30. Keep Me Close
30
KEEP ME CLOSE
DAKOTA
W yatt Patterson is not acting casual.
On Tuesday, he makes me a bouquet of wildflowers filled with fiery shades of sunlight—zinnias, marigolds, Indian paintbrushes. On Wednesday, he does the same thing except, this time, it’s blue. And over the next week, I bounce out of bed, eagerly waiting to see what bouquet each new morning will bring.
Friday is different.
We load Luna-Tuna into the truck, strap a giggly Vi into her car seat, and take a drive through the back country roads with the windows rolled down. The sun-baked earth and lingering wildflowers perfume the hot breeze.
It’s my favorite drive—the Willow City Loop—and even though my favorite season, bluebonnet season, is long over, the yellow perennials coloring the pastures in waves of gold are just as lovely.
Wyatt interlaces his fingers through mine, draping one arm over the steering wheel. He doesn’t let go as we curve down windy roads, whizzing past brown longhorns grazing beneath gigantic oak trees. As I gaze out at the blur of blue sky and green grass, I try to think of the last time I drove without going anywhere.
Nothing comes to mind.
We spend the day doing all the things we used to do growing up, except this time, we’ve got a cute third wheel.
We pick the juiciest strawberries at Sweet Berry Farm while the owner writes down his secret recipe for strawberry pie (it’s the rhubarb!). We let Vi pet baby goats while sipping a 2018 Mourvèdre at a winery.
I’m surprised by how natural it all feels, but more than that, I’m surprised by how badly I don’t want him and Vi to leave at the end of the summer.
On Saturday, I tell Alanna all this at The General, and she goes off on a rant about how Texas wine isn’t on par with California, but I dig my boots in, and tell her that it’s delicious nonetheless. Eventually, after a heated debate about wine country, we get to my deconstructed feelings.
“Day one!” Lana shouts after I finish telling her about everything that’s happened with Wyatt. “Day one , I called this, and you called me crazy. I knew I was right. I’m always right. You fucking knocked boots.”
“We haven’t knocked anything yet,” I counter. “It’s surprisingly difficult to find time to have sex with a toddler in the house.”
I’m also nervous to sleep with him, if I’m being totally honest with myself. Sex and emotion rarely mix for me, but I can’t separate the two with Wyatt.
Lana wiggles her red brows, cheersing me with her glass. “Here’s to hoping the boots will be knockin’ soon.”
There’s that nervous-achy feeling again. I take a swig of my margarita.
Lana’s got her hair in braids and is wearing a silk, champagne dress that ends mid-thigh. We look like complete opposites with me in a jean skirt and cotton tank, but anything goes here. There’s a motorcycle biker gang tucked into the back corner next to a table of girls in feather boas with matching shirts that say Buy Me a Shot. I’m Tying the Knot!
I sip my margarita, ignoring the shot-shot-shot chants. “I can’t believe you were right about us.”
“I’m sorry. What?” She cups her ear, leaning on the bar counter, and drawing a few gazes from the cowboys nearby. “Could you say that again? It’s hard to hear over all the chanting.”
I bump her shoulder. “Shut it. Your hearing is just fine.”
“I know, but I like hearing I’m right.” Alanna strokes one red nail over her empty vodka soda, calling out to Willie. “Hey! Bartender! Can I get a martini this time? Three blue cheese olives. Black, not green. Thanks in advance, sweetie.”
I think Willie’s glaring at her, but I can’t be sure with all that facial hair. He gestures around the bar. “Does this look like the kind of establishment that has blue cheese olives on hand, Barbie?”
Oh, shit.
Lana’s eyes bulge. “ Excuse me? Did you just call me ‘Barbie’?”
“Yeah, Barbie , I did.” He crosses his arms over his ripped jean jacket.
She scoffs. “My name’s—”
He cuts her off. “I know your name, Alanna . You don’t need to introduce yourself.”
She snaps her mouth closed for a second.
“How do you know my name?” she asks in a softer voice this time.
