Page 70 of Strike Zone

The bread pops up from the toaster. I spread butter on them and add them to our plates. I grab a few forks from the drawer and take a seat at the table. Wyatt puts his omelet on his toast and has half of it eaten before I even finish my first bite.

“One of these days eating like that is going to catch up with you,” I tell him. Not that he will change the way he chews.

“I’m glad you care.” There’s a hint of mirth in his tone but also a layer of appreciation for my concern. I focus on cutting a bite of omelet to hide my blush. He wants me to care.

He grins, taking a bite of his eggs at the same time as me. We both chew silently. When I get to twenty, I swallow. He swallows.

I cut another bite. He does the same. I’m about to eat the bite on my fork but stop short of putting it in my mouth. He mimics me again.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Eating. What does it look like?”

I eat my next bite, eyeing him suspiciously. He continues to mimic me. He thinks he’s so funny. I smirk at him. He wants to be cute. I’ll be cute too.

I take what’s left of my omelet and place it on top of my toast. It’s a massive bite, but doable. I lift the entire sandwich, fold it in half, and stuff it in my mouth. My eyes begin to water as I try to choke down the toast and eggs without gagging.

Wyatt watches with his mouth agape while I chew. I raise an eyebrow and nod towards his plate.

“You’re something else, Wren Ellington.” The way he says my name with reverence has me slowing my movements like I’m swimming through quicksand at the same time blood rushes through my veins making me feel reborn. I want him to say it again.

“That was child’s play,” I say, collecting our dishes and bringing them over to the sink. “I can fit a lot more than that in my mouth,” I mumble more to myself.

He passes me the dirty skillet from the eggs and pins me against the sink from behind. His warm body sends a chill down my spine. “I intend on finding out just how much that mouth of yours can take very soon.” Large hands squeeze my hips. “I’m going to load up the truck. Then we can get out of here.”

“Can’t wait,” I say, a little breathless. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. At this point I’m more concerned about the close proximity to him for the two hour drive. Even more if we get stuck in traffic.

“Hey,” he spins me around, “you don’t have to go. I know this was all forced on you.”

“Do you not want me to go? If something’s changed…” my voice trails off.

He searches my eyes for an answer to a question I’m not privileged to know. “I want you there.”

“I hope you will still feel that way after I pull out all my sticky notes and make you multiple to-do lists,” I joke.

“I will. I love your sticky notes,” he says in a tone that leaves no room for dispute. Our eyes lock and linger on each other longer than necessary. For a moment, I think he might kiss me, but he takes a step back for whatever reason.

“Go get the bags. I’ll finish up here,” I say, shooing him away with a spatula and saving myself from further embarrassment.

“Please stop,” I beg. We’re an hour into the drive and Wyatt keeps singing so loud and out of tune my eardrum is about to burst.

“I told you I’m not going to stop until you sing with me.”

“And I told you, I don’t sing.” I cross my arms. He gives me his I know you’re lying look.

“I’ve heard you sing, birdie.”

“You have not. I know for a fact you haven’t.” I’ve been really careful not to sing when I’m around him or anyone except for Charlie. I could have slipped up. Singing is mindless to me. I do it when I clean or when I’m in the shower or making something to eat.

“Just last week when you were rummaging through the pantry for snacks you were singing to yourself,” he accuses me.

“I don’t like singing in front of people.” I never have. It makes me uncomfortable.

“Why? Your voice is incredible.” He sounds outraged. It almost makes me laugh.

“I just don’t, okay?” I say, ignoring his compliment.

“Tell me.”

---