still awake, but that’s not surprising to me.
She’s a night owl, and lots of times when I get home from work, I’ll pop my head in to say goodnight, finding her working at the dining room table with our current puzzle, watching some horror or thriller movie.
Personally, I prefer a rom-com, but she says a good scare keeps her young.
If I don’t want her catching Wyatt driving me home, or him spotting her, I should probably get going. “I’ve got an early morning, so…”
“Wait.”
Wyatt flies into motion, out of the truck in the next two seconds, and around to my door in the next seven.
I run a hand over my jean jacket before he has the door open, and then place my hand in his awaiting one, letting him help me out of the truck, even though I don’t need it. I like the effort he’s putting in.
Once I’m out of the truck, I turn towards him, my back to the house.
He doesn’t let go of my hand, letting them hang naturally between us, his fingers sliding between mine.
My hand feels dainty within his, and the warmth seeping into me from the touch seems to move up my arm, through my chest, until it lands low in my belly, charging my body from within.
“When do you get an evening off?” he asks, hedging a step closer to me.
I do the mental math, chewing on my bottom lip. “Mmm, technically two days, but I’m already committed to something. So, four days from now.”
“The day after my next shift,” he smiles at me, and this smile has my stomach flipping, not swooping. It’s soft, tender. Something I’d expect right before a kiss. Instead, he says, “Would you go on a date with me that night?”
“Yes, of course.” My voice is breathy, even to myself.
Wyatt slowly nods, lifting his free hand to my face, a thumb running gently along my cheek before he leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead.
It’s as soft as his smile and makes me want to melt into that same puddle from earlier.
If he kissed my lips, would he be as soft and gentle as he is now?
Would it have the same quiet intensity as this moment, or would it be full of life like the grin that seems to be permanently painted on his face?
I long to know.
When he eases back, his eyes dart over my head, and he lets out a soft chuckle. “I think your landlord is watching us.”
Oh fuck. I knew it. Spinning around, I see the shadow of Gran disappear from the window. I’ll bet that’s what caught his attention when we were back in the truck, but she must have vanished before I saw her. That snoopy old woman.
I refrain from telling him that the landlord is my grandmother, knowing he’ll have questions about the house and my grandparents. Instead, I turn back to him, grimacing. “Sorry. She’s a bit nosy.”
His eyes are dancing with mirth when he glances at the house again, then back to me. “That’s alright. Let her look. I’m sure she’s harmless.”
Oh, he has no idea.
“Go on, get yourself through the gate. I’ll wait,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze before releasing it. Immediately, I miss his warmth and take a couple of steps backward, pausing when he adds, “If you’re okay with it, I’d like to call or text you between now and our date.”
Oh goodness. My stomach needs to stop the delicious rollercoaster it’s on.
“Yeah,” I nod, trying to keep my cool. “I’d really like that.”
He tips his hat to me. “Good. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then. Goodnight, Bryn.”
“Goodnight, Wyatt. Thank you for driving me home.”
“Anytime, beautiful.”
By the time I’m through the gate, the smile that usually lives on Wyatt’s face is plastered to mine, and I hum a tune all the way back to my place, skipping the goodnight with Gran.
She’ll be eager to find out what this was all about, but I’ll keep her on the edge of her seat tonight. For now, this giddiness I’m feeling is something I want to keep all for myself.