Chapter 7
Ugh. Chelsea Waverly, head cheerleader, homecoming queen, and every high school boy's wet dream.
That includes Wyatt.
The guests have bombarded him all night. Every time he gets a moment to breathe, she's there, offering him a drink or a plate of food, or flirtatiously brushing her hand on his bicep before squeezing it.
It all makes me queasy. I try to ignore it, try to stay busy and have fun, but it isn't easy. At the end of the night, I'm sure she'll be wrapped around his thighs, and Wyatt will be another mark in her book of sins.
Or maybe she'll be one in his.
That's the thing about popular girls and dangerous guys in denim. It's a game where it's a privilege to play. She's the queen of heartbreak, and he's the guy who can land his smirk on any girl he chooses and take what he wants from them. And in the aftermath, they miss him but never regret him.
Yes, I know all about what Wyatt and my brothers do. It's not a secret what Chelsea or her friends do either. And that's what makes my attraction to Wyatt even more dangerous.
Something is brewing between us. It sparked in the barn, and all my thoughts of him over the last week are either making me delusional or he's suddenly noticed me.
And I don't know how to stop it, but I need to figure it out. Wyatt Houston isn't meant to be anything to me but another brother figure, and I need to remember that. Plus, the last thing I'm going to be to him is another girl like Chelsea.
I grab a bottle of water. After taking several sips, I turn and catch my breath.
Wyatt stands ten feet from me, not staring at me but inspecting me.
His slow, deliberate gaze drags over my body, causing an explosion of tingles and heat to race down my spine.
He doesn't smile or blink. He just studies me, as if I'm a secret mission and he's deciding how to best approach his objective.
A shiver racks me, and I inhale sharply.
He sees it, and his smirk hooks at one corner of his mouth, like he's tasting trouble and enjoying the flavor.
Another round of heat floods my cheeks. I glance behind me to see if Chelsea is there, but it's only people my parents' age.
I must be going crazy.
He steps toward me, and, of course, Chelsea magically appears. She throws herself in front of him, causing him to stop in his tracks and grab her before she falls. His eyes break from mine to meet hers.
My gut dives, and my chest tightens. I push through the crowd, away from the party, and disappear into the darkness.
When I get to the pond, I sit on the huge tree trunk that's been there for as long as I can remember. I trace the heart with the E and C inside it, carved by my sister Evelyn when she was younger and met Clay, the man she married.
"What are you doing down here by yourself?" Wyatt's low, gritty voice scrapes across my skin, unraveling the ache I just contained.
I slowly look up.
His hat's tipped just enough to shadow the spark in his eyes.
My breathing stutters, and I can't come up with the words to respond.
Time stops. Music trickles through our silence, soaked in static and summer heat.
He finally sits next to me, takes off his hat, and puts it on his knee. His dizzying scent of leather and dirt mix with a touch of his sweat, seducing me deeper into the fantasies that'll never happen.
My heart kicks hard. Having him so near feels wild, reckless, and utterly exhilarating. But it's also scary.
It's Wyatt.
He leans closer, drawling, "Sugar, are you going to tell me why you're down here all by your lonesome?"
Sugar.
He's called other girls "sweetheart" or "darling," but he always eliminates those pet names when he's done with them.
Does him calling me "sugar" mean I'll be next?
Wyatt would never hurt me.
I bet those other girls thought that too.
My pulse throbs, hot and heavy, beneath my skin. I state, "I needed some air."
His lips twitch. He leans closer, teasing, "We're outside."
I crack a smile. "I know."
He scans my face, then inhales deeply before replying, "I understand. There are too many people up there."
"Where's Chelsea?" I blurt out, then silently scold myself. My face heats all over again, and I bite my lip.
He doesn't flinch. "Hopefully, heading home."
I arch my eyebrows, with hope blossoming in every cell of my being. "Why?"
His gaze drifts to my lips. "She can't get what she wants."
"You mean you?" I let the words slip out before I can censor myself.
Amusement lights his expression. "Maybe."
"Maybe?" I ask, tilting my head.
He grins. "Okay. You're right. But doesn't that make you happy?"
I gape at him with my heart violently banging against my ribs.
He lowers his voice further, sets my veins on fire with another lewd once-over, then murmurs, "Well? Tell me you don't care she left, sugar, and I'll apologize for getting the wrong impression."
My mouth turns dry. I barely get out, "The wrong impression?"
He nods, licking his lips.
I wait him out, unsure if I'm imagining this or if it's real.
He slides his callused hand on my thigh, caging his fingers around it and applying enough pressure to make me gasp.
