Chapter 11
The Haircut
Caroline
I was riddled with misgivings driving to Wyatt’s shop. Maybe I should have called Mo and told him I couldn’t do this. But I never backed down. If I said I was going to do something, I did it, even if it meant working with Wyatt Knox.
When I last saw him, things between us were weird.
At the estate sale, I was waking up to the idea that I might really like him.
And maybe he liked me. We almost kissed, I think.
But then Edward Frechette asked me out. And how could I say no?
The guy looked as if he walked off my “Happy Family” mood board.
Choosing between the heir to a real estate empire and a mechanic just getting his business off the ground should have been an easy choice.
So why did I feel torn? Unless you count flirtatious banter (which I didn’t), Wyatt had never asked me out.
And I’d already been on two rather nice dates with Ed.
The best way to describe Ed was “West Coast gentleman.” He was laid back and well-mannered.
He was everything I thought I wanted. But now I wasn’t so sure.
And I blamed Wyatt. He had single-handedly upended all my expectations.
I was definitely attracted to him. But that still didn’t mean he was a good idea.
For one thing, I wasn’t even sure if he wanted to date me.
When Ed asked me out, I’d given Wyatt an opening.
I don’t think I could have been any more obvious. And he didn’t take it.
It was so much easier when I simply hated him. There was a purity to hate. It was so simple. When you hated someone, you simply stayed away from them. But when you loved someone, that was when life became complicated and confusing.
So yeah, I had feelings for Wyatt, which were inconvenient, considering he had no interest in dating me, and I had just started dating a really nice guy. That made me hesitant to work with Wyatt, but at the same time, I was excited, nervous, and thrilled to see him again.
The sun flickered through the leaves as I drove through the gold and green valley.
A couple other cars were parked in the lot outside the autoshop.
I had heard from Charlie that Wyatt had already hired another mechanic to expand his business.
Two of the garage bay doors were open. Wyatt stood by a pretty silver two-seater.
I didn’t know the make. But the steering wheel was on the right, so I would guess it was British.
He couldn’t see me because he was busy talking to another man.
I felt shy, which was not like me. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was going to be cool, collected, and professional. I have got this , I told myself.
For the occasion, I wore my new favorite outfit: a petal pink pussybow blouse with a black skirt from a 1990s Chanel suit.
I wore my gold Gianvito Rossi slingbacks and my hair twisted up in a chignon (my Grace Kelly look).
Perhaps a bit much for an auto shop, but I felt so nervous about seeing Wyatt again, I needed every bit of fashion confidence.
For a moment, I stood back and watched him in his element.
His back was to me as he spoke to the mechanic, who was nodding at everything he said.
Wyatt was a natural boss. With his extended family, he had been happy to blend in and follow along.
But the more time I spent with him in different settings, the more I noticed how, when needed, Wyatt took command.
Lifting me out of his truck, rescuing me from the family party, or simply buying a whole slew of designer dresses.
It was annoying how he took over—and worse, how much I liked it.
The guy talking to Wyatt noticed me and waved. Wyatt turned. I gasped in horror.
“Wyatt Scott Knox!” I yelled as I stalked across the parking lot for a better view.
“What have you done to your hair?” Hurrying for a better look, my heel snagged a pothole.
I stumbled and fell, landing hard on my hands and knees.
My palms and legs throbbed, but I hardly noted the pain; I was so shocked by the abomination of Wyatt’s haircut.
In a flash, he was at my side. He gently helped me up.
How did he smell so good at the end of a long, hot day?
“Are you alright?” He cautiously touched my ankle. “Did you sprain it?”
“I’m fine.” I stood up, brushing bits of asphalt off my bloody knees. “Except for the excruciating pain in my eyes. Wyatt, how could you?”
He broke out into a wicked grin, which would have made him irresistible except for his hair, which was an atrocity. “You’re always harping on me to get a haircut,” he said.
“Not a mullet! And what is that nasty thing?” I pointed to the thin dark line of hair above his lip. He had shaved off his scruffy beard, revealing an impressive jawline, but sadly, all that beauty was marred by a creepy, thin pencil ’stache.
“I thought I’d switch things up.” He winked roguishly. “You can chew me out later. Let’s get you upstairs and wash your knees.”
“I have no idea what you’re saying. When you open your mouth, all I hear is mullet, mullet, mullet .”
He laughed heartily. He was enjoying this too much. “Do you have scissors in your apartment?” I asked.
“There’s no way, Caroline, that I’m letting you near scissors right now.” He opened the door to his apartment, waving me in. “I value my life too much.”
“Smart man.” I hobbled up the stairs. My scraped knees burned, and depending on how long they took to heal, it could be months until I could wear short skirts again. And it was at least three months until tights season. Curse Wyatt Knox and his ugly mullet.
As he headed straight to the kitchen, I noted his jeans. They were yoga-pant tight, absolutely indecent.
“You bought new jeans?” I spluttered. Not sure how I missed them before. Probably because he had been standing behind the car, and once I saw the mullet, I couldn’t see much else.
“Yep, getting ready for my makeover. What do you think?”
“They’re almost as hideous as the mullet.”
“Then they’re doing their job,” he said as he rummaged through his cupboards, getting out medicine and Band-Aids. He pointed to the butcher block island. “Can you climb up, or do you need a hand?”
