22. Sally
CHAPTER 22
Sally
WILD CARD
Wyatt opens the front door of his house and holds out his arm. “After you.”
I step inside and am immediately inundated by a magazine-worthy spread of cozy deliciousness. Or would it be delicious coziness?
Either way, I never, ever want to leave.
The house is small but beautifully proportioned—think thirteen-foot ceilings, hand-carved millwork, and big windows that let in tons of light.
But it’s the tiny, beautifully decorated table in the kitchen to my right that has my heart doing a hundred backflips. The table is covered in a checkered tablecloth, and it’s set with real china and a pair of candles. There’s a charcuterie board on the countertop, alongside a big salad bowl that’s filled with crisp-looking greens topped with what appear to be chunks of roasted butternut squash.
The oven hums. The savory smell of roasting meat fills the air. There’s something oddly familiar about it.
Coldplay is on. A bottle of wine and two fancy-looking wineglasses are set out beside the sink.
Despite the massive amount of preparation that obviously happened in the kitchen, the space is spotless. So is the living room that the kitchen opens up to. It’s dominated by a huge fireplace, which is filled with wood.
I cover my mouth with my hand. I literally don’t know what to say. What to do.
This is all so perfect, so romantic, I want to cry. I’ve been here a handful of times since Wyatt moved in, but he’s never had it set up like this.
“Wy,” I say weakly.
Setting my bag on a nearby console table, Wyatt slips his fingers inside my coat. “You like it?”
“How did you—where did you—the time—and the salad—the wine—do you even like wine?—”
“I do actually.” He presses a scruffy kiss to my nape as he pulls off my coat. “I’ve been thinkin’ about this night all week. And thinkin’ about this night had me thinkin’ of you, which of course got me all hard and shit. My dick literally wouldn’t let me sleep. So figured I’d make good use of the time.”
I get this feeling in my chest. I can only describe it as a best-day-of-your-life feeling—so full of joy, of tenderness, that I’m about to burst.
Have I ever felt more special in my life?
Have I ever felt more seen?
This isn’t some half-assed date, thrown together at the last minute. This took thought. Planning. A serious amount of effort.
The kind of effort you make for the people you love. Not like . Not people you have casual, kinda-sorta dig-you feelings for.
I feel weak in my knees.
How is this happening so fast? But really, it’s not happening fast at all because it’s taken us twenty-plus years to get to this point.
Maybe that’s why I also don’t feel nervous. I’m thrumming with anticipation, sure. But I don’t feel the least bit self-conscious.
I feel pretty damn comfortable, like I always do when I’m with my best friend.
“Lemme pour you some wine,” Wyatt says as he hangs my coat in a narrow closet beside the door. “Then I’ll light a fire. Dinner should be ready in an hour or so.”
I head for the kitchen, my legs feeling like rubber. “I can open the wine.”
“You can, but you won’t. Not when I’m around.”
I still reach for the corkscrew, but Wyatt grabs it out of my hand. The muscles in his forearm flex as he pulls the cork out of the bottle in a smooth, well-practiced movement.
“Mollie came over yesterday,” Wyatt explains as he fills the glasses with a good pour of wine the color of black cherries. “She showed me how to properly open a bottle, and then we drank it while she helped me set the table.”
Just keep breathing . “You had Mollie over?”
“I did. Had to call in the experts.”
“She’s the fucking best.”
“Cash lucked out.” Wyatt holds out a glass and meets my gaze. “So did I. Cheers, Sunshine.”
I take the glass, our fingers brushing. “Cheers, handsome.”
His eyes stay locked on mine as I sip and he sips. I don’t know wine super well, but my roommates and I drank our fair share of it back in veterinary school. The stuff we bought from Trader Joe’s wasn’t awful, but it wasn’t great either.
This wine though? This is excellent . Bright, vibrant flavor explodes on my tongue. I can only describe it as fruity yumminess, the kind that makes you want to lick your glass.
“Damn.”
Wyatt smirks. “Am I off to a good start?”
“You already know you’re getting laid, right? You didn’t need to pull out all the stops. ”
“But I wanted to.”
The gray-blue light from the window catches on his irises, making them appear translucent, the color of the Texas sky at dawn.
Sliding a hand onto his neck, I lean in and close my eyes and kiss my man.
Wyatt Rivers is my man . For now.
I lick into his mouth and taste the wine. His tongue dances with mine, and we fall into a slow, easy, deep kiss that has my pulse thundering and my heart twisting.
Now was never going to be long enough with Wyatt, was it?
I want him forever.
I want to be kissed like this forever .
Wyatt growls, shifting so that his hips are angled toward me, pressing his body against mine. He cups my cheek in his hand and drinks me in. Awareness blooms between my legs, need gathering in my thighs, my abdomen, the back of my knees.
“You’re”—Wyatt feathers his lips over mine before breaking the kiss—“making it awful hard to do things in the proper order, Dr. Powell.”
