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I love the real Wyatt. I need to bring him out more often.

CHAPTER 9

Wyatt

CALL MY BLUFF

I feellike I’m floating as I jog around the hood of my truck in an attempt to open Sally’s door before she does it herself.

Not only does she look stupid gorgeous in her dress and heels, but she also gave me space to talk.

She allowed me to open up just the tiniest bit. Granted, it was only to basically say I didn’t want to open up at all when she asked about Mom. But it still happened. And instead of filling me with terror or regret, sharing even that small piece of myself with Sally felt liberating. I feel physically lighter.

She didn’t judge. She didn’t run. In fact, she clearly wanted to know more. While I’m not prepared to give her more, there’s comfort in knowing she’ll stick around to hear it.

Maybe it really is about baby steps.

Also, Sally lit up like a goddamn firecracker when I held her hand.

That’s all it took. A single touch, one gesture, and you’d think I had given her a fistful of diamonds for how happy she looked.

My palm still pulses with the memory of how warm and soft her hand felt in mine. I didn’t miss the spark of heat thatdanced across her eyes as she twined our fingers. Even through the windshield, I can see how pink her cheeks still are.

If she looks like this, happy and bewildered and alive, after holding hands for all of five minutes, how fucking beautiful would she be after I laid her down? After I hooked her leg over my shoulder and spread her wide and made her shout my name?

My dick twitches. I silently curse. These trousers are a lot more tailored than I’m used to, which means sporting even a half chub runs the risk of public humiliation.

I pull open Sally’s door at the same time she pushes.

“What’d I say about me taking the lead?”

Wrapping her coat around her, Sally shivers. That a good shiver or a bad one?

“I told you, it’s been a while. Give me a second to remember how this date thing works, all right?”

I’m not all right.

It’s not all right that she literally can’t remember the last time she was taken on a proper date. Has anyone ever treated Sally Powell the way she deserves?

How do I not know the answer to that question?

It suddenly hits me—the enormity of all that I missed out on in her life while she was gone and I was wallowing in grief. Yet another example of how me pretending not to give a fuck about anyone or anything bit me in the ass. I never asked about her love or sex life. Frankly, I didn’t want to know because I was so in love with her. Hearing about the guys she’d met, the parties she’d gone to, would kill me. I mentally filled in the blanks and tried not to think too hard about it.

Now I realize I should’ve asked, if only so I could look out for her. Remind her that she could—and should—ask for so much more than what some drunk-ass frat boy with a sense of entitlement as big as his trust fund gave her.

But it ain’t my place to make that choice for her, is it?

Choose me. Goddamn, Sunshine, I’m dying for you to choose me.

Some sick, twisted part of me is a little relieved that no one’s measured up yet. That I’m the only one who can make her feel at ease in her own skin.

I’m more pleased than I should be when I hold out my hand and she takes it, leaning into me as she climbs out of the truck, careful not to trip on her heels.

“You good?” I wrap my palm around hers, my blood stirring with familiar heat.

She gives me a tight smile. “I’m good.”

“Remember, tug on your ear?—”