Chapter 13 Rose
Rose
Wyatt is my first lookout of the day.
I have work to do on my computer. I told them it was fine and that I could handle things myself.
No one would hear of it. And if I’m honest, the confrontation with the reporter did rattle me.
As much as I like to pretend I’m the fiercely independent beta I’ve always claimed to be, it’s…
nice. Nice to have someone else take on the world for a minute.
Wyatt sits across the round kitchen table from me. Every so often, I peer over my screen at him. His brows pinch in concentration, his gaze fixed on his own laptop.
On the third—or maybe eighth—time I look at him, he catches me.
“Everything alright, Sugarplum?”
The pet name rolls off his tongue like thick hot chocolate, warm and slow, curling my toes.
“N-no,” I stammer. “I mean—yes.” I shake my head and force my attention back to the screen.
But when I glance up again, he’s still watching me.
I try to ignore him. After a few long minutes, the clacking of his keyboard resumes.
“I’m hungry. You hungry?” he asks, casual.
“Actually, I’m starving,” I admit.
His crooked smile hits me like a gut punch.
He gets up and starts moving around the kitchen. Soon, the smell of butter, melted cheese, and toasted bread fills the air. My stomach growls so loud I almost laugh.
I stand and lean against the island, watching him cook. “Are there tomatoes in that?”
“Trust.” He shoots me a half-smile as he slides the sandwiches onto plates. He picks them up but stumbles. The plates tilt. The sandwiches clatter unceremoniously onto the table.
I’m by his side in a heartbeat. His face contorts in pain, one hand clutching his leg.
“Here.” I slip under his arm. He leans on me. Not fully, but enough that I guide him to the couch. He sinks down with a groan. Still gripping his right thigh, teeth clenched.
I’ve noticed it before. The limp. The winces. The way he favors his left side when he thinks no one’s watching.
I rush to the sink, grab a tea towel with little sheep on it, and run the water. It takes forever to warm. My hands shake. Finally, I soak it, wring it out, make sure it’s hot.
When I return, Wyatt’s watching me through the pain.
I set the towel on the coffee table and reach for his belt.
He jerks. “What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to get your pants off,” I say, exasperated.
He jerks again. “Sugarplum, I’d usually be real interested in a gorgeous woman trying to get me naked, but I’m not exactly at peak performance right now.”
I roll my eyes and ignore the fact that the way he called me a gorgeous woman makes me light up inside. “The compress will help. But I need to see the injury. Stop being such a baby.”
He glares, and then undoes the buckle and top button.
The zipper drag reverberates in the room in a way that has me clenching my thighs.
He pulls down his pants, leaving his boxers, so that his full thighs and knees are revealed.
A jagged scar, fully healed but still an angry red wraps from his inner thigh around to his knee.
I bite my lip. His eyes catch the motion like a hawk.
I’d looked up ways to ease leg pain. Slowly, I start massaging around the injury.
He groans. Low. Rough. It vibrates through me like a struck tuning fork, straight to the heat between my legs.
I bite down hard on my lip. I try not to look. I fail. His head is thrown back, fists clenched, face tight with pain and... relief. He could be mid-orgasm. My panties are soaked.
“When did you get this?” I ask quickly, trying to ground myself in conversation.
“Accident with a bull.” His voice is gravel.
I raise a brow. “That might be the most cowboy thing you’ve ever said.”
He laughs. It's deep, warm and sinful. It slides over me like a rough palm.
“Fair.”
“Did you work on a ranch or something?”
“Bull rider,” he grits out as I press into a knot in his thigh.
I pause. “That’s not a real thing.”
He huffs a real laugh this time. Dimples cut into his cheeks.
“It is. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”
“What happened?” The smile fades. I regret the question instantly. “It’s okay. You don’t have to—”
He tips his head back. His voice hits the ceiling.
“National Finals Rodeo. Vegas. I had good odds. First day, bad rope wrap. Bull yanked me forward. I landed in front of it. Broke the femur. Got a bunch of rods in there now. TSA loves me.”
He tries to laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Jesus. You could’ve been killed.” I skim my fingers across the scar, reverent. The thought of him not being here guts me. His hand tilts my chin again. His dark gaze softens.
“I’m okay, Sugarplum. Thought it was the end of the world. But it wasn’t. Things turned around.” He lets go. The loss is physical.
Wyatt tugs his pants back up, covering the scar. “Thank you. That actually helped a lot.”
I hand him his plate and settle beside him. The sandwiches are cold but still amazing.
“When did you join the pack?” I ask softly.
“When Logan came into the roadside diner I was working at about three years ago.” His smile is faint.
“Owners didn’t care what I made, as long as it was hot and on time.
So, I made what I wanted. Grandma taught me to cook.
Traveling for bull riding gave me new flavors, new tricks. After the accident, it kept me sane.”
“You’re really gifted,” I say, honest.
He shrugs.
I bump his shoulder. “You know you are.”
He grins, conceding. “Logan brought in Harlan. Asked me to cook for him. Harlan offered me a job launching their line of restaurants. I took it. We packed up not long after.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” I whisper.
“Me too,” he says, eyes still on mine.
The space between us hums. One wrong move and I might lean in, just to see what his lips feel like.
Instead, I take a bite of my sandwich and stare at the wall.
Wyatt chuckles under his breath, like he knows exactly what I’m doing—and lets me.