8. Sally
CHAPTER 8
Sally
MARLBORO MAN
“So, just to confirm”—Dad eyes me across the tiny kitchen island—“you and Wyatt aren’t actually dating. Y’all are just going to the potluck tonight as friends.”
Poking a sparkly hoop earring through my earlobe, I nod. “Exactly.”
“But he’s coming to pick you up.” Mom lifts her mug of tea to her lips as her eyes flick over my little black dress and heels. “And your outfit is fancy . You look gorgeous, honey.”
I grin as I guide the little plastic back onto the hoop post. “Thank you. The dress code is semi-formal, so?—”
“Those earrings are new,” Dad says.
“Yep,” I reply easily, like I didn’t pay an extra forty bucks in shipping just to get them delivered in time for tonight. I was sweating bullets until they finally arrived at the post office in town this afternoon.
Mom’s eyes are kind when she adds, “That’s a lot of sparkle for you. I like it.”
Dad, though, wears this funny expression as he eyes the earrings, then my face. Do I detect a hint of annoyance? Anger even? I feel like he’s been acting weird ever since I accepted the job at Ithaca University. Well, not weird necessarily. Vigilant might be a better word. It’s like he’s watching my every move, making sure I stay in line or something.
“You’re too old for a curfew, right?” he asks.
“Right.” I go up on my tiptoes to peck his cheek. “I’ll let y’all know if I’m going to be late.”
Dad sighs. “I feel like I should bring Wyatt inside when he gets here. I’ll make sure he sees the gun safe and put the fear of God in him.” He nods at the tall rifle safe tucked behind the stairs.
Rolling my eyes, I elbow Dad. “Don’t you dare.”
Ordinarily, I’d promise to behave. But I’m sick of behaving. I don’t want to do anything stupid or careless, but I also want to have fun. Cut loose a little—or a lot.
And no one is better at having fun than my date.
Speaking of, my heart nearly pops out of my chest when the doorbell rings. Glancing at the clock on the microwave, I see that Wyatt is right on time.
Mom and Dad exchange a look I can’t decipher. They’re not huge partiers, so they’re not coming tonight; they donated money instead.
It takes every ounce of my self-control not to run to the door. Instead, I give my dress a discreet tug and walk as calmly and confidently as I can to the front of the house. I wobble a little on my heels, and the new thong I bought rides up where it shouldn’t.
I’m not exactly comfortable. But I do feel sexy. Who knows if I’ll actually go home with anyone tonight? But I want to be prepared if I do. I shaved everything in the hopes of manifesting some sort of naked-with-a-cowboy situation.
I live in my scrubs and sneakers, so getting dolled up like this is a treat. I feel like a different person, like I’m actually a grown-up, red-blooded woman and not a perennially sleep-deprived surgical resident who barely has time to brush her teeth, much less blow-dry and curl her hair .
I grab my coat from the sofa and put it on. Then I open the door and?—
Holy God.
Holy God in heaven.
Wyatt’s handsomeness hits me like a wallop to the chest. He smiles at me from underneath the brim of a pristine brown felt cowboy hat I’ve never seen on him before. His scruff is neatly trimmed. He’s wearing a sharply cut navy-blue blazer that molds to his wide shoulders and thick arms. Underneath that is a crisp blue shirt that matches his eyes.
It’s the tie, though, that really does something to me. It’s brown, same shade as his hat, and I’m gripped by the alarmingly strong urge to grab it and yank him against me. My body pulses at the imaginary sound of his deep, rumbly laugh as he stumbles into me. It’s a sound I’d capture in my mouth, a sound that would morph into a groan as I kissed him and he kissed me back.
The scent of sandalwood, mingled with a hint of wintergreen, rises off his skin.
He looks me over, head to toe, and my stomach flips when his Adam’s apple bobs on a swallow. Blinking, he hesitates, his eyes raking over me again, and again, finally landing on my face.
Another beat of heated silence stretches between us as his gaze searches mine.
Whoa whoa whoa . Is Wyatt Rivers at a loss for words?
No way is this man—this gorgeous, professional flirt—speechless right now.
Only he is speechless. He’s not speaking, but he’s sure as hell looking, a pink flush creeping up his neck.
It’s kind of adorable, actually. And hot. It’s so hot to be looked at this way that heaviness gathers between my legs with an insistent throb.
His attention makes me feel sexy. Confident. Bingo .
At last, he blinks and clears his throat. “Hey. Hi. Hello, Sally.”
“Hi, Wyatt.”
He holds out a paper-wrapped bouquet of pink and orange zinnias, his eyes flicking appreciatively over my dress yet again. “For you. You look—wow.” He chuckles, and I swear I hear a hint of nervousness in the sound. “Wow, Sally. Beautiful.”
Have I died?
Am I in heaven?