I gave him an incredulous look. Normally, it would be no big deal for me to climb up. I was just as strong and nimble as you’d expect a former gymnast and diver to be. But my bloody palms and pounding knees made climbing up the counter daunting.
“How about I give you a hand?”
“Thank you.” It was probably a bad idea to have Wyatt lift me, because even with that hideous mullet, I was still attracted to him. But my knees were screaming, and I knew they needed to be cleaned.
He lifted me up and deposited me on his kitchen counter as if it were no big deal. I supposed it wasn’t, since Charlie couldn’t stop talking about how much Wyatt could deadlift.
Sitting on the counter, I was practically eye level with him.
“Hey, you?” He leaned in closer and noted my eyes brimming with tears.
Concern rapidly doused his mischievous expression.
“You’re crying; you’re really hurt?” The pain was getting worse as my adrenaline faded, but I smiled through my misery.
“No, it’s that stupid mullet.”
Wyatt laughed. And I laughed through my tears.
“Here, I got some pain medicine for you.” He placed Ibuprofen and Tylenol in the palm of my scraped hand. “I can get you some water to wash it down. Or Diet Coke?”
“Diet Coke? Wyatt, why do you have Diet Coke?”
He shrugged. “I knew you liked it, and if we’re going to be working together...”
“Yes, please.” He swiftly handed me an icy can of Diet Coke. I swallowed the pills in one swift gulp, chasing them down with the coldest, sweetest beverage. I would never tell Wyatt, but that drink almost made up for that nasty mullet. Almost.
“Better?” He watched me closely, anxiously.
“Yeah, a little.”
“Okay, this is going to hurt.” He held a wet washcloth. “But these scrapes need to be cleaned.” I nodded. “Do you want to do it, or do you want me to?” he asked, his soft brown eyes studied me.
“You.” He nodded.
He began with the scrape on my left palm, which wasn’t very deep. He carefully watched my face, assessing my reaction as he rubbed the red scrapes with a warm, wet washcloth. It was not too painful; the cuts were shallow. He patted it dry with a clean cloth.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“No, but the next one will hurt more.”
“You can squeeze my hand.” He gave me his other hand.
And I held tight, anticipating the pain.
It stung as he dabbed at my knees. But he was remarkably gentle, and the warmth was soothing.
He was incredibly thorough and deliberate.
He switched the towel for a clean one. Then, he pulled out a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
“This will sting,” he warned. And it did. I gripped his hand so hard that I left nail marks. There was something sweet to his methodical ministering. I felt cared for. He added an antibiotic ointment and then bandaged my knees.
“How’s that?” he asked.
“Better. Too bad my knees are almost as ugly as your mullet.”
“They’re fine. I am sorry that you got hurt because of my silly haircut. I thought it would be funny.”
“It’s fine. I mean. It’s not. I hate your haircut.”
“What can I do to make it up to you?”
“How about a kiss to make it better?” I meant to say this flirtatiously, but it came out all wrong. Wyatt went perfectly still.
“Caroline . . .”
“I’m kidding, of course...” I backpedaled. “I could never kiss you with that caterpillar on your face.” I leaned forward and ran my finger on the fuzzy stripe above his lip, which was surprisingly soft.
“I don’t think you’re kidding, Caroline.” The look in his eyes captivated me. His gaze was so forceful that everywhere he looked, I felt heat.
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to keep things light. “But when you open your mouth, I only hear mullet, mullet, mullet .”
“Then I won’t talk.” In one confident, very hot move, he pulled me toward him, lifted me off the counter, and kissed me. And mercy! The man could kiss.
It had been five years since the accidental midnight kiss.
Five years for me to exaggerate and embellish that encounter.
That kiss had reached near-mythic proportions in my mind.
And yet, this kiss—this all-consuming kiss—obliterated that memory.
It was nuclear. My world ended and began each time his lips met mine.
Every atom in my body whirred out of control.
We paused to catch our breath, staring at each other in wonder.
Wyatt was so utterly beautiful, even with that stupid mustache above his lip, and I felt so much—more than I wanted to feel.
“Wyatt?” I began, not sure what to say. But it didn’t matter because he interrupted me. His voice cool as he stepped away.
“I had to do that... at least once.”
“At least once?” I repeated lamely.
“After I hire you, this is not okay.” He waved a hand between us.
“Who knows when I’ll be able to do that again?
” My poor desperate heart clung to the word “again.” Just as my mind clocked that Wyatt had put more distance between us.
“We need to keep things professional.” He jammed his hands into the pockets of his too-tight jeans. I really needed to buy him a new pair.
“Professional?” I repeated back. Words still weren’t computing. I was reeling from that kiss. But I thought I understood what he was saying. And I didn’t think I liked it.
“ That was not professional,” I said.
“I know.” He ran his fingers through his nasty mullet. “I had to get that out of the way before I signed the contract.”
“Your dad already signed a contract.”
“Then I really shouldn’t have kissed you, apologies.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Don’t apologize.” Just do it again and again, I thought. But Wyatt had transformed from a hopeless romantic to Mr. No Nonsense. I had no idea how he achieved this while sporting that dreadful mullet. But somehow, he succeeded.