Chapter Seven
Wyatt didn’t want to leave the dream behind, so when Rascal pawed at the edge of his bed and yipped, he shut his eyes tighter.
That didn’t work. The virtual world where Jillian showed up wearing nothing but a white robe was gone.
He slung his legs off the side of the bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and was on his way across the room to get the leash when he stepped on something soft.
He looked down, blinked several times, and whipped around to find Jillian curled up on her side in his bed.
Knowing it wasn’t a dream, that it was real, put a smile on his face and a spring in his step.
He picked up the robe and hung it on the iron bedpost. He snapped the leash on Rascal and took the dog outside.
Rascal took his own sweet time finding just the right clump of weeds to hike his leg on and then ran back onto the porch.
“Be quiet and don’t wake her,” Wyatt whispered.
As if Rascal understood, he ran over to the sofa and curled up on it.
Wyatt made coffee and stirred up a batch of waffles.
He arranged the waffles on a plate, then added a can of whipped cream and a small bowl of strawberries on his makeshift tray he’d made by covering an old cookie sheet with aluminum foil.
Lastly, he filled two mugs with coffee and carefully carried the tray to the bed.
She stirred a little, rubbed her nose, and then opened her eyes. She looked around the room slowly as if trying to figure out where she was, or perhaps how she got there. Then she sat up in a jerking motion that almost sloshed out the coffee.
“What … when …” she stammered.
“We are now more than kissing friends, and as such, I made breakfast. Since we do not have a table, I’m serving it to you in bed, and plan to share it with you.
But first”—he left the tray in the middle of the bed—“you should put on a T-shirt. If you drop a bite, it could burn your beautiful skin.” He handed her a shirt from a suitcase against the wall.
“Plus, I’m not sure I can keep my mind or hands off you if you don’t. ”
She picked up a mug and took a sip of the coffee. “I wasn’t dreaming, was I?”
“I thought I was until I stepped on your robe.”
She set the coffee back on the tray and jerked the shirt over her head. The shoulder seams hung halfway to her elbows. “I know it’s been washed, but it smells delicious, like you.”
He ran his palm up her arm. “Keep it forever if you want to.”
“Thank you. I will, but the morning is young.”
“We’re thinking the same thing.” He cut off a bite of a waffle, covered it with whipped cream, and added a slice of strawberry on top.
“But first we have to eat, because last night used up all our energy.”
He fed that bite to her and then took one for himself. “What happens after we eat?”
“We see if what we had was nothing more than a onetime thing.”
Jillian felt like a princess later that morning when Wyatt scooped her up in his arms and carried her across the boggy ground. He set her down on the porch and brought her hand to his lips. “Will you join me for supper this evening on my back porch at six o’clock?”
“That sounds very formal after last night.”
“I want you to know and understand that I don’t take one minute of last night for granted, and that you deserve to be treated like the queen you are.”
Heat filled Jillian’s cheeks. “I’m not sure I can handle amazing sex and compliments, too.”
Wyatt drew her so close to his chest that his heartbeat played loudly in her ear. “You can do it, darlin’. You are the strongest woman I’ve ever met.” He tipped up her chin with his fist.
She barely had time to moisten her lips when his mouth covered hers and created a new fiery passion in her body again. When the kiss ended, he buried his face in her neck. “See you at supper.”
The warmth of his breath on that tender spot made her knees so weak that she reached out to a porch post for support.
He crossed the yards and whistled a tune she recognized as “Tennessee Whiskey.” She removed her hand from the post and went inside to the smell of a dirty litter box.
She could hear the twang of the guitars as she sang the lyrics to the song, scooped the litter, and danced her way out to the trash.
Molly stood beside her water bowl when Jillian came back into the cabin. The cat eyed her with contempt, and if Jillian could translate the tone, she was sure that the growls and grunts from Ms. Molly had a lot of f-bombs in them.
“Girl, don’t you talk to me like that. You will not spoil the night I’ve had, not even with your dirty looks.” Jillian fussed at her while she refilled her food and water bowls.
Molly’s tail twitched, but she was too interested in eating to argue.