Have I ever felt prettier or happier in my entire life?
Wyatt was speechless.
And he’s put in effort . A lot of effort. There are the flowers. And the only other time I’ve ever seen Wyatt in a suit was at his parents’ funeral.
Wyatt does not get dressed up. Ever.
Except he got dressed up for me.
I expected him to show up in jeans and a cowboy button-up. Nice jeans and a nice button-up, yes, but nothing that wasn’t part of Wyatt’s ordinary wardrobe.
“Where the fuck did you get a suit?” I blurt, taking the flowers and cradling them against my chest.
Even though I’m a step up from Wyatt and wearing four-inch heels, he still towers over me.
“That’s some language,” Dad pipes up from somewhere behind me.
Wyatt flashes me a wide, white smile, the kind that makes the tan skin at the edges of his eyes crinkle. “Borrowed it from Sawyer. The hat though”—he taps the brim with his fingers—“I drove out to Lubbock earlier today and bought it. Gotta look my best for Sally Powell.”
My stomach dips again. Lubbock is an hour and a half drive from here. Fake boyfriends do not drive three hours round trip to buy a new cowboy hat so they look good for their fake girlfriends .
That’s something real boyfriends do.
My pulse riots. Does Wyatt want to be my real boyfriend?
Absolutely not. And yet?—
“You know what they say about a man and his cowboy hats,” Mom says, appearing at my elbow.
“Yes, ma’am, I do,” Wyatt replies easily. “He only needs two of them—one for his wedding day, and one for his son’s wedding day.”
Mom turns to Dad and wags her eyebrows. “Or his daughter’s.”
Wyatt’s gaze meets mine, a knowing, slightly teasing glimmer in his eyes.
Yep, he gets that I’m trying very hard not to roll my eyes at my parents’ general ridiculousness. He gets that I love them, just like he gets that they still embarrass the hell out of me.
Wyatt doesn’t care though. It takes a lot to ruffle his feathers.
“Y’all sure you don’t want to bring any food?” Mom asks. “I’m sure I could rummage up something?—”
“Two kegs of Shiner were delivered to the barn this afternoon,” Wyatt replies. “Mrs. Biddle said she’d give me an ass-kicking I’d never forget if we brought anything else.”
Mom laughs. “How generous of you.”
My heart hiccups. Since when is Wyatt Mr. Community Star?
I’m smiling when I say, “How like you to donate beer.”
“And a poker game.” He smiles back. “How much you think a lesson in Texas Hold’Em, taught by yours truly, is worth?”
“Hmm.” I tap my finger on my chin. “Five bucks?”
His eyes dance. “Sold, if you’re the one buying.”
Dad leans forward, his shoulder brushing mine. “I know y’all are grown adults?— ”
“Please, don’t,” I say, blinking when Mom takes the flowers from me.
“I’ll just go put these in water. Wyatt, they’re gorgeous. Y’all don’t hurry home!”
“But no drinking and driving, you hear?” Dad continues. “Gets so dark out here at night. Actually, the earlier you can have her home, the better.”
Wyatt nods. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t wait up.” I peck Dad’s cheek again. “Seriously though, I’ve been living on my own for a really long time. I’ll be fine. Love y’all.”
Stepping onto the front porch, I loop my arm through Wyatt’s and yank him toward his truck. I can smell the hint of a wood fire in the air. Leaves crunch under our hurried footsteps, filling my head with their crisp, dry scent.
“We got all night, sugar,” he drawls with a chuckle. He’s his old bullshitting self again, and for some reason that gives me a vague feeling of disappointment. “Why the hurry?”
“Call me sugar again, and I’ll be hurrying your ass right off a cliff.”
“You been hangin’ with Mollie, haven’t you?”
It’s a running joke that Mollie and Cash started out wanting to push each other off one of the many cliffs that dot Lucky River Ranch.
“Of course I’ve been hanging out with Mollie. She’s my new favorite person.”
“As long as I’m still your number one.”
I grin. “Always.”
Although I might or might not want to be Mollie when I grow up. If only I could fall in love like she did instead of falling on my face.
Wyatt might have just come into a boatload of cash, thanks to the newly formed ranch he and his brothers and Mollie own and operate. But he still drives the 1980 Dodge Ram pickup he bought for five hundred bucks when he was in his early twenties. He’s restored it piece by piece over the years, and now its new tires, chrome finish, and Carolina-blue paint gleam in the deepening twilight.
I give him a look when he follows me to the passenger side.
“What?” He reaches for the door and opens it for me. “I’m your date. I open your door. You’d best get used to it.”
And here is the vulnerable Wyatt again. The guy who doesn’t hide his goodness, his concern, behind a joke or a crude line.
This is the guy who makes my heart do a hundred backflips per minute.
