Chapter 29 Abilene
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Abilene
Tuesday
The thing about living alone is that you learn the language of your own house.
You learn what every creak means. What every pipe groan means. Which floorboard complains, and which one screams like it’s auditioning for a horror movie.
You learn the rhythm of your space so completely that anything outside that rhythm feels wrong.
So when there’s a knock at my front door, sharp and decisive, my entire body jolts as if I’ve been caught doing something illegal.
Which is ridiculous, because the most illegal thing I’m doing right now is arguing with a roll of twine.
“Okay,” I mutter to myself, hands full of market stall carnage. “Okay. You are fine. You are a normal adult. Adults answer doors.”
The second knock comes, polite but firm.
I glance down at my kitchen table, which looks like a honey tornado hit it. Jars lined up in neat rows, labels stacked as tiny paper accusations, beeswax candles waiting to be wrapped, a clipboard with an order list from the general store in town, and in the center of it all…
My grandmother’s journal.
Open. Watching me.
Beside it: the letters.
Two envelopes, both plain, both too quiet, both somehow loud enough to make my chest feel tight when I look at them.
I should be focusing on those.
I should be focusing on the clues, the cryptic lines, the look where she worked when she didn’t want to be interrupted and look where you learned patience and the way it all feels like someone is trying to lead me by the hand through my own life.
Instead, I’ve been focusing on…
Other things.
Jesse’s hands. Jesse’s mouth…
I clear my throat, as if that will clear my brain too, and I set the twine down before it becomes a weapon. I wipe my hands on my apron and smooth my braid like it hasn’t been smoothed eight times already.
Then I go to the door and open it.
And for half a second, my mind doesn’t compute what I’m seeing.
Wyatt Tucker is on my porch.
Not in his vet clinic version. Scrubs, tired eyes, that faint “I’ve been peed on by something” energy.
Not in his cabin version. Rumpled, barefoot, looking weirdly vulnerable as he spoke softly about his parents and chamomile and the way steadiness can be a kind of love.
This is… Wyatt in the wild.
Jeans. Work boots. A jacket. Hair still slightly damp like he showered and then immediately regretted it. Glasses sitting straight on his nose for once, which makes him look more put-together than usual.
He’s holding a small paper bag with a yellow ribbon looped around the handles. Like he’s at my door to deliver a present and not to give me a heart attack.
“Hi,” he says.
His voice is calm.
His hands are not.
The bag shifts slightly as his grip tightens, and I realize, with a sudden, jolting clarity…
Wyatt Tucker is nervous.
The fact is so unexpected that I almost laugh out loud. Instead, I blink at him as if I’ve never seen a man before.
“Hi,” I manage, because my brain has apparently reduced itself to a single syllable.
Wyatt clears his throat. “I… uh.” He glances past my shoulder into my kitchen, where the frenzy is visible from the doorway. “Are you busy?”
“No,” I say too fast.
Then, because I’m apparently committed to embarrassing myself today, I add, “Yes. I mean. I’m… busy, but not busy busy. Like… productive busy.”
Wyatt’s mouth twitches. It’s not a full smile, but it’s close.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he says, and somehow that makes my chest ache a little, offering me a quiet understanding in the middle of my frantic, buzzing life.
I’m suddenly very aware that I’m wearing leggings with a smear of honey on my thigh and an oversized sweatshirt that says SWEET HAVEN HONEY CO. in faded letters.
Wyatt’s gaze flicks briefly to my sweatshirt, then back to my face, and he looks fond. Like it’s exactly what he expected to find me in.
Which is unfair.
“Can I come in?” he asks, then immediately adds, “Or we can talk out here. I just… I didn’t want to… I mean, I can leave if you’re in the middle of something—”
“Come in,” I blurt.
Then I step aside so fast I nearly trip.
Wyatt ducks in, careful not to bump the doorframe, and the scent of outside comes with him. Clean damp air, pine, the faint sharp edge of echoing smoke the valley still wears.
He pauses just inside, not sure where to put himself.
I’m not sure where to put myself either.
I shut the door behind him and immediately regret the choice, because now he’s trapped in my house with me, and my heartbeat is in my throat.
Wyatt looks toward the table again.
The journals. The letters. The jars.
The whole mess.
His brows lift slightly. “Market prep?”
“Yes,” I say, relieved to have something normal to cling to. “And an order for Maeve. She stocks my soaps and candles and—”
“I know,” he says softly.
Heat rises into my cheeks.
Wyatt shifts the paper bag in his hand, clears his throat again, and suddenly looks like he’s bracing himself to walk into a storm.
“I brought you something,” he says, holding it out.
My eyes lock on the ribbon, and my heart does a weird little flip.