I nudge his nose with mine because I do that now. I do what I feel like doing without worrying if it’s too much or not enough.
“Ever had sex before dinner on a first date, Mr. Rivers?”
“I’m not starting tonight. On the sofa, Sunshine. Now.”
But his fingers still linger on my face as I grin and step back, sipping my wine.
I fall onto the sofa cushions while Wyatt squats in front of the fireplace. His checkered button-up stretches across his shoulder blades as he moves, tossing more wood onto the pile, striking a match, waiting for it to catch.
Being a true cowboy, Wyatt is an expert at starting—and putting out—fires. This one flares to immediate life, the flames licking high up into the chimney. The homey smell of burning wood fills the room. Wyatt turns off the overhead lights, and suddenly I’m enveloped in this delightful little cocoon of flickering light and dancing shadows.
“You really know how to set the mood,” I say, marveling at the room.
Wyatt smirks. “I have an ulterior motive.”
I laugh at my line—the one I gave him when I asked him to be my fake date to the potluck. “I was hoping you might.”
Wyatt crosses to the kitchen and grabs the charcuterie board, setting it on the coffee table in front of me. “Hungry?”
“Yes.” I sit up on the couch. “This looks amazing.”
“You eat. I’m gonna check on the pot roast real quick.”
I blink. “You’re making pot roast?”
“Your mom’s pot roast, to be specific. I told her that I remembered it being one of your favorites, and she showed me how to make it. I figured it’d be a good thing for date night because all the prep work would be done by the time you got here.”
I blink again. Shit, am I really going to cry right now? “You are relentless.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s the best thing.” I gulp my wine and set the glass on the table, rising. “What can I help you with?”
Wyatt just shakes his head. “I got it. Sit your ass down and eat.”
“You sure?”
Wyatt grabs an oven mitt off the counter. “I know what I’m doing—I think.”
“I’m going to have sex with you even if you don’t.”
“I know.” He smirks again as he bends down and opens the oven, all cowboy cockiness in his jeans and belt buckle and button-up.
He’s a cowboy who cooks .
I drink my wine, and I eat delicious cheese, and I watch Wyatt do his thing. He cracks a dirty joke as he tosses the salad. Gives the pot of mashed potatoes on the stove a stir. He places silverware on the table, and when he comes over to nibble on the charcuterie, I’ve already got a cracker ready for him. It’s loaded with mortadella, a smear of creamy blue cheese, and a drizzle of local honey.
“Open,” I say.
The smirk is back. “Yes ma’am.”
I pop the cracker into his mouth, and he falls onto the couch beside me with an exaggerated moan.
“Okay, Mollie really knew what she was talking about when it came to this charcuterie business.”
“Of course she did. Crazy how much she’s shaken up things around here. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved hanging with y’all on the ranch. But now that Mollie’s in the picture, there’s so many exciting things happening.”
“Lots of great progress for sure,” Wyatt says.
“You have to be so, so proud of the work y’all are doing.”
Wyatt nods, sipping his wine. “I am. I’m proud of a lot of things happening right now.”
He meets my eyes, and my pulse thunders.
We sit and nibble and chat about everything and nothing. I get a yummy little buzz from the wine and an even bigger buzz from the playful, easy way Wyatt touches me. He puts a hand on my thigh. Wipes a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. Kneads my calf when I complain about a muscle I pulled there.
An hour goes by in the blink of an eye, and suddenly, the timer on Wyatt’s phone is going off.
“That’ll be dinner.” He gives my calf one last firm squeeze, making my blood jump. “Let me just get the pot roast out of the oven?—”
“How about I help make up our plates? And I’ll refill the wine.”
“I want you to relax, Sal. ”
“I want to help. Let me. It’ll be fun being in the kitchen together, mostly because it’ll give me a chance to grope you.”
He wags his brows. “I like it when you grope me.”
“Aw, handsome, I like it when you grope me too.”
The kitchen is small, and we keep bumping into each other as we open drawers and reach for cabinets.
“Sorry,” Wyatt says when his hand grazes my breasts as he grabs a wooden spoon. “Wait. No, I’m not.”
My hand finds his ass as I’m reaching for the box of matches by the sink. “How inappropriate of me.”
His hand slips between my legs as I’m lighting the candles, his middle finger trailing over the center seam of my jeans. My breath catches.
Wyatt grins. “Very inappropriate.”
“The most inappropriate.”
“I should probably stop now.”
“You probably should.”
He presses his finger against me, right where my clit is, and I see stars.
“Remind me why we’re doing dinner first?”
“Because you said we were?” I’m panting.
A muscle in his jaw tics. “Gonna be a long night. You need your strength, Sunshine. Let’s eat.”
He pulls out my chair, and I stare at him for a full beat.
“What?” His voice is gruff. “Mollie trained me well. I asked her to show me how to be a good boyfriend, and, well, now I’m a fucking great boyfriend, aren’t I?”