“You’d best”— stop being so damn good at this —“not boss me around, cowboy.”
He clasps the top of the doorframe in his hand and leans into me, his full mouth pulled into a grin. “Bet you’d like being bossed around.”
I cross my arms, unable to keep myself from smiling. “How much are you willing to gamble?”
His eyes glimmer. But it’s his mouth I can’t stop looking at.
“How much you got?”
Giving him a shove, I laugh. He laughs, too, and it strikes me just how excited I am for tonight. Nervous? Yes. But if I’m already having this much fun with Wyatt, I think the potluck is going to be a really good time.
I always have a really good time with this man, and that’s exactly what I need—a reminder that I’m capable of confidence, of wittiness. I can be myself around a guy. I just need to practice with Wyatt so I can eventually be comfortable around other men too. So I can just be , no fucks given.
“Everything I made being a resident. So, like, fifty bucks,” I say.
“I ain’t takin’ your money, but I will take you out.” He nods at the passenger seat. “Get in, or we’ll be late. ”
My nerves take over the closer we get to the potluck, which is being hosted at a neighbor’s barn fifteen or so minutes away.
What if there are no cute cowboys there? What if things get awkward between Wyatt and me? What if they’re the opposite of awkward?
He looks so good in that suit.
So. Fucking. Good.
If he wasn’t my best friend and totally, completely out of my league, I would one hundred percent jump his bones right now.
Using one hand to guide the truck into the gravel lot outside the barn, Wyatt cranks the gearshift into park and kills the engine.
The nighttime quiet fills the cab.
Is it just me, or is the silence between Wyatt and me suddenly thick, alive with anticipation?
“We should talk about what you’re okay with.” His eyes flick over my legs, lingering on the spot where my bare thigh peeks through the slit in my dress. “In terms of, you know, touching and…stuff. I don’t know if it’ll put you in your head or…”
I force out a laugh, cringing inwardly at the high, shaky sound of it. “I’m okay with touching and stuff. We did it at The Rattler the other night, and it actually helped me get out of my head.”
His eyes meet mine. “Tonight, I need you to be more specific. Tell me what you want me to do so I can do it.”
A rush of heat floods my face. I like this serious version of Wyatt too much.
I need a drink. Badly.
“To be honest, Wyatt, I’m not sure what to ask for.”
“Jesus, Sal, have you ever been on a date before?”
“I mean, I have. It’s just been a while. A long while since I had fun on a date. I forget how to do it. ”
He frowns. “You forget, or the guys you were with forgot how to treat you proper-like?”
“Proper-like?” I scrunch my nose. “All right, Pa from Little House on the Prairie. ”
He blinks, his eyes going soft. “Are you complimenting me with that reference?”
“Of course I am.” I smile, even as my heart twists. “I remember very well how obsessed you and your mom were with Laura Ingalls Wilder.”
“Yep.” He reaches for his mom’s ring, which he still wears on a gold chain around his neck. “It’s how Mom taught us to read chapter books. She started reading Little House in the Big Woods out loud to me, then had me read it to her. You know, me trailing my finger underneath every line as I sounded out the words.” He mimics the motion. “She was so patient.”
“A true saint for putting up with you.”
“No shit.” He pauses, giving me the impression he has more to say. Then he sucks in a breath through his nose. “Anyway, back to you and the clueless douches you’ve dated who made you feel the opposite of relaxed.”
I eye him for a long minute. “We can talk about your mom if you want. I’m in no rush to go inside.”
“And here I thought you were in a rush to get laid.”
Chuckling, I reply, “You’re not wrong about that.”
“Lemme help you figure out what you want then.” He nods at my clasped hands, which are resting in my lap. “We’ll start with holding hands. You still good with that? If memory serves, we did a lot of it at The Rattler.”
“You’re real smooth at changing the subject, but don’t think I don’t notice when you do it.” I search his face. “You can fool a lot of people, but you can’t fool me, Wyatt Rivers.”
His eyes take on a liquid gleam. It reminds me of the look I saw in Pepper’s eyes before I operated on her—the sheer terror, the pain.
My heart squeezes. Wyatt will talk about his parents in passing, but the only time he’s shared the full force of his grief with me was that day right before his parents’ funeral. At first, I thought him avoiding the subject was a survival tactic, a way of pushing through those first few awful weeks. But then weeks turned to months, and months turned to years. The years turned into a decade, and Wyatt has never opened up again. Not once.
I know he’s still hurting. He hides it so well, no one would ever guess he’s in pain. I just wish I understood why exactly he’s so scared to share that pain with me, his best friend.
Wyatt clears his throat. “I’m not trying to fool you, Sally. It’s just—” His Adam’s apple dips. “It’s hard, you know? Talking about her without, yeah, totally falling apart. I don’t wanna fall apart. Not tonight, when you got so dressed up and look so beautiful. You want me to remind you how to have fun, remember?”
