Chapter 19 #2
His maddening smirk grows. "Don't think I forgot your favorite restaurant."
I stay silent, my heart skipping a beat.
He proudly states, "Magnolia & Oak."
"Wyatt, we'll never get in tonight. Are you nuts?"
He chuckles deep in his throat. "You should know me better than that." He pulls down another street, then parks in front of the restaurant.
The valet greets us by name, but I can't remember his, not because it's been too long but because I can't think. Wyatt's got me spinning with memories I tried to bury.
"Carlos. How's your family?" Wyatt asks, fist-bumping the valet.
Carlos grins. "Getting too big for their britches. Great ride the other day."
"Thank you." Wyatt slips him some cash and says, "Take care of my baby."
I stifle a laugh. I forgot how proud he was of the truck he bought when he won his first rodeo.
He holds the door open for me. "After you."
I step into the warmth. Christmas lights glow around the restaurant, and memories hit me hard.
Us laughing until we cried.
His hand on my thigh under the table.
That night, we licked sugar off each other's fingers and laughed over stolen sips of wine, pretending we weren't already burning at the edges.
"Welcome," the hostess chirps, tearing me out of my thoughts. She leads us to a private corner booth. Red and green candles flicker on the tabletop. The scent of truffle oil and roasted peaches lingers in the air. A plate of chocolate-covered strawberries waits for us.
"You remembered," I murmur.
His eyes darken. "I remember everything."
An electric tension simmers between us, fiercer than a lightning strike. One spark and I'll lose my resolve not to burn with it, so I try not to look at Wyatt, scared he'll see I'm losing my ability to keep our boundaries.
A petite woman with gray-streaked auburn curls approaches. Her apron has Margo embroidered on it and her smile is wide and warm. She's aged but not too much.
"Evening, y'all. Happy New Year's Eve. Haven't seen you two lovebirds in years," she says, placing two leather-bound menus on the table.
I blink hard, feeling a rush of emotions.
Wyatt grins, sliding an arm along the back of the booth behind me. "Surprised you remember us."
Margo beams. "Of course I do. It's rare we get such a gorgeous couple in this booth without a reservation made months ago."
"We got lucky," I murmur.
"Mm-hmm." Her eyes twinkle like she knows something I don't. "Can I get you two started with something to drink?"
Wyatt glances at me, then at the wine list.
I raise an eyebrow. "You don't even like wine."
He shrugs one shoulder, cool as sin. "I'll take the pinot noir. Whatever bottle you recommend."
Margo laughs. "If memory serves me right, the last time you two were here, you got caught giving her sips of your wine when she was underage."
Wyatt leans in just enough to brush my arm. "You do have a great memory. And this is Willow's favorite place, and she's legal now. So please bring your best bottle."
My face warms.
Margo practically swoons. "Well, I'll be right back with two glasses and a bottle. It's silky, not too dry, and pairs perfectly with our signature short ribs, in case you were wondering."
"That's exactly what I was gonna order," Wyatt says, handing her back the menu without looking at it.
I smirk. "Since when do you eat short ribs without barbecue sauce?"
He nudges me gently with his knee under the table. "Since you taught me what bourbon glaze reduction means."
Margo grins. "That comes with roasted root vegetables and herbed polenta, but if y'all want to mix and match, we've got creamed kale, maple carrots, smoked gouda mashed, or truffle mac."
I glance at Wyatt. "You decide. You're the wine expert now."
He fakes deep thought. "Let's do the short ribs, sub the polenta for gouda mashed. And add truffle mac on the side. For her."
Why does he have to remember everything?
I shift in my seat.
He murmurs, "You underestimate me. But I remember everything about you."
"Sounds good. I'll be right back with your wine," Margo announces, scribbling on her notepad before walking away.
As soon as she's out of earshot, I glance at him. "Pinot noir?"
He picks up the empty wineglass. "Tastes better when it's across from you."
Over wine and the best short ribs I've had in a decade, I ask the question that crumbles our walls. "How did everything get so messed-up? You had everything."
"I didn't have you." He pins me with a regretful look.
"You know what I mean," I insist, trying to brush past his statement, and wanting to know the truth.
He swirls the wine in his glass like he actually knows what he's doing. He doesn't. But he always tried to do what he thought would make me happy.
I study him over the rim of my glass.
Ten minutes pass, and he doesn't eat or drink.
I wait him out.
He finally speaks, the words coming out low and raspy. "I remember the moment everything changed. It was a Tuesday." He smirks without humor. "That's the part that kills me. Not even a dramatic day. Just a Tuesday."
I stay silent.
He continues, "I was sitting in a hotel room outside Rock Springs, ice on my knee, trying to decide if I was more pissed that I lost another ride or that the pain didn't scare me anymore.
I used to ride for something. For pride.
Legacy. For… Well, you." His voice hitches, but he swallows it back.
"But that night? I rode because I didn't know how to be anything else. "
I exhale slowly.
He looks at me, eyes darker than I've seen in years. "It all slipped through my fingers. Sponsors bailed. Agent dropped me. The phone stopped ringing. Friends no longer were anywhere to be found. And the worst part? The silence wasn't just in the arena."
He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. "It followed me home. Echoed in every room. I kept thinking, This isn't how it was supposed to go. But I couldn't tell anyone. Couldn't call you."
"You could've," I whisper thickly.
He shakes his head. "You never picked up when I tried."
"I told you why."
He scrubs his face. "Yeah. I understand that now, but I didn't then."
My hand tightens around my wineglass. The hurt creeping up my throat, screaming it has unfinished business.
My will to keep my wall up dissolves. I admit quietly, "I tried to forget. I wanted to bury every memory of you. So I went to work. Built something. Traveled. Dated guys who had zero risk of breaking my heart because they didn't even know how to touch it."
His eyes flicker, and that old storm of jealousy and possession arises.
My lips tremble. "None of it worked. I'd see a worn leather cowboy hat and think of you. Someone would call me 'sugar' and I'd want to punch them in the throat."
He softly chuckles, but it fades fast.
I look away. "You were everywhere, Wyatt. And nowhere. All at once."
Silence folds over us, but it isn't empty. He grabs my hand, caressing the back of it. It's slow and gentle, with the same desires of long ago brewing under the surface.
He murmurs, "Tell me this doesn't feel the same."
Warning bells ring. My mind tells me to pull back. But I don't.
I can't.
I squeeze his hand. And he's right. It does feel the same.
We don't kiss in the restaurant. Not because we don't want to. But because the heat in the air is too thick, and maybe we both know once we start, we won't be able to stop.
So we drink wine and smile across the candlelit table like nothing happened. As if our story never ended, and there's hope for us.
For the first time in years, I can't help but wonder if somehow our love survived the wreckage.