CHAPTER EIGHT
KENNEDY
Wyatt is here.
In Suitor’s Crossing.
Because of me .
A volcano of giddiness pulses through my veins, but I try to rein it in. It's bad enough I already jumped the poor man with my overexcited hug.
Motioning to the side to put space between us and the contingent of volunteers curious to know what’s going on, I ask, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? We could have met in town instead of you trekking out to the middle of the woods.”
“It’s not the worst place I’ve ever trekked,” he says with a grin. “I wanted to surprise you. Is that okay?”
Okay? It’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
Can it be romantic if our conversations never ventured past playful flirting?
“Of course! I’m happy you’re here.” Even if I’m internally freaking out. What does this mean? “I volunteered to help set up Holiday Lane, but we can drive to town if—”
“I don’t want to mess up your plans. Let’s do this together, then we can figure out what’s next.”
A man after my own heart.
I love volunteering in the community, creating opportunities for citizens to gather and bond. Wyatt’s willingness to stay rather than feeling put out after traveling all this way to see me is a solid point in his favor.
Not that he needs more.
He’s racked up quite the total these past few months with each letter and text message.
Three hours later, Holiday Lane is ready to open this weekend, and my friends are having way too much fun teasing me about Wyatt. The owner of the land and organizer of Holiday Lane, King Bishop, may have been suspicious of a stranger entering our volunteer group today, but his wife and my friend, Hannah, had no such compunction.
She and the wives of the Olson-Keller guys are having a field day.
“I can’t believe you have two military pen pals!” Nora giggles, fanning her face in exaggeration. “Do Chris and Wyatt know about each other?”
“Wyatt knows about Chris; that’s how we got to talking. But Chris doesn’t know about Wyatt. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. Plus, I haven’t heard from him since that first letter, so his opinion doesn’t matter anyway.”
“True.” Hannah nods. “Wyatt didn’t ghost you, and he showed up in town to surprise you—not to mention his help today. I’m sure he wasn’t expecting to haul lighted reindeer around all day.”
Probably not.
But he’s been a good sport. Jawing with the men, being respectful and considerate of the women.
We're all laughing when my back spasms, freezing me in place. My face scrunches in pain as I grab onto the tree trunk by my side.
“You okay?”
Shaking my head, I breathe through the pain. “No… my back decided to protest today’s physical labor.” Despite my attempts to leave the heavy lifting to the guys .
Apparently, my body doesn't care for traipsing through the forest for long periods of time either.
“Shit. Let me grab Wyatt. Do you trust him to drive you home, or do you want one of us to do it?” Hannah asks, concern radiating from her eyes.
“I trust Wyatt,” I mutter.
Readjusting my position causes another pain to shoot from my lower back, and embarrassment floods to the surface. My back problems aren’t necessarily a secret from my close friends, but I hate experiencing symptoms in front of an audience, especially Wyatt.
I’m still relatively young, yet it feels like I’m decades beyond my age due to freaking genetics.
Wyatt jogs to a stop in front of me. The wind ruffles his short brown hair and plasters his flannel shirt to his broad chest and shoulders. He stripped off his heavy coat earlier once he started working up a sweat with the other guys, and my friends used the opportunity to rib me mercilessly about him losing layers of clothing.
Ugh! Why does he have to be so handsome when I'm feeling ninety years old?
“Hey! Hannah said you need a ride home. Are you okay?”
“I will be,” I say, forcing the barest lift of my mouth into a smile. “I just need a break.” Along with a pain relief tablet I should have taken earlier to offset my current circumstances.
“Are you sure?” His amber eyes narrow on my white-knuckled grip on the tree. “She didn't say what, but it's obvious something is wrong.”
Licking my lips, I straighten slowly from my slightly hunched position. “I'll explain on the way to my place, but it's nothing serious. Trust me.”
Wyatt doesn’t seem convinced, his sharp jaw working like he's swallowing another question, but he matches the slow strides to my car without a word.
Each step requires immense effort, but it’s my only option unless I want to sleep in the forest tonight.
“We can come back for your rental later. Sorry for the inconvenience.” A wince pinches my cheeks as I settle into the passenger seat of my sedan. It’s going to be hell standing back up.
“Forget about it. I’m not worried about that; I’m worried about you. What’s wrong?” Wyatt types my address into his phone for directions.
Does he have it memorized from our letters?
That's sweet, even if I can't fully appreciate the gesture while sitting here in pain.
A short explanation about the hernia and scoliosis diagnosis follows, and as much as it sucks, at least there’s an official medical reason for my back issues. For the longest time, I chalked it up to being overweight. Guilt ate at me for not exercising more or drastically changing my diet to alleviate my health issues.
Then my GP noticed how uneven my shoulders were, sent me to get some X-rays done, and what do you know? I have a fucking degenerative muscle disease. Would exercising more have helped? Sure, but would it have solved all of my issues?
Nope.
A silver lining amidst the storm of medical jargon.
“I wish you would have said something,” Wyatt says as my apartment comes into view. “I could’ve helped more.”
“How? You were already doing as much as possible. I’m not an invalid. Small spurts of manual work are doable, but I can’t always predict how my body will respond. Don’t blame yourself for not doing more. It’s my problem, not yours.”
Wyatt grumbles under his breath, and I bite my lip to hide a grin.
Let him disagree.
All that matters to me is how much he cares. Which, judging by his constant checking in and his desire to ease my pain, is a lot.
After parking, he rounds the car and opens the door, offering a hand to help me stand.
“Fair warning, this might take a minute.” Mentally preparing myself for the lightning strike of debilitating pain, I carefully maneuver my legs to drape sideways over the seat, then after accepting Wyatt’s hand, I push upward, biting my tongue to hold in a groan.
“Lean on me. I’ve got you.”
Did I say there was a silver lining?
Because any positives are eclipsed by my current situation. Wyatt is a strong and capable military veteran, while I’m the woman with extra fluff and a bad back.
This has dark storm clouds written all over it.
“Thanks,” I murmur, directing my eyes to the ground, self-conscious about needing his help to walk to my own apartment.
It’s slow and torturous, but finally, we get inside, and a breath of relief deflates my lungs.
“Does laying down help? I can massage the area if you want.”
Wyatt’s hands on me? A thrill of nervous excitement bubbles to life. It doesn’t matter if his touch will be more professional than romantic.
Wyatt’s large callused hands will be on me .
“Let me take some medicine, then we can try a massage. I’ve wondered if it would help while I’m in this state, but booking an impromptu appointment with a therapist seemed like too much work.”
“Well, I’m here now,” he states matter of factly. Like he’s not going anywhere.
But he means until Christmas, right?
Not forever?