Jillian opened a suitcase and took out underwear, a paint-stained T-shirt, socks, and sweatpants.
She hated to take off Wyatt’s shirt, but she really needed a quick shower before she started putting the final touches on two more paintings.
She carefully hung the shirt on a hook meant for a tea towel and promised herself that she would sleep in it that night.
She had never been one to sing in the shower—definitely not when she was being shifted from one foster home to the next—but that morning, her heart was so full that she made up a new song with lyrics that didn’t rhyme, but they were hers.
“Paint me happy in a cabin in the woods,” she repeated as she dried her body and got dressed for the day.
She took time to press Wyatt’s shirt to her face and inhale the scent that even a washing machine couldn’t remove.
That thought could have been her imagination, but she didn’t care.
Having his shirt there to touch anytime she wanted was part of what painted her happy.
She set up a brand-new canvas and sketched in two cabins with a big moon hanging between them.
She might not even add it to the lot she would send to the gallery.
It didn’t even matter if the critics crucified her for such a pastoral piece.
Even if her agent liked it and said she should show it, the painting would never be for sale.
She intended to hang it above the mantel in her apartment to remind her in sad times that happiness was out there.
“The title is Happy,” she whispered.
Wyatt loved the routine that he and Jillian had fallen into over the past several days.
Breakfast at his cabin after a night of fantastic sex and waking to her cuddled up beside him.
Working all day. Jillian with her art. Him with writing that seemed to flow out of him like a river since he had met her.
Alternating supper, always on his porch since he had the table.
Finding that she cooked was a bonus to all his newly found happiness.
But—he hated that word—it would be coming to an end in only a few days.
That idea slammed his joy into a brick wall.
Rascal’s jumping around and pawing at the door took his attention away from the sad thought.
After the dog left a water streak in the dust on Jillian’s vehicle’s tire, the clasp came undone on his leash, and he ran to Jillian’s porch.
Wyatt didn’t have time to chase after him. He hated to be late for anything, but especially if Jillian was involved. She opened the door, and Rascal rushed into her cabin in a blur.
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized.
She shook her head, took him by the hand, and led him inside. “Let’s see how the children do on their first meeting,” she whispered, and pulled him down on the sofa.
Rascal looked like he was kneeling on his short front legs in front of Molly. Then he turned around several times and bounced toward her. Molly eyed him and then reached out with a paw that was twice as big as his, pushed him down to the floor, and began to wash his face.
“The folks at the rescue shelter said he had been raised around cats. They tried to get me to adopt one to keep him company,” Wyatt said.
“He’s so small she probably thinks he’s a half-grown kitten that she needs to mother. Since they aren’t going to kill each other, they could probably stay right here while we go shopping, right?”
“Don’t see why not. Are you ready? Got your list made out?”
She sighed. “Don’t need much. I have to leave in a few days.”
“Is there a reason you can’t stay longer? I’m not ready for you to leave.”
“No, but …”
He held the door open for her and kept a close watch on the two animals who had now cuddled up together in front of the cold fireplace. “Did I ever tell you how much I hate the word but?”
“No.”
“Well, I do. I know your lease ends on Friday. However”—he grinned—“one phone call could maybe get you a couple more weeks, and then we could leave at the same time.”
“What if it’s not possible?”
“Offer them twice the money, and I will reimburse you.”
“I’ll call tomorrow morning,” she promised.
God, how would his writing survive without Jillian as his muse? Worse yet, how would he make it through the long days without knowing she was right next door, or waking up to her every morning?
How could they have known each other for such a short time?
He had read about people getting stuck in a snowstorm for only a couple of weeks and falling in love.
Probably fake news to entertain the masses or the basis for a romance book.
His heart and soul felt like this was real, and not a story to make grown women sigh.
“You seem worried. What’s on your mind?” Jillian asked.
“I meant it when I said I’m not ready for you to go.”
“Me, either. What is this between us? Is it just a fling?”
“I don’t think so. What do you think it is?”
“I hope it’s the beginning foundation for something more.”
“Me, too. Do I look less worried now?” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.
“A little. What happens if I can’t get the cabin for longer?”