My eyes fill with tears, but I manage to blink them back. “Fall apart with me another time then?”
He laughs. “Maybe. I don’t—I won’t make promises I can’t keep, Sal. But maybe.”
“I’ll take maybe. Maybe is good.”
“Maybe you wanna let me hold your hand again?”
“Yes.” I nod. “I’m definitely still good with that.”
Wyatt reaches across the cab, the sleeve of his jacket pulling back to reveal the silver cuff links he’s wearing.
Jesus, he really went all out.
I literally start to sweat when Wyatt carefully but confidently slips his first two fingers into the crook between my thumb and forefinger. My blood jumps at the contact. He pulls my hands apart and clasps my left one in his right. He firms his grip so that our palms are flush. His skin is warm, and his calluses are so large that they scrape against my skin in a way that’s foreign and thrillingly, shockingly tender .
Wyatt maintains eye contact the whole time. I know he’s just making sure I’m okay, but? —
He’s making sure I’m okay .
More than that, he’s making sure I actually like this.
It’s been so, so long since someone cared about me this way.
It makes me feel like I’m alive again, like I’m a full human being. One who deserves touch and fun and good sex and freedom and connection. With Wyatt’s hand on me, I’m not just a workhorse, a competent member of a team, a set of skills. I’m a soul. A body.
A being that exists only in the here and now.
My pulse beats a frantic, needy beat inside my skin. More. More. I could go for so much more of this.
“I see those wheels spinning,” Wyatt says. “For this, you gotta let your body do the talking. It’ll tell you what it wants.”
“I feel weird that you and I are discussing my body like this.”
“Sunshine, this whole fuckin’ thing is weird. Might as well embrace it.”
I furrow my brow, momentarily distracted from the pleasant, almost-silky feeling coursing through me. “Since when are you so on board with pretending to date me?”
He lifts a shoulder, the whisper of fabric just barely audible over the thump of my heartbeat. “You know I ain’t the type to do anything halfway. You want a fake boyfriend? Well then, I’m gonna be the best damn fake boyfriend you ever had, sugar.”
Without thinking, I twine our fingers. “You’re not gonna quit with the sugar , are you?”
He laughs. “You gotta let me make fun of you a little bit.”
“If you promise it’s just a little, little bit.” I pinch the fingers on my free hand together.
Wyatt smirks, his blue eyes going dark. “Ain’t nothin’ little about me, sugar. If the sound of that scares you, you’d better find yourself another fake date. ”
Aaaand now I’m picturing just how big Wyatt is. I’ve heard rumors. I mean, the guy is huge everywhere . Makes sense he’d be huge there too.
Need rips through me, sending a bolt of lightning straight to my clit.
“Are you doing this on purpose?” I manage.
“Doing what on purpose?” He’s still smirking.
“Making me blush.”
“You’re pretty when you blush.”
Fuck, now I’m blushing harder. God damn him.
“Stop it,” I say in all seriousness.
But Wyatt is never one to be serious. “Stop what?”
“Being so good at this.”
“Sugar, by the end of the night, you ain’t gonna be asking me to stop.”
I laugh. “Be honest. That line ever work?”
“Yep.” His eyes dance. “It workin’ on you?”
“Hell no.”
His accent gets thicker when he’s flirting. I realize mine does too.
Guess you can take the girl out of Texas, but you can’t take the Texas out of the girl.
“How about this? You take my lead tonight. Anything makes you uncomfortable, you just tug on your ear. Like this.” Wyatt plucks at his earlobe. “I like the earrings, by the way. The sparkle suits you.”
“You don’t have to compliment me.” I put my free hand on my face. My skin is hot, almost feverish. “We’re not inside yet.”
I imagine his eyes are burning when he replies, “I know. But I want to compliment you. You really do look beautiful, Sal.”
“Thanks. You really do look handsome, Wy.”
The smirk is back. “I know. Ready?” His eyes flick to the barn .
I’ve been ready to get laid proper-like for what feels like a lifetime.
I’m also so, so not ready to be on this cocky, gorgeous, foul-mouthed man’s arm all night. Seems too dangerous.
Too good to be true.
But that’s the thing: none of this is true. It’s all fake. I’m pretending to flirt with Wyatt in the hopes it reminds me how to have fun and not think so damn much.
If only the decades of friendship Wyatt and I share didn’t make this kinda-sorta date feel so deliciously real. We’re still holding hands, like it’s the most normal thing in the world for us to be touching this way. It feels…right.
Good.
Really good.
“I’m ready,” I say.
And he smiles. It’s not a smirk. Not a silly expression. It’s a real smile, the kind he lets touch his eyes, and my heart swells.
I love the real Wyatt. I need to bring him out more often.