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My heart hiccups. Since when is Wyatt Mr. Community Star?

I’m smiling when I say, “How like you to donate beer.”

“And a poker game.” He smiles back. “How much you think a lesson in Texas Hold’Em, taught by yours truly, is worth?”

“Hmm.” I tap my finger on my chin. “Five bucks?”

His eyes dance. “Sold, if you’re the one buying.”

Dad leans forward, his shoulder brushing mine. “I know y’all are grown adults?—”

“Please, don’t,” I say, blinking when Mom takes the flowers from me.

“I’ll just go put these in water. Wyatt, they’re gorgeous. Y’all don’t hurry home!”

“But no drinking and driving, you hear?” Dad continues. “Gets so dark out here at night. Actually, the earlier you can have her home, the better.”

Wyatt nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t wait up.” I peck Dad’s cheek again. “Seriously though, I’ve been living on my own for a really long time. I’ll be fine. Love y’all.”

Stepping onto the front porch, I loop my arm through Wyatt’s and yank him toward his truck. I can smell the hint of a wood fire in the air. Leaves crunch under our hurried footsteps, filling my head with their crisp, dry scent.

“We got all night, sugar,” he drawls with a chuckle. He’s his old bullshitting self again, and for some reason that gives me a vague feeling of disappointment. “Why the hurry?”

“Call mesugaragain, and I’ll be hurrying your ass right off a cliff.”

“You been hangin’ with Mollie, haven’t you?”

It’s a running joke that Mollie and Cash started out wanting to push each other off one of the many cliffs that dot Lucky River Ranch.

“Of course I’ve been hanging out with Mollie. She’s my new favorite person.”

“As long as I’m still your number one.”

I grin. “Always.”

Although I might or might not want to be Mollie when I grow up. If only I could fall in love like she did instead of falling on my face.

Wyatt might have just come into a boatload of cash, thanks to the newly formed ranch he and his brothers and Mollie own and operate. But he still drives the 1980 Dodge Ram pickup he bought for five hundred bucks when he wasin his early twenties. He’s restored it piece by piece over the years, and now its new tires, chrome finish, and Carolina-blue paint gleam in the deepening twilight.

I give him a look when he follows me to the passenger side.

“What?” He reaches for the door and opens it for me. “I’m your date. I open your door. You’d best get used to it.”

And here is the vulnerable Wyatt again. The guy who doesn’t hide his goodness, his concern, behind a joke or a crude line.

This is the guy who makes my heart do a hundred backflips per minute.

“You’d best”—stop being so damn good at this—“not boss me around, cowboy.”

He clasps the top of the doorframe in his hand and leans into me, his full mouth pulled into a grin. “Bet you’d like being bossed around.”

I cross my arms, unable to keep myself from smiling. “How much are you willing to gamble?”

His eyes glimmer. But it’s his mouth I can’t stop looking at.

“How much you got?”