Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
WYATT
“What’s all this?”
My brother’s voice cuts through the blaring music, causing my head to whip in his direction.
He leans against the doorway to the guest room, both hands filled to the brim with what looks like shopping bags.
My eyes immediately jump to his side, where Benji’s sitting with a toy duck hanging from his mouth, butt and tail wagging faster than my eyes can handle.
My gaze narrows back on Wesley when I see the tag is still attached, and the shit-head just smirks in return.
He’s the sole reason this dog has more toys than I do underwear.
He sets the shopping bags on the ground, waving a hand over them.
“Blake went on a shopping spree. A couple of toys for Brinley and clothes for both the girls.”
I eye the bags and Benji’s new toy, before pivoting to turn down the radio. “That included a new toy for Benji?”
“Like I’ve told you before,” Wesley grins, leaning down to pat my dog on the head, “there’s a reason he likes us more.”
His smile reminds me so much of our dad that it knocks the breath from my lungs.
I force myself to focus on the crib instructions, needing to look away for a second.
I pick up some screws and place one between my teeth as I hammer another into the wood paneling.
“Where is my soon to be sister-in-law?” I ask.
“Last I checked, yelling at the caterer.” Wesley’s grimace is quick to mirror my own.
Blake Warner is the last person I’d want on my bad side.
Their wedding is two weeks from now, and they’ve run into enough problems planning as is.
I should probably pick up my suit from the tailor just outside of town before she comes knocking on my door.
Wesley pushes off the door to loom over me, glancing through the bags on the bed and the cardboard boxes scattered throughout the room. “Kinda looks like you’re building a nursery, brother.”
“I’m not.” I snap, reaching up to swat one of his hands away from a bag. I really didn’t get much. Just whatever they might need to be comfortable while they’re here. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. It was this or following Whitney around the ranch like a puppy after a bone.
I purposely gave her the most difficult horse I had in the hopes of buying myself some time away from the woman. I could’ve gotten some work done myself, but my focus would be elsewhere.
The jeans she came out in this morning nearly brought me to my knees. The image is burned so deeply into my retinas that every time I blink, it’s all I see.
Arson isn’t my thing, but if it was, Dusty Layne Boutique would be at the top of my hit list for selling Whitney those.
I don’t know why I was expecting more whining this morning.
Or thinking I’d have to tell her to change her shoes before we headed out—like she’d show up wearing sandals or something equally as stupid.
It’s probably because I keep forcing myself to forget everything when it comes to Whitney.
If I don’t, I’ll do something creepy like googling her competition videos or–“Mom told me you went on a date.” Wesley interrupts my thoughts from all things Whitney.
I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. I can already feel a headache brewing. “Mom’s a gossip.”
“She always will be,” he sing-songs. “How’d it go, though?”
What the fuck is this? An interrogation? I thought he was just dropping shit off. I give him a look that hopefully conveys this. “I don’t even remember her name.”
The look that immediately washes over his face tells me he assumes I brought her home. I don’t have the energy to correct him. That would only lead to more questions that I have zero desire to entertain. As if my mother’s ears were ringing, a text dings from my back pocket.
Mom
Angela said you never called her.
If she’s texting my mom after one date, I’m glad I didn’t.
Don’t be rude. She’s cute.
How is Whitney’s first day? Brinley and I are best friends already.
Attachment: 1 Photo
I let a smile tug at my lips at the picture my mom sent.
Brinley is in a shopping cart, with four or five stuffed animals surrounding her.
Her grin is so wide, it reaches her eyes.
Those dark corkscrew curls of hers make it impossible not to smile.
She’s adorable—and she looks so much like her mama.
I’m glad that my mom’s having so much fun with Brinley.
Despite the fact that she drives me insane with the “give me a grandchild” mantra, it makes sense.
She won’t admit it, but I’m sure she gets a bit lonely.
Our schedules make it difficult to carve out the time to stop in and see her.
I wonder if Whitney knows it’s as much for my mom’s benefit as it is hers.
I check the time on my screen, realizing I should probably check on her and Maggie. It’s been a few hours.
I tuck my phone away, patting my brother on the shoulder before I leave the room. “Thanks for comin’. Now, go home before Blake kills the caterer.”
My boots crunch against the gravel as I make my way down to Maggie’s stall. Wesley left quickly after I did, but said he’d reach out soon for some kind of family dinner plans.
I’m not surprised Whitney didn’t manage to get Maggie out of the stall and into the field.
The few times I’ve tried to swindle that horse into even letting me brush her, she nearly bit my head off.
A small, evil part of me finds satisfaction in the idea that Whitney won’t beat me at this kind of game, let alone on day one.
All smugness I feel is wiped away the second I see them, though.
Because Whitney is sitting on a stool in Maggie’s stall, her feet propped up on a hay bale, while a manicured hand flips through a book that lays in her lap.
And Maggie, the horse who has never let anyone near her or around her for more than five minutes, is eating a damn peppermint out of the woman’s free hand.
Whitney’s eyes meet mine over the horse’s snout, and a gorgeous, mischievous grin lights up her face.