He flicks a dish rag over his shoulder. “’Cause you’re the reason I have to drive all the way to Horseshoe Bay to get Grey Goose vodka since our house vodka isn’t good enough for your prissy ass.”
In a flash, she scrapes back from her stool, pointing a manicured fake nail at him. “Oh, you prick. I’m not fucking prissy. Who even says that anymore? Let me tell you something…” she tr ails off, her face scrunching like she’s trying to remember his name.
He crosses his arms over his jean-clad chest, patiently waiting. I can’t tell if he’s smirking with the bandana and all that facial hair, but he seems smug.
Lana tosses her artificial locks over one shoulder. “Okay, Sasquatch, let me tell you something—”
“Nice try. It’s Willie,” he says, giving her his broad back. He’s even bigger than Wyatt.
Her eyes bulge when he legitimately walks away from her mid-sentence, completely ignoring Lana’s talon nails.
I have to use my hand to stifle my laughter. Willie mostly communicates with grunts and scowls, so I’m shocked he’s actually talking to Lana, but I guess he got his city girl fill now that he’s walking away.
She plops back down on the duct-taped leather stool, huffing. “Can you believe him? How rude. He just put himself right on the top of my shit list. He’s absolutely not getting a tip.”
“I mean, he’s probably just pissed. Horseshoe Bay is an hour-long drive from here.”
“It’s not like I asked him to go. Never mind. We’re not talking about Face Beard. So, how was the kiss?” she prods. “Explosive? Legendary? I want all the dirty details.”
“It was…” I try to find the right words because yes, it was all of the above, but it was also so much deeper. I’m not sure I want to share all those details, even with Lana. That would make the moment less ours.
“It was great,” I finish lamely.
“Great?” she states, slapping a hand on the sticky counter, then immediately wiping it on her napkin with a look of disgust. “That’s it? Great ? I need more adjectives.”
“Fine,” I relent, fluttering my lips. “It was amazing, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why?” Lana whines. “You know I love gossiping when it’s not about my life. I want to know everything.”
I take a swig of my margarita, regular, not prickly pear this time. “Because it’s complicated. He said he was okay with keeping things light, but he’s still got a daughter, and I’m starting to get attached. I don’t know if I can keep this casual, and I want to make sure I’m doing right by him because that’s a huge commitment.”
She pops a peanut between her red lips, chewing, thinking. “He said he was okay keeping things casual? That’s actually shocking. That man might as well be walking around in a floral apron that reads Looking for a wife, then in parentheses, I love going down on women .”
I snort, wiping the lime juice off my lips. “What makes you think that?”
“’Cause you can just tell with some guys. They’re the selfless types.” She glares at Willie, who’s opening a beer by slamming the top against the counter. “Like Sasquatch over there is no way burying that face-beard between a woman’s legs.”
“You’re right,” he drawls, instantly glancing up like he’s been eavesdropping the whole time. “My apron says, Don’t worry. It’ll fit. ”
Lana looks like she has no idea what to say to that, and Willie goes back to opening beers, but there’s a bounce in his step this time.
“What will fit?” a low voice interjects.
My head snaps toward the bar where Wyatt’s leaning casually with his hair pulled back beneath a rugged cowboy hat. There’s a devilish smirk playing on his lips, and I want to drag him away and kiss him silly.
He saunters forward, radiating confidence, and closes the distance until he’s towering over me. Without an ounce of hesitation, he plants his mouth on mine, and kisses me so thoroughly, I’m gasping by the end, and Lana’s fanning herself.
“Hey there, gorgeous,” he drawls, pulling back to kiss the tip of my nose.
I’m one lucky woman.
“God damn , I wish you had brothers,” Lana says.
“I’ve got Willie,” Wyatt says, keeping his eyes on me.
She grimaces. “I would need a three-day spa retreat with a full-body exfoliation session after sleeping with him.”
