Chapter 8 #2
I shift in my seat, the cooling sweat from my run makes me shiver as the wind picks up.
“You okay there, Em?” Mike asks again, his voice taking on a comforting tone he likely uses on a 911 call. I can feel him tracking my shivering even as he keeps a close eye on Kassie across the fire.
“I’m fine, just a little chill,” I say, finally untying the hoodie from my waist and tugging it over my head. The warmth is a relief against my damp skin.
“Hey Mike, did you see that monster truck Emily drives?” Wes teases, his grin widening as he nudges Chuck.
I shoot him a look of mock offence. “It is not a monster truck. It’s a precision machine, actually.”
“That blue thing I saw when I passed by the house on my way in?” Mike asks, his brows shooting up. “Don’t tell me that’s yours.”
“You know what? I’m starting to think nobody on this ranch appreciates the German engineering behind that car,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
Mike doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. He only stares at me with a grim look that makes my stomach do a slow roll. “The only thing I appreciate about that is how much of a nightmare it would be to cut you outta that death trap.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Even the fire seems to hiss in protest. Chuck and Sarah both stiffen, their eyes darting toward the main house where Wyatt disappeared only minutes ago. Wes’s grin vanishes so fast it’s like it was never there.
Everyone is glaring at Mike, but he’s already looking at his boots, the weight of what he just said clearly sinking in.
“Fuck,” Mike mutters under his breath, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the wood. “I’m lucky he wasn’t around to hear that.”
I feel the blood drain from my face. I knew Wyatt had lost his wife in an accident. I knew there was a reason he was so protective, so rigid about safety, but hearing a first responder talk about cutting someone out makes the reality of it hit deep
Kassie is the only one who doesn’t look away. She stares at the spot where Wyatt was sitting. I can tell she’s growing tired of tiptoeing around her brother’s grief.
She takes a long, slow pull of her beer.
“Well,” she says, her voice cutting through the tension like a serrated knife. “Good thing he’s inside then, isn’t it?”
* * *
It’s midnight by the time I finally make it back to the house. I got caught up in the chatter by the fire, and being amongst company felt so good. After months of lonely, quiet nights caring for my father, being surrounded by life and laughter is a relief I didn’t know I needed.
The house is mostly draped in darkness, save for a faint, warm glow emanating from the window of Wyatt’s room.
I slip through the side door into the kitchen, moving as quietly as I can.
I stop only to fill a glass from the faucet, the water splashing softly in the quiet, before I begin the trek upstairs.
I try to tiptoe silently, but three beers have made my coordination a little unsteady. I’m doing my best ‘stealth mode’ as I reach the landing, aiming to pass Wyatt’s room without a sound, when his door suddenly creaks open.
I gasp, stumbling back and virtually crashing into a wall of warm, bare skin. The water in my glass sloshes violently.
Fuck.
I mean, I knew he’d be buff. You don’t run a ranch this size without some serious muscle, but holy hell.
My brain completely short-circuits. In the dim light of the hallway, I can’t take my eyes off his chest. The hard planes of his abs and the dark smattering of hair that trails down, disappearing into the low-slung waistband of his gray sweats.
And dear God, there’s quite the outline going on down there.
“Oh! Uh…sorry. Did I wake you?” I ask sheepishly, forcing my eyes north to his face. My heart is beating frantically, and it’s not because of the stairs I’ve just climbed, three beers deep.
Wyatt looks just as startled, his hand still gripping the doorframe. “Oh—no. Sorry. I thought I heard Alex leaving his room.”
“Sorry, I tried to be quiet,” I mutter, clutching my glass of water tighter. “Lost track of time. Mike dropped me back up here on his way home because it was dark.”
“Oh.”
The word comes out flatly. He doesn’t move out of the doorway, and the space between us feels electric and suffocating all at once.
“He seems nice,” I say, desperate to break the tension with some mindless small talk.
Wyatt’s jaw tightens. He finally looks at me, but his expression is unreadable, his eyes track the flush I know is creeping up my cheeks, which I’m totally blaming on the Coors. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. You should get to know him.”
The words hit me like he’s shoved me away in disgust. What the fuck is that supposed to mean? “Oh…no. No, that’s not what I—”
I start to protest, my voice rising in a mix of offense and confusion, but he cuts me off with a dismissive shake of his head.
“Doesn’t matter. None of my business anyway,” he grunts.
The coldness in his tone is like a bucket of ice water. He steps back into the shadows of his room, his hand already on the edge of the door, shutting me out before I can even find my tongue.
“Night, Emily,” he says, his voice like gravel.
The door shuts. I’m left standing in the dark hallway, my heart racing and cheeks burning, wondering how one man can be so incredibly attractive and such a massive prick at the same time.