Page 24 of Tempting Wyatt (Triple Creek Ranch #1)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ivy

I’VE JUST FINISHED GETTING READY for ranch hand duty when Isaac shows up at my door instead of Wyatt. I’m a little disappointed but not surprised.

Isaac gives me another driving lesson in which he keeps his promise about making me drive through the mud near a creek bed. After that, I ride Sunny again, following Isaac around while he and the hands rotate cattle, then we help Willow herd the last few cattle pairs for vaccinations and tags.

Wyatt hasn’t said a single word to me since our discussion about Caleb. But I can’t help but watch him.

He makes an excellent muse, the way he takes care of everyone and everything on this ranch. Though I suspect he isn’t taking care of himself for shit. I catch glimpses of him throughout the day and my entire body takes note of the sharp cut of his masculine jaw and the flex of those thick forearms.

It’s nearly seven when Isaac drops me off at my cabin. I need to shower but I don’t quite have enough time before dinner. The light is on in the barn where the side-by-side is parked, so I head inside.

Since I already made him mad yesterday, I decide to push my luck. It’s not like I have anything to lose. He already isn’t speaking to me.

But when I step inside, I don’t know whether to laugh or melt into a puddle at the sight in front of me.

Wyatt Logan—my broody, rugged, perpetually scowling rancher—is crouched near a stack of hay bales, gently tearing what looks like sliced turkey into small pieces and holding it out to a tiny, scrappy-looking kitten.

I freeze where I stand.

Because this is a plot twist I did not see coming.

The kitten is gray-and-white striped—nothing like the larger orange one I’ve seen darting around and keeping its distance. It eyes him warily, but it must be starving because after a few seconds, it creeps forward on dainty paws and nibbles the turkey from his fingers.

Wyatt exhales, slow and careful, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might scare it off. “There you go. That’s a good girl,” he murmurs.

Good. Girl.

The slow, deep rumble of his words rolls through my entire body.

I might pass out from shock. Also, I might be a little jealous.

“I knew it,” I say softly so as not to startle the kitten, stepping forward before I can stop myself.

Wyatt jerks upright and turns toward me. His weathered trucker hat is turned backwards, and it does something miraculous to the most feminine parts of me. Suddenly, it’s much hotter in here than before.

His glare is immediate. “Knew what?”

Country music plays low from a speaker on the workbench. A slow song about burning something down switches to one about being delighted. He lowers the volume casually, then turns to me.

I cross my arms over my chest, biting back a grin. “That you’re secretly a softy.”

His dark brows lower. “The hell is a softy?”

I watch as the kitten climbs over his boots. Probably staking her claim on the man who fed her. She knows his secret now, too.

“Someone who feeds strays because he cares.” I glance pointedly at the kitten—who, to my absolute delight, is now winding herself around his boot like she owns him.

“Who says I care?”

“So, what, you just casually hand-feed stray animals out of the goodness of your cold, dead heart because you don’t care?”

His scowl deepens. “She was hungry.” He looks down at her. “Weren’t you, Mittens?”

She purrs loudly while pressing her head against the denim of his pant leg. I notice she does have white front paws, so the name makes sense. I can barely contain my grin.

“Mittens, huh? I see. And did you name her that, or is she wearing a collar with a name tag?”

His lips twitch, like he realizes he just gave away too much. “You come in here just to give me a hard time, Hollywood?”

The return of my nickname—hell, him speaking to me at all—makes me happier than it should.

“Seemed like you might be avoiding me,” I admit.

“Wasn’t.” He turns his attention back to Mittens. “Just busy.”

Liar.

But progress is progress. This is the same man who barely grunted two words at me when I arrived. Who looked like he’d rather wrestle a grizzly than have a conversation. And now, here he is, feeding a stray kitten and calling her a good girl.

I take a slow, deliberate step closer. “So, do you name all the strays you pretend not to care about, or is this one special?”

I’m not talking about the kitten anymore. When he turns around to face me, his lips press into a hard line. Our eyes meet, and I know he clocks the connection. He didn’t want me here, but he nicknamed me within ten minutes of meeting me.

I see you, Wyatt Logan.

His fingers flex at his sides, like he’s debating whether to give in or keep up his tough-guy act.

Finally, after a long, brooding pause, he exhales sharply. “I named her. She’s a runt, small. Didn’t think she was going to make it when I first found her. But she’s strong. Feisty.”

