20 #2
I toss the card in the trash. My gaze flits to the flowers. I think about throwing them away too, but instead, I decide I’ll keep them just to spite Wyatt.
Using the countertop as balance, I push myself along the edge until I reach a shelf. There, I grab a vase.
“You like roses?” Wyatt asks as I’m filling the vase with water. There’s a dangerous undercurrent to his voice.
“No.” I grin at him and dump the flowers into the vase. “I like knives.”
“Why am I not surprised?” He chuckles. Low and smoky. “Sit,” he says and gestures at the kitchen table.
One word. Stern. Commanding.
I shouldn’t like it so much.
I’m too tired from my kitchen jaunt to argue, so I listen to him, collapsing into the nearest chair.
Wyatt rustles around in the kitchen and then heads my way, his toned chest and abs rippling with each step.
Fuck.
A shirtless Wyatt Montgomery is ruining my life.
I cut him a glare. “Is there a no-shirt convention in town I didn’t hear about?”
He only grins and sets a blue bowl of fruit on the table. Bacon. A platter of pancakes. A variety of condiments. A carafe of coffee.
I blink at the mountain of food. At the cookware I didn’t even know I owned. I never cooked. Dakota was always the chef. After our mother left, my dad let us scrounge until we could all fend for ourselves. Back at El Toro, breakfast, lunch, and dinner consisted of protein bars and hardboiled eggs.
“Here. Your venom to start the morning.” He holds out a cup of coffee. I take it gratefully, and we brush fingers.
He takes a seat across from me, the wind, dancing in from the windows, tousles his dark-gold hair.
“Do you cook a lot?” I ask Wyatt. In all the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen the man in a kitchen.
“Hell no. I never cook. I…” He swallows, guilty, embarrassed. “Just wanted to do it for you.”
“Oh.” Warmth washes over me. “Well, thanks.”
For a moment, he holds my gaze. Then he clears his throat. “Let’s eat.”
My stomach rumbles as we dish up our plates. I haven’t realized how hungry I’ve been. How long it’s been since I’ve had a homecooked meal.
I watch in amusement as Wyatt drizzles maple syrup over chocolate chips. As long as I’ve known him, Wyatt’s always had a sweet tooth. He eats Dakota’s pastries like pure sugar fuels him.
“Here,” he says around a mouthful of pancake and nudges a jar of crunchy peanut butter my way. “I know you like it.”
Gritting my teeth, I add a slather of peanut butter on top of my pancake. Makes sense he knows. All the diners we went to after rodeos, on the road. He’d pick up on what I like.
“Eat,” he orders.
“Fine,” I grumble and grab a fork. I cut into my pancakes and lift a gigantic hunk in the air. “Look, see? I am begrudgingly eating my stupid pancakes. And drinking my stupid water.”
I take a bite. They’re good. But I don’t tell him that.
Satisfied, he dips his head.
“Jesus, Wyatt.” I stare, half-impressed, half-disgusted. “You have enough sugar on there to kill a mule.” I arch an eyebrow as he shovels food into his mouth. “Not to mention, you eat like a barbarian.”
“Have to,” he says, gulping down a piece of bacon.
“When I was a kid, my brothers would walk up to my food and be like, ‘let me check it for poison first,’ and then they’d all take big-ass bites out of everything I had on my plate.
” His face clouds with the memory, and he grumbles boyishly, “Had to defend my damn territory.”
“Ah yes, big brothers, the true threat to independence.” I laugh, surprising myself. Surprising Wyatt.
I drop my eyes to my plate. It’s weird to have breakfast with Wyatt, let alone enjoy it.
Slow mornings. Breakfast. The domesticity of it all makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Two weeks ago, I was dancing with 1,800-pound beasts. Now, I’m eating pancakes and making small talk.
“Here.” Wyatt stands from his chair, grabs something from the counter, then sits back down. “You need to take these with food.” He sets my medication on the table.
Giving him an exasperated look, I snap a pain pill in half. Then I gulp it down with my coffee.
Wyatt’s annoyed sigh only steels my fight. “You don’t have to be tough, you know.”
“I’m not being tough, I’m being smart.” I’ve known too many cowboys who’ve gotten busted up only to heal but not be able to ride because of a nasty addiction to pain pills.
I set down my coffee. “I don’t want to be stuck on these things when I start riding again.”
The light in his eyes dims. “Fallon.”
I flinch. At the serious look. At the pain behind that single word.
I jab my fork at him. “Don’t say what I think you’re gonna say, asshole.”
His lips thin. But he stays quiet.
Appetite gone, I set down my fork.
The next thing I know, Wyatt’s chair scrapes back and his big hands are on my face.
Startled, I yelp. “Oh my god, what are you doing?”
“Checking you for fever.” His callused palm cups my jaw, his long fingers sweeping over my brow. “The doctor said without a spleen you’re more susceptible to fevers.”
I shake my head, my pulse speeding at the closeness. “Wyatt, I could get a fever any day for the rest of my life. You planning to attach yourself to my side like a leech?”
The worry in his eyes is amusing, if not sweet. “I could.”
“Stop. Just stop.” I’m annoyed now. At him hovering. At the confusing warm feeling in my stomach. I stand. “Where are my boots?”
“I already fed the horses,” Wyatt says, reading my thoughts. “You shouldn’t be lifting anything anyways.”
I prop my hands on my hips. “Well, I still want to go to the barn.”
I’m not letting everything go. I need some semblance of normalcy to stay sane. Because when I think about losing it all…I can barely breathe.
He eases closer. “You have PT at noon.”
I arch a brow. “Don’t you have a job?”
“I’ll do it.”
“When?”
“After PT. I pushed my class to the afternoon. I’ll drop you back here after—”
An idea sparks. “I’m going with you.”
“Where?”
“To the ranch.”
“No. You aren’t.”
“Yes. I am.” I stare him down, standing my ground.
“I have to do something, Wyatt.” Hating the desperation that creeps into my voice, I beg, “You know what it’s like to be still.
It’ll get me out of the house. Give me something to do.
” I’m well aware I’m bargaining with the literal devil, but I have to try.
His breath hitches, his face softening. “I promised your sister I’d take care of you,” he says lowly.
“You are.” I gesture at the spread of food then add softly, “Don’t lose your job because of me.”
His voice is gruff. Gravel. “I’d lose everything for you if it meant you got better.”
The air leaves my lungs. My heart stops then stutters to a start.
To my dismay, he steps closer. To my dismay, my body reacts.
My mouth waters. I lean into him. Like I want him as badly as I did last night.
Unable to help it, my eyes move to his lush lips. We’ve never kissed. Not on the mouth. Too many feelings. But that’s not to say I’m not curious.
His kiss is probably just as infuriating as he is.
Wyatt’s gaze is glued to my face. Serious. Intent. His hands curl around my hips as he drags me closer. “You come with me, Fallon, you listen to me. I mean it.”
“I always listen to you when you’re not an asshole.” I sniff, a feline smile curling my lips. “Which is rare, I know.”
Frustration etched on his gorgeous face, his hands, still on my hips, grip me tighter. His hot breath warms the air between us. Then he grits out, almost like an afterthought, almost like a promise, “You don’t need protectin’, Fallon, but damn if I’m doin’ it anyway.”
Shock slams into me. My lips part. “Wyatt—”
Before I can puzzle out his words, his near-simmering gaze tears away from my face and he abruptly releases me to storm off down the hall.
His touch sears. My hips burn.
I puff a lock of hair out of my face, feel the heat in my cheeks.
Men.