Page 22 of Tempting Wyatt

Once I answer her questions in a way that seems to satisfy her curiosity for now, my focus drifts to the empty chairs at the table.

I’ve already deduced that I’m in Wyatt’s old seat and he’s in his dad’s. So, the two remaining empty ones must belong to the missing brothers.

Asher and Caleb.

So Asher is deployed and Caleb is off being Caleb—whatever that means.

Throughout dinner, I notice Laurel’s eyes drifting to the empty chairs often. I can’t imagine being a mother. My own mother always seemed to hate it. Motherhood was a burden she struggled to bear. One she was glad to be rid of as soon as I could fend for myself.

Sitting here with this family makes me wonder what it would be like to have one of my own. After everything with Malcolm, it seems even less likely that I’ll ever have children. I’m twenty-six, so there’s time, but it feels so far out of my reach. I can’t even imagine trusting someone that muchagain. Much less getting into a full-fledged relationship and reproducing.

Malcolm wasn’t wrong about no one having friends in LA. I certainly don’t. The closest thing I had to a friend was Heidi or maybe my agent. If I don’t turn in some semblance of a screenplay in the next two weeks, my agent is probably going to drop me—as a client and as a friend.

I can’t help but observe Wyatt while he listens to his siblings.

He’s a good man from what I can tell. He runs this insanely huge ranch, is sweet to his mom, eats dinner with his family. He also opens doors, pulls out chairs, and chops his own wood, for goodness’ sake. I’ve never met anyone like him before, and suddenly, my time here feels too short.

I asked to see the ranch, and that’s what the writer in me wants. But the woman in me wants more time with this mysterious man.

I attempt to engage him in conversation about tomorrow, but he only gives one-word answers. As if he’s noticed his family watching our interactions, he’s mostly silent, focused intently on inhaling his food.

Sutton and I talk shopping for several minutes before Laurel serves something called apple cake with homemade vanilla bean ice cream for dessert. There’s warm caramel sauce drizzled over the whole thing.

I moan at my first bite. I think I’ve died and gone to dessert heaven. Wyatt tenses beside me, but Willow laughs.

“It’s so good when it’s warm, right?”

“I’ve never had anything like this before. I could eat the entire cake myself,” I admit.

Laurel’s face lights up at the compliment. “I can teach you to make it. If Wyatt doesn’t wear you out too much tomorrow.”

Isaac chokes audibly on his apple cake. He jerks upright when Wyatt kicks him under the table.

“Working on the ranch,” Laurel corrects before playfully throwing a blue-and-white gingham hand towel at Isaac. “What is wrong with you, son? Did I raise a pervert?”

“My bad,” Isaac says, grinning. He winks at me.

Willow returns to discussing something about horses with her brothers. Or maybe they’re talking about cows. I honestly can’t tell the difference with the terms they’re using. Sutton asks me about clubs and celebrity sightings in LA without missing a beat, but my face is hot, and I’m pretty sure it stays red for the rest of dessert.

After everyone is finished, I offer to help with the dishes, but Laurel waves me off. Wyatt joins her in the kitchen, as if he’s anxious to escape the scrutiny of his siblings.

Deserter.

“We should play Spoons,” Sutton suggests.

Willow glances at me. “You ever played Spoons, Ivy?”

“Never heard of it,” I admit.

I soon learn that it’s a lively card game involving passing cards quickly around the table until you get four of a kind, then grabbing a spoon as discreetly as possible. Once someone grabs one, everyone has to grab one, and there’s one less spoon than players, like musical chairs, so whoever doesn’t get one is out. I go out in the first round, then watch the girls gang up on Isaac.

Willow and Isaac are in a heated debate about her placing the spoons closer to her when Wyatt steps back into the dining room and clears his throat.

“We need to get you back to the cabin,” he tells me. “We start early in the morning, and you’ll need some rest.”

The sun has long set, and I realize it’s a few minutesbefore nine. Still early for me—I usually write until after midnight—but he’s right. Tomorrow will be a long day.

I stand and tell everyone good night.