I just stare because no one brings me gifts. Not like this. Not with intent. Not with that careful, nervous energy that says this matters.
I take it slowly, as if it might explode.
“It’s… not much,” Wyatt adds quickly. “I just… I was at Larsen’s and I saw a few things and I thought—”
“I… thank you,” I interrupt, because my voice is doing that wobbly thing it does when I’m overwhelmed.
Wyatt nods once. I set the bag on the table, fingertips brushing the ribbon, confirming it’s real.
Then I look back at him.
His eyes are on me. And there’s emotion in them that makes my skin prickle.
Not Jesse’s heat. Not Marshall’s weight.
This is different.
This is Wyatt’s steadiness tipping into bravery.
“I actually came for another reason,” he says.
My stomach drops.
“Oh,” I whisper.
Wyatt takes a breath. And then, like he’s ripping off a bandage, he says, “Would you like to go out with me?”
The words hit me so hard I swear the room tilts.
I stare at him. He stares back.
My brain makes a noise like a computer crashing.
Wyatt’s voice is still calm, but there’s a tightness under it now, like I’m holding something fragile and he’s hoping I don’t break it.
“A date,” he clarifies, because apparently my face has gone completely blank. “Not, like a huge thing. Just… dinner. Or coffee. Or, I don’t know, we could do something low-key. I just…” He exhales. “I’d like to take you out. Properly.”
Properly.
That single word is… too much.
My throat tightens.
Because the truth is, no one has ever asked me that.
Not like this.
Not with sincerity.
Not with the quiet courage of a man who has clearly thought about it enough to be nervous and still showed up anyway.
My pulse is racing.
My hands feel cold and hot at the same time.
Wyatt is watching me, trying to read my reaction the way he reads animals, looking for signs of fear, signs of bolting, signs of yes or no before I even speak.
“Wyatt…” I start.
My voice cracks.
He immediately looks like he’s about to back up, to give me space, to retreat before I can hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “That was too direct. I should’ve… I just…”
“No,” I blurt. “No, don’t. It’s not too direct. It’s… it’s kind. It’s…”
My chest is so tight it hurts.
And then the panic arrives.
Because Wyatt is standing in my kitchen asking me on a date like I’m a normal woman who knows how to be wanted.
But I’m not.
I’m the woman who kisses her neighbor in a hallway like she’s losing her mind. I’m the woman who has men looking at her in ways she doesn’t know how to handle.
I’m the woman who has been doing something with Jesse for approximately five minutes and already feels like she’s been struck by lightning.
My heart stutters.
My mouth opens.
And because I’m apparently determined to be the most awkward person alive, I say the first thing my brain throws at me.
“I’ve been kinda sorta dating Jesse.”
The silence that follows is so thick it could be poured into jars and sold at the market as Mortifying Pause Honey.
Wyatt’s face goes still, like his mind is processing new information, slotting it into place, adjusting the entire structure around it.
“Oh,” he says.
It’s soft.
Too soft.
My stomach drops through the floor.
“I didn’t—” I rush forward, words tumbling so fast they trip over themselves. “I didn’t mean… I mean, I do mean it, but it’s not… it’s not official or anything. It’s… we…”
My face is burning.
I can’t stop talking.
Wyatt blinks once.
And there it is. Wyatt Tucker, the calm vet, suddenly looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
He slides one hand into his pocket, then pulls it out again like it doesn’t belong there.
“Okay,” he says quietly.
I flinch at the calmness. It’s worse than if he reacted.
Because calm means he’s absorbing it.
It means he’s taking it seriously.
“Wyatt,” I whisper, desperate now, “I didn’t know what to do. I still don’t. I’ve never… I’ve never had this kind of attention. Not like… not like this. Not from you. Not from Jesse.”
Wyatt’s eyes soften.
That softness is going to destroy me.
“I’m not here to add pressure,” he says gently. “I just… wanted to try. And if you’re seeing Jesse, then you’re seeing Jesse.”
“I like you,” I blurt.
Wyatt’s brows lift slightly.
“I do,” I insist, trembling. “I like you so much. You’re… good. And you’re steady. And you make me feel safe. And I…”
I swallow hard.
“And I don’t think I can do this right now,” I finish miserably.
Wyatt holds my gaze. For a long second, he doesn’t say anything.
Then he nods once, a small, controlled movement.
“Okay,” he says again, and the word is still calm, but now it has more under it.
My throat tightens so hard I feel like I might cry.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Wyatt’s mouth twitches, faintly.
“You don’t have to apologize for being honest.”
I stare at him. That’s too mature. Too kind.
That’s not fair.
He glances at the bag on the table. “You can still keep those.”