Page 17 of Tempting Wyatt

I make a show of adjusting the seat to accommodate my large frame.

“Going with you. If you don’t come inside and eat, then I don’t eat. We’ve both got to have dinner. So, the diner it is. I’ll warn you though,” I say, turning to look at her while trying to ignore the vanilla and honey scent filling my head, “the tuna melt has been known to give people food poisoning. If you’ve got a sensitive stomach, I’d steer clear of that.”

I wait for her to put the car in drive, but she only stares at me.

After a few deep breaths, she sighs and meets my stare. “What will it take to get you out of this car?”

I huff out a breath. “The Jaws of Life probably.”

She isn’t amused. “Seriously though.”

I rake a hand through my hair. Other than ranch hands or my siblings, this is the most conversation I’ve had with anyone in. . . a while. “Look, my mom is big on hospitality. Me? Not so much. Which I’m sure you’ve noticed. But I can’t go back in there without you. So, we have two choices. Go inside and enjoy Laurel Logan’s famous spaghetti. Or head to the diner and eat something greasy of questionable origins.”

She pins me with an exasperated expression on her pretty face. “Why do you dislike me so much? Did I do something to piss you off? Do I look like an ex who burned you or something?”

I almost choke on my own tongue. “I don’t know youwell enough to dislike you. And you damn sure don’t look like any woman I’ve ever seen around here, Hollywood.”

She waits silently.

“The ranch. . . my family. . . things are complicated right now. I didn’t know my mom was renting the cabins. You caught me off guard.”

Her full lips quirk up at the corners. “I didn’t notice. You were so welcoming, what with the axe and all.”

“I’m sorry about that,” I say quietly. “It’s not personal.”

She nods. “Okay. I forgive you.”

“Just like that?”

She shrugs. “You apologized. You seem like you mean it.”

“I do,” I say, surprised at how much weight is lifted off my chest by her accepting my apology. “So, you’ll come in and eat dinner with us? Mom’s spaghetti really is famous. You can check with the locals.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her voice is lower, softer, when she says, “I have some issues with being where I’m not wanted. I think I’m still going to eat at the diner tonight. But please thank your mom and brother for the invite. Maybe another time.”

She shifts the car into gear and waits for me to exit her vehicle.

I don’t move.

I get it. She’s stubborn.

But so am I.

“If you’re going to the diner, I’m going with you. There’s no reason for you to eat dinner alone.” And I’m buying, but I leave that part out for now.

Her brow creases. She turns in her seat. I glance down as her quads flex. Fuck, she’s wearing a deep burgundy dress that looks like a long T-shirt, and her toned, tanned legs arebegging to be touched. Her skin is bronzed silk that makes my mouth water.

“I was raised by a single mom who worked odd hours. I’ve eaten lots of dinners alone. And I recently went through a breakup. I need to get used to eating alone again anyway.”

She nods toward the door, dismissing me.

This woman just went through a breakup, rented a cabin to get away, and has been met with the likes of me. That. . . fucking sucks.

“Tell me what it will take for you to come inside and eat dinner with me. With us, my family and me, I mean.”

“There’s no need to?—”

“Swear on everything holy, I am not getting out of this car unless you do. So, either figure out what level of groveling you need me to do or just drive us to the diner already.”