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“I’m not starting tonight. On the sofa, Sunshine. Now.”

But his fingers still linger on my face as I grin and step back, sipping my wine.

I fall onto the sofa cushions while Wyatt squats in front of the fireplace. His checkered button-up stretches across his shoulder blades as he moves, tossing more wood onto the pile, striking a match, waiting for it to catch.

Being a true cowboy, Wyatt is an expert at starting—and putting out—fires. This one flares to immediate life, theflames licking high up into the chimney. The homey smell of burning wood fills the room. Wyatt turns off the overhead lights, and suddenly I’m enveloped in this delightful little cocoon of flickering light and dancing shadows.

“You really know how to set the mood,” I say, marveling at the room.

Wyatt smirks. “I have an ulterior motive.”

I laugh at my line—the one I gave him when I asked him to be my fake date to the potluck. “I was hoping you might.”

Wyatt crosses to the kitchen and grabs the charcuterie board, setting it on the coffee table in front of me. “Hungry?”

“Yes.” I sit up on the couch. “This looks amazing.”

“You eat. I’m gonna check on the pot roast real quick.”

I blink. “You’re making pot roast?”

“Your mom’s pot roast, to be specific. I told her that I remembered it being one of your favorites, and she showed me how to make it. I figured it’d be a good thing for date night because all the prep work would be done by the time you got here.”

I blink again. Shit, am I really going to cry right now? “You are relentless.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s the best thing.” I gulp my wine and set the glass on the table, rising. “What can I help you with?”

Wyatt just shakes his head. “I got it. Sit your ass down and eat.”

“You sure?”

Wyatt grabs an oven mitt off the counter. “I know what I’m doing—I think.”

“I’m going to have sex with you even if you don’t.”

“I know.” He smirks again as he bends down and opens the oven, all cowboy cockiness in his jeans and belt buckle and button-up.

He’s a cowboy whocooks.

I drink my wine, and I eat delicious cheese, and I watchWyatt do his thing. He cracks a dirty joke as he tosses the salad. Gives the pot of mashed potatoes on the stove a stir. He places silverware on the table, and when he comes over to nibble on the charcuterie, I’ve already got a cracker ready for him. It’s loaded with mortadella, a smear of creamy blue cheese, and a drizzle of local honey.

“Open,” I say.

The smirk is back. “Yes ma’am.”

I pop the cracker into his mouth, and he falls onto the couch beside me with an exaggerated moan.

“Okay, Mollie really knew what she was talking about when it came to this charcuterie business.”

“Of course she did. Crazy how much she’s shaken up things around here. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always loved hanging with y’all on the ranch. But now that Mollie’s in the picture, there’s so many exciting things happening.”

“Lots of great progress for sure,” Wyatt says.

“You have to be so, so proud of the work y’all are doing.”

Wyatt nods, sipping his wine. “I am. I’m proud of a lot of things happening right now.”