Page 14 of Tempting Wyatt

Standing barefoot on the hardwood floor, I stretch and do some deep breathing.

The view out the window could be a postcard. Once I find my phone tangled in the bedsheets, I give in to the urge to snap a few photos.

It’s late August, and the leaves here are already turning. The rooster keeps crowing and birds chirp in the distance. It’s a far cry from the blaring horns and bass beats of LA.

There’s sprawling pasture for miles and impossibly tall trees I’ve never seen before with a gorgeous mountain range behind them. Even on the images on my phone, the view looks unreal. I can’t pull myself away from the window.

After shaking off the odd feeling of not having a meeting or somewhere to be and not needing to check in with Malcolm, I wash my face, brush my teeth, and change into black leggings and a matching sports bra. Relishing in the luxury of my freedom, I decide to do my morning yoga on the back porch.

Thankful that I had the good sense to pack my mat when I left LA, I roll it out next to the covered hot tub and get started.

Every breath makes me feel lighter and further from the painful events back home, from Malcolm’s bullshit, from a childhood with an unstable mother, from the uncertainty of the future.

Montana air is magical. It smells like Saturday mornings and hope.

Refreshed and energized, I finish up my morning routine, then head inside for breakfast.

Laurel brought not one, but two pies over last night after Wyatt left. She informed me that one was cherry and the other was huckleberry—a fruit I’m unfamiliar with. I tasted it last night and found it to be somewhere between a blueberry and a blackberry, and it was amazing. I’m tempted to have a slice for breakfast.

Technically, I’m on a self-imposed work retreat, not a vacation. But I give myself permission to enjoy an indulgence or two anyway.

As I eye the pies, I recall what Laurel told me when she brought them down. Her words come back to me as I cut a slice of each.

She apologized again for Wyatt, then told me, “We’ve had some changes in our family recently.” She explained that her husband had passed unexpectedly, and the family and the ranch were both having a tough time dealing with the loss. She finished with, “I hope you’ll excuse my oldest son.”

I squeezed her hand in a way I hoped wasn’t overstepping and said I was sorry for her loss. I didn’t comment on Wyatt’s rudeness because I hadn’t decided if it was rudeness. He wasn’t warm and welcoming, like Laurel, but it wasn’t like he’d invited me here as his personal guest or anything.

Wyatt Logan infiltrates my mind once again. What would those thick, muscular arms and huge hands feel like all over my body?

I’ve never seen a man like him in real life. Definitely not one who chops wood and makes the sweat rolling down his neck seem lickable. The thought of him sends a shiver through my body. I have to literally shake my head to refocus on the task at hand.

Breakfast. Not dessert.

Though, as I bite into the pie, I can’t help but wonder if maybe I can have both.

I check the cabinets and am grateful there are basic dishes and the makings for coffee, but one look in the fridge tells me there’s no milk or creamer.

I’m a lot of things, but someone who can drink black coffee is not one of them.

Thankfully, the pantry has some green tea and honey, so I opt for that instead. Just as I’m preparing to make my tea, there’s a knock at the door. My heart jumps, startled by the unexpected visitor.

A glance at the hand-carved bear-shaped clock on the wall tells me it’s not quite nine in the morning, but close.

I look down, noting that I’m only wearing a bra top with my leggings. It covers as much as a modest swimsuit top, and I wouldn’t worry back home, but here, it feels odd to answer the door to a stranger this way. I grab my favorite threadbare gray knit cardigan and toss it on like a robe.

When I open the door, a cowboy stands there. Not my axe-wielding rancher this time, but a blond-haired, green-eyed, honest-to-God cowboy in boots and a hat—the real deal.

“Um, hi,” I say, uncertain as to what could have brought this man to my door so early in the morning.

“Mornin,’, ma’am,” he says sweetly, dipping his head briefly. His crystal-bright green eyes gleam in the direct sunshine. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

I’m almost certain I fell back asleep and am having a Hallmark-movie dream. Whoever did the casting for it did an impeccable job.

“You didn’t,” I assure him. “I’m an early riser.”

“I’m Isaac,” he tells me. “Isaac Logan. My cabin isn’t too far from here. My mother wanted me to bring this down to you.”

He lifts the large basket he’s holding in his arms.