He’s so cocky I can’t stand it.
So cute that I cannot freaking stand it.
He called himself my boyfriend.
My heart skips several beats as that sinks in. I love, love the idea of being his girlfriend.
I swipe my index finger over his mouth. “You’ve been taking lessons too, huh?”
“I got a lot to learn,” he says, eyes flickering .
I sit, and he pushes my chair in.
I look down at the plate of beautiful food in front of me. Look up at the beautiful man across from me.
Best night of my life? Possibly.
Best date I’ve been on? Absolutely.
“You know who you remind me of tonight?” I place the cloth napkin— a cloth napkin! —on my lap. “Your mom.”
I didn’t intend to bring up Betsy Rivers. It’s clearly a touchy subject for Wyatt. But I feel like he’ll appreciate the compliment.
Maybe—just maybe—he’ll open up a little more.
Wyatt glances at me as he picks up his fork. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. She was always in the kitchen making something for y’all. I remember her putting on her apron and turning on that little speaker she had?—”
“The pink one, shaped like a gigantic pill.” Wyatt laughs and shovels a forkful of pot roast into his mouth. “Good memory.”
“Betsy loved her some Shania.” I try my pot roast too. “Wow, Wyatt, that’s delicious.”
“You think so?”
“Hell yes. Thank you.”
Wyatt grins. “But yeah, how many dance parties did we have listening to that album? The one with ‘Man, I Feel Like a Woman!’ on it?”
My heart swells. He’s doing it. Wyatt really is opening up.
That’s a big, big deal.
“Too many to count,” I say with a smile.
He blinks, looking away as he eats his salad. “Mom was the best.”
“You take after her. Cash is one hundred percent your dad?—”
“Kinda scary when you think about how alike they are.”
“No kidding. But you’re Betsy through and through.” I scoop up some mashed potatoes on my fork and hold it up. “ Case in point: these are her mashed potatoes, aren’t they? Made with parsnips?”
He’s blinking again, not meeting my eyes. “Only way to make ’em.”
I slide the fork into my mouth. The potatoes are delicious , just the slightest bit sweet from the parsnips. “You’re so right. That is so damn right, Wyatt, it’s not even funny.”
“They’re good?”
“Best I’ve ever had. Just as good as your mom’s.” I smile. “She’d be so proud of you, Wy.”
I watch his Adam’s apple bob on a swallow. My eyes fill when I see his expression flicker. Shit, I took it too far, didn’t I?
He clears his throat. “Thank you for saying that.”
A beat of silence. I don’t rush to fill it. The moment suddenly feels tender in every sense of the word. It’s tender, as in it’s sweet, but it also feels like I’m pressing on a sore spot.
Part of me wants to backtrack, to say, Hey, it’s all right if you don’t want to talk about this. But he already knows that. Wyatt can change the subject at any time.
I wait for him to do exactly that. Instead, he takes the stem of his wineglass in his hand and rolls it between his fingers.
He sniffles. “I miss her, you know?”
I dab at my eyes with my napkin. “I know.”
“Sometimes—” He lets out a breath. “Sometimes, it hurts too bad just to think about how much I miss her. How much I’ve missed out on, losing her when I did. I can’t—it’s like I can’t breathe when I think about all the years that have passed that she hasn’t been around for. The things she wasn’t able to witness, you know?”
This is an important moment. There’s a breakthrough happening, and my heart is hammering, and I’m overwhelmed by the love and the respect I have for Wyatt.
I don’t think .
I just get up, set my napkin on the table, and walk around to him. I loop my arms around his neck and settle myself in his lap. Just like I did the night we played poker together.
Seems like forever ago.
Seems like yesterday.
Wyatt immediately pulls me against him, holding me close, and I rest my forehead against his so that our noses touch too. I take a deep inhale, then slowly let it out.
“Let me remind you how breathing is done then,” I whisper. “Hear the air go in and out? Now you do the same.”
I put my hand on his chest. Feel it barrel out on his inhale. Feel it fall on his shaky exhale that courses over my face in a warm rush.
We sit like that for one breath, then another, and another.
“This is not how I wanted dinner to go,” Wyatt says with a half-hearted scoff. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I lift my head and look him in the eye. “I’m not going anywhere, Wy.”
His eyes are a little frantic as they search mine. “You’re not leaving right now.” The words come out as a statement, but I know they’re a question.
“I’m not leaving.”
He swallows. “Why not?”
“Because you still owe me mind-blowing sex.”
Wyatt laughs, the sound real and loud and relieved, and something breaks loose in my chest.
I love how I can make this man laugh.
I love you, Wy, and I’m gonna stay.
“That, I can do.” He presses a kiss to my forehead.
“Your feelings don’t scare me. You know what does? You keeping everything bottled up in here.” I tap my finger on his breastbone. “So talk to me. I’m listening.”