Wyatt #2
I didn't say any of that. Instead, I reached out and wiped a smudge of soot off her cheek with my thumb.
"Because you'd have gotten kidnapped. And that would've ruined my reputation."
Her laugh came soft. Surprised. Real.
And I realized—standing in my smoke-filled kitchen with a girl who couldn't cook and couldn't lie and couldn't stop breaking through every wall I'd built—I was already completely screwed.
I pulled up the pizza place on my phone. "What do you want?"
She leaned against the counter, still flushed from the smoke disaster. "I don't know. What do you usually get?"
"Supreme. Extra pepperoni."
"That works."
I started to order, then paused. "No pineapple arguments?"
Her nose wrinkled. "Why would I argue about pineapple?"
"Some people have opinions."
"About fruit on pizza?" She shook her head. "I have bigger things to worry about than tropical controversy."
I almost smiled. Almost. "Smart."
I placed the order—thirty minutes—and set the phone down. She moved to the table, pulling out a chair. I followed, taking the seat across from her. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable exactly, just… weighted.
Finally, I broke it. "I would've expected your father to make sure you knew how to cook."
She blinked, caught off guard. "Why?"
"Traditional guy. Big on image, presentation, legacy. Figured he'd want his daughter to have the whole package."
Her laugh came bitter. "My dad didn't raise me to be domestic. He raised me to take over."
I leaned back, studying her. "Take over what?"
"Everything." She traced a pattern on the table with her finger. "His company. His vision. His legacy. He started preparing me for it when I was fifteen."
"You mean grooming?"
She made a face. "I don't like that word."
I ignored her. "Grooming you how?"
"Business meetings. Strategy sessions. Financial reports.
" She shrugged, but tension lined her shoulders.
"While other girls were learning to bake cookies, I was learning to read quarterly statements.
He'd bring me to investor dinners, teach me how to work a room, how to remember names and faces. How to be useful."
That word landed heavy. Useful.
"He wanted you in the business that badly?"
"He didn't have a son." Her voice went flat. Clinical. "So I became the next best thing. Smart enough to learn, pretty enough to represent the brand, obedient enough to follow his lead."
My jaw tightened. "That's a hell of a way to talk about your own kid."
"That's how he saw it." She met my eyes. "Still sees it, probably. I'm an investment. A legacy piece. The future face of Harrington Development."
"And you wanted that?"
She hesitated. "I wanted him to be proud of me."
I watched her carefully. "What changed?"
Her fingers stilled on the table. For a long moment, she didn't answer. Then, "Nothing changed. I just… started seeing it differently."
"When?"
She looked at me. Really looked. "When he agreed to let you have me for thirty days without asking if I wanted that."
I should've felt satisfied. This was working. The plan was fracturing her loyalty exactly as intended.
Instead, I felt sick.
The doorbell rang before I could respond to what she'd just said. I stood, grateful for the interruption, and grabbed cash from my wallet.
The delivery guy handed over two boxes—I'd ordered breadsticks too, figuring she'd need comfort food after the cooking disaster. When I returned to the kitchen, she was already pulling plates from the cabinet like she lived here.
Maybe she was starting to.
We ate in relative silence. She demolished three slices faster than I expected, humming slightly after the first bite. The sound did something strange to my chest.
"Better than your chicken?" I asked.
She glared at me, mouth full. Swallowed. "Significantly."
I grabbed a breadstick. She reached for one at the same time, our fingers brushing. She pulled back like I'd burned her, cheeks flushing pink. I pretended not to notice.
Halfway through her fourth slice, she gestured while talking about something—couldn't even remember what—and a piece of melted cheese stuck to her chin.
She kept talking, completely oblivious.
I watched it sit there for three seconds. Four. She still didn't notice.
Without thinking, I leaned across the table.
Her words cut off mid-sentence as my thumb swept across her chin, collecting the cheese. Her eyes went wide—startled, uncertain, locked on mine.
I should've grabbed a napkin. Should've told her. Should've done literally anything else. Instead, I brought my thumb to my mouth and licked the cheese off.
Her breath caught. Audible. Sharp. Color flooded her face—not embarrassment this time. Something deeper. Hotter. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then jerked away like she'd been caught doing something forbidden.
She stared hard at her plate, suddenly very interested in her crust. Something shifted inside me. Unsettled. Wrong-footed.
That wasn't calculated. Wasn't part of the plan. Wasn't strategy or revenge or manipulation.
That was instinct.
Possession.
The kind of casual intimacy that belonged to couples who'd been together for months, not a fake relationship built on blackmail and lies.
I sat back slowly, jaw tight.
She still wouldn't look at me.
The kitchen felt smaller. Warmer. Dangerous.
I needed distance. Needed to rebuild the walls I'd just blown through without meaning to. But when she finally glanced up—cautious, curious, conflicted—I couldn't make myself move. Because the truth was becoming unavoidable. This stopped being revenge the moment I started wanting her to stay.