“Well, we all know how much you love those spa days, Barbie, so it’s too bad you’ll never find out what it’s like to fuck me,” Willie grunts while casually drying a margarita glass.
Lana’s chest flushes, but she regains her composure quickly. “I wouldn’t fuck you even if you were hiding frat-boy Harry Styles under all that hair.”
Wyatt only chuckles, and then slips behind me, draping his arms around my bare shoulders in a casually possessive move that’s going to ward off all the cowboys in this bar, which I don’t mind. He’s mine for the summer.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, snuggling closer because he’s oh so warm. “Where’s Vi?”
“I love that you always think about her.” He kisses my shoulder, the heat of his lips lingering on my bare skin. “My parents are watching her because I wanted to see you. You’ve been at the gym all day.”
“I know,” Lana huffs. “It’s like she never leaves.”
“I’m getting ready for the Fredericksburg rodeo next weekend,” I say, defending myself despite the ball of guilt in my stomach.
Wyatt’s hand ventures forward, snatching up my nearly empty margarita. He puts his lips right over my lip gloss imprint, licking it right off the glass rim. I had no idea that could be so hot.
“Running low? You want another one, honey?”
The slight drawl, the hint of a smirk, the casual confidence… Wyatt’s aged into quite the man, and I can’t be held accountable if I end up straddling him in a bar bathroom tonight due to the margaritas. All the alcohol has soaked up my nerves, and maybe that’s what I need. To sleep with him when I’m drunk so I stop overthinking this, but no. That’s a crap tactic.
He’s not the man I want to call when I’m drunk; he’s the one I want to call when I’m happy.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say.
His breath is a whisper against my ear. “And why’s that?”
I swipe my thumb along his bottom lip, picking up a droplet and sucking it into my mouth. “Because tequila has a tendency to make my clothes fall right off my body.”
His eyes flash.
“You’re right,” he rumbles, brushing his nose against the tip of mine. “Another margarita would be a terrible idea. Your skirt might fall right off, or worse… your panties.” He nips my earlobe. “God forbid.”
Heat simmers in my core at the huskiness in his playful words. Flirty Wyatt’s even better than Friendly Wyatt.
“Exactly.” I take a deliberate, long gulp of the alcoholic beverage in question, draining the whole thing as I play along. “It’d be catastrophic.”
“Apocalyptic.” His tongue traces a fiery path just behind my ear. “Those panties of yours might go up in flames.”
I tilt my head, catching the glint of mischief in his green eyes, and our gazes lock. “I think my panties are a little too wet right now to catch on fire.”
His eyes blaze with heat.
“Oh my god ,” Lana exclaims, slamming back a shot of vodka. “If you two don’t tone down this sexual tension, I’m going to self-combust in an orgasm.”
“I’d pay good money to see that,” Willie deadpans across the counter.
Wyatt tugs me back to his chest, and there’s a tenderness in his confident grin that has me melting against him. “Dance with me?”
“All this flirting is making me want to do more than dance, so I have a better idea,” I murmur, wrapping my arms around his waist. “We could go home? Maybe take an outdoor shower together?”
“Hm,” he says, intertwining his arms around my back. “That would be nice, but see you’ve had one too many margaritas, and I want you to remember everything when we’re together, which is why we’re only dancing tonight. You’re still looking a little stiff out there.”
The memory douses the heat. This past week has been hell on earth. At the rodeo, Teton, the bull, rammed into my shoulder something fierce. I had to sit in the bath for over an hour, so staying on during practice has been even tougher.
“You and two-stepping, huh?” I say. “You really think it’ll help?”
Wyatt touches his thumb to the corner of my mouth, lifting it back up. “I might have an ulterior motive.”
“Oh?” I lift a brow. “And what’s that?”
The cover band starts playing the song “Damn This Heart of Mine” by William Beckmann. With an infectious smile, he guides us to the dance floor, twirling me effortlessly, and just when I’m about to spin out of control, he tugs me against his solid chest. “It’s the perfect excuse to keep you close.”
And keep me close he does—all night long.