Page 39 of Wyatt
“So, just to confirm”—Dadeyes me across the tiny kitchen island—“you and Wyatt aren’t actually dating. Y’all are just going to the potluck tonight as friends.”
Poking a sparkly hoop earring through my earlobe, I nod. “Exactly.”
“But he’s coming to pick you up.” Mom lifts her mug of tea to her lips as her eyes flick over my little black dress and heels. “And your outfit isfancy. You look gorgeous, honey.”
I grin as I guide the little plastic back onto the hoop post. “Thank you. The dress code is semi-formal, so?—”
“Those earrings are new,” Dad says.
“Yep,” I reply easily, like I didn’t pay an extra forty bucks in shipping just to get them delivered in time for tonight. I was sweating bullets until they finally arrived at the post office in town this afternoon.
Mom’s eyes are kind when she adds, “That’s a lot of sparkle for you. I like it.”
Dad, though, wears this funny expression as he eyes the earrings, then my face. Do I detect a hint of annoyance? Anger even? I feel like he’s been acting weird ever since I accepted the job at Ithaca University. Well, not weirdnecessarily. Vigilant might be a better word. It’s like he’s watching my every move, making sure I stay in line or something.
“You’re too old for a curfew, right?” he asks.
“Right.” I go up on my tiptoes to peck his cheek. “I’ll let y’all know if I’m going to be late.”
Dad sighs. “I feel like I should bring Wyatt inside when he gets here. I’ll make sure he sees the gun safe and put the fear of God in him.” He nods at the tall rifle safe tucked behind the stairs.
Rolling my eyes, I elbow Dad. “Don’t you dare.”
Ordinarily, I’d promise to behave. But I’m sick of behaving. I don’t want to do anything stupid or careless, but I also want to have fun. Cut loose a little—or a lot.
And no one is better at having fun than my date.
Speaking of, my heart nearly pops out of my chest when the doorbell rings. Glancing at the clock on the microwave, I see that Wyatt is right on time.
Mom and Dad exchange a look I can’t decipher. They’re not huge partiers, so they’re not coming tonight; they donated money instead.
It takes every ounce of my self-control not to run to the door. Instead, I give my dress a discreet tug and walk as calmly and confidently as I can to the front of the house. I wobble a little on my heels, and the new thong I bought rides up where it shouldn’t.
I’m not exactly comfortable. But I do feel sexy. Who knows if I’ll actually go home with anyone tonight? But I want to be prepared if I do. I shaved everything in the hopes of manifestingsomesort of naked-with-a-cowboy situation.
I live in my scrubs and sneakers, so getting dolled up like this is a treat. I feel like a different person, like I’m actually a grown-up, red-blooded woman and not a perennially sleep-deprived surgical resident who barely has time to brush her teeth, much less blow-dry and curl her hair.
I grab my coat from the sofa and put it on. Then I open the door and?—
Holy God.
Holy God in heaven.
Wyatt’s handsomeness hits me like a wallop to the chest. He smiles at me from underneath the brim of a pristine brown felt cowboy hat I’ve never seen on him before. His scruff is neatly trimmed. He’s wearing a sharply cut navy-blue blazer that molds to his wide shoulders and thick arms. Underneath that is a crisp blue shirt that matches his eyes.
It’s the tie, though, that really does something to me. It’s brown, same shade as his hat, and I’m gripped by the alarmingly strong urge to grab it and yank him against me. My body pulses at the imaginary sound of his deep, rumbly laugh as he stumbles into me. It’s a sound I’d capture in my mouth, a sound that would morph into a groan as I kissed him and he kissed me back.
The scent of sandalwood, mingled with a hint of wintergreen, rises off his skin.
He looks me over, head to toe, and my stomach flips when his Adam’s apple bobs on a swallow. Blinking, he hesitates, his eyes raking over me again, and again, finally landing on my face.
Another beat of heated silence stretches between us as his gaze searches mine.
Whoa whoawhoa. Is Wyatt Rivers at a loss for words?
No way is this man—this gorgeous, professional flirt—speechless right now.
Only heisspeechless. He’s not speaking, but he’s sure as hell looking, a pink flush creeping up his neck.