He doesn’t break eye contact, and I’m lost in the dark cavern of his gaze.

He reaches out, never looking away from my stare as he fingers a strand of my curls like he’s never seen hair before. “I don’t know where she came from, but I suspect she’ll fit in just fine around here.”

My stomach flips. I focus on breathing normally. Because the way he says it—low and rough—makes it hard to do.

I clear my throat, trying to keep my voice steady. “Right. Well, she’s lucky to have you.”

At my feet, the kitten lets out an unimpressed meow, likely demanding more food.

Wyatt looks away from me as he bends down to offer her the last of the turkey, his fingers brushing against her fur as she snatches it up. And just like that, his tough exterior cracks again.

“Admit it,” I say, watching him. “You’re secretly a big softy with a warm, gooey center.”

He stands, eyeing me like I offended him. “Got me all figured out then.”

“Definitely not. But I know a man who feeds stray kittens and secretly names them isn’t nearly as tough as he pretends to be.”

Wyatt takes a slow step forward, closing the small space between us, his broad shoulders blocking out everything behind him.

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “Real question is, why are you working so hard to figure me out?”

Good question.

He smirks down at me. “No more snappy comebacks, Hollywood?”

I decide to change the subject.

“Your mom texted Isaac and said to tell you dinner is ready. Sounds like it’s a good time to call it a night and come eat.”

“Still working,” he clips, jerking his head toward some mechanical parts on the workbench.

“So, take a break. It’s late. You need to eat.”

His eyes tighten. “I don’t recall asking for your opinion.”

“And I don’t recall needing your permission to care,” I fire back.

My breath comes fast, uneven, but I refuse to back down this time. I’ve seen how much his family worries. And he’s lucky to have a family that gives a shit.

“Bet you worked through lunch already.”

I backed down about Caleb. I’m not backing down tonight.

Wyatt makes a sound—part groan, part growl—before running a hand down his face. He’s still vibrating with frustration, but there’s something else there too—something darker, something that makes my pulse trip over itself.

I should leave. Walk out the way I came and let him stew in his own damn emotions. He’s a big boy. He doesn’t have to eat dinner with his family. But instead, I reach out. My fingers brush his forearm—just barely, just enough to feel the tension coiled beneath his skin.

His head snaps up, and suddenly, we’re too close. His chest rises and falls like he’s still coming down from a fight. But he doesn’t seem mad anymore.

Not really.

Wyatt’s gaze drops to my mouth. “I don’t have time for—”

“Dinner?” I cut in, tilting my face upward and further closing the gap between us. “You don’t have time to eat with your family? The family who loves you and worries about you?”

His jaw flexes, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “There’s still work to do.”

“There’s always work to do,” I counter, softer this time. “It will be here tomorrow. But if you keep carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders all by yourself, Wyatt, you’re going to break.”

His nostrils flare, his breathing heavy, like he’s just barely keeping it together. I should back off, let him work himself into the ground like he clearly intends to. But I don’t.

“I’m not going to break,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t sound convinced.

His eyes flash to where I touched him, then back to my face.

I step in closer, slow and deliberate, until I can feel the heat radiating off him, until my chest rests against his.

“Maybe not,” I say, keeping my face angled up toward his. “But that doesn’t mean you have to carry everything alone.”

His eyes drop to my mouth again. We’re so close that we’re breathing the same air. I can practically taste him.

I want to taste him. Badly.

His chest rises and falls, brushing my now hard nipples. A thrill shoots through me.

He’s affected by me. I’m not the only one who feels this—whatever it is—between us. But he’s much more pissed off about it, judging from the glare I’m getting.

“What do you want from me?”

I chew my lower lip gently and glance at the kitten, who has now made herself comfortable on his workbench behind him. “Hmm, well, I came in here, hoping you’d scratch behind my ears and call me a good girl, but it looks like that position is already filled.”

His eyes burn into mine as his mouth quirks up, but he fights the grin. “You got an itch you need scratched, Hollywood?”

“You’d be so much prettier if you smiled more,” I tease.

“You’re fucking trouble—you know that?”

I shrug. Brush an invisible speck of dirt from his shirt. Let my hands drift over his broad chest.

“Maybe. What do you plan to do about it?”

He grips my wrist, stopping me before I fully cover the broad landscape of his chest. A surprised breath escapes my lips.

“It just occurred to me that I’ve never had sex in a barn before.” The words slip out like I ingested truth serum. I glance around at the few available surfaces.