With confidence, his words slide across my neck like smoke, then coil around me. He says, more to himself than me, "Yeah. I didn't get the wrong impression."
A kaleidoscope of butterflies riots inside me, trying to lift me off the ground.
He rubs his thumb on the inside of my thigh, asking, "Want to know a secret?"
"Yeah," I whisper.
"Your game of cat and mouse is driving me insane. But I've caught you now. So game over," he declares.
"Wh-what?"
"Don't act innocent, Willow Cartwright. You've been running from me all night," he accuses.
"What? No, I haven't! You're the one who had Chelsea draped all over you any chance she got!" I point out.
A wicked grin carved from trouble appears on his lips. He claims, "I think you're exaggerating."
"No, I'm not."
"Aren't you?"
"No," I insist.
He closes the distance. His breath hits my ear, thick with heat, and every word slides into my bones when he murmurs, "The only one I want draped all over me is you."
My mouth waters. The butterflies in my stomach wage a new, ferocious war. My heart races so fast, I get dizzy.
I'm hearing things.
"Are you going to look at me?" he asks.
I slowly turn, my face an inch from his.
He smiles. There's no smirk, no arrogance, no cowboy full of games this time. It's just a side of Wyatt few people see. It's soft, a bit vulnerable, and real.
He studies me for what feels like forever, then glances at my lips, declaring, "We shouldn't go down this road, Willow."
Disappointment hits me. I turn, blinking hard.
He takes a finger and turns my chin back toward him.
I keep blinking.
"You're going to be the demise of me, sugar."
I take a shaky breath.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?" he asks.
I furrow my forehead and admit with a cracking voice, "I don't know. I-I'm not sure, Wyatt. So make sure you're clear."
He presses his fingers deeper into my thigh. "You know we shouldn't cross the line, right?"
I blurt out, "Like putting your hand between my legs?"
Heat ignites in his gaze, and his lips curve. "Yeah, sugar. Exactly that." He moves his hand higher, keeping his gaze drilled into mine, challenging me to tell him to remove it.
I can't.
My breath hitches. I quiver.
He continues, "If anyone knew what was happening here between us…" His voice trails off, fading into the distant music.
"They won't," I offer. It comes out as a plea.
He groans. "Jesus, sugar."
I bite down hard on my lip.
He cups my cheek with his hand, stroking his thumb over my mouth.
I lock my gaze on his lips.
"Have you kissed anyone, Willow?" he asks.
Embarrassment washes over me. I try to look away, but he won't let me.
"It's nothing to be ashamed about, but I want to know," he claims.
I swallow hard. "No."
His expression tells me he approves of my answer before he says, "Good."
"Good?" I ask, confused.
A storm of arrogance washes over him. "I like knowing you're only going to be mine."
My entire body trembles.
He scoots closer, mumbling, "Damn, sugar… You don't play fair."
"What do you mean?"
"You're all innocence and heat, sweet and forbidden, and all you have to do is give me that look, and I'm done.
I might as well have not even shown up tonight, because I couldn't enjoy myself.
I kept fighting to get next to you, and you kept standing there, looking all pretty before running away from me," he says.
Happiness bursts from me. In a hushed tone, I let slip, "You think I look pretty?"
He pushes a lock of hair behind my ear. "Prettiest girl in all of Whispering Junction."
My ego skyrockets. I can't contain my smile.
Wyatt thinks I'm pretty.
Is this really happening?
He stares at me for so long, I get nervous. I ask, "What are you thinking?"
"I'm debating."
"About?"
He stays quiet.
In a sad tone, I answer for him. "About us."
He sternly replies, "No, sugar. That bull has come and gone. It threw me off, and I landed right in your world, so there's no getting out now."
Insanity, hope, and an ache for something I know nothing about lies in that statement.
"Then what are you debating about?"
His gaze drifts to my mouth, and his voice rolls through the air when he replies, "Whether I should kiss you now or wait."
Please kiss me.
My pulse shoots to the moon. I whisper, "Why wait?"
He graces me with a small, wicked grin before dipping his face to my collarbone. His lips flutter across my shoulder, up my neck, and land beneath my earlobe.
I whimper and squeeze my thighs together, pressing against his hand.
He murmurs, "I'm going to wait."
Disappointment flares inside me.
But then he kisses me across my jaw, and hope sparks anew.
He stops millimeters from my lips, stating, "Some kisses you don't care about, but this isn't one of them. You're a girl that needs to be savored, so I'm going to wait."
My heart melts. I take a shaky breath.