Page 125 of Wyatt

“Great. I’ll be right back.”

“No rush, Sunshine.”

“Thank you, handsome. This is”—she swallows—“such a nice surprise.”

What I don’t tell Sally? That I’m making Ina Garten’s famous “engagement chicken,” which apparently was the meal Emily Blunt and John Krasinski shared before he proposed to her.

Am I trying to manifest that shit? Maybe.

Do I want to ask Sally to marry me? Absolutely. I know she’s leaving, but we’ll figure that out later.

Who the fuck am I, I wonder as I open the wine,and what good deed did I do in a past life to deserve a life like this?

True to my word, I picked Sally up first thing in the morning after I visited her that night at her parents’ house. She’s been at my place ever since—a week and a half now. Every minute we’re not working, we’re together, often naked and sometimes sleeping.

We’ve settled into a nice, if exhausting, little routine. We wake up early—sleepy morning sex with Sally is my favorite—and then we’re usually out the door by four thirty. We grab breakfast with our families at the New House. Then we kiss and go our separate ways. With calving season coming up, we’ve both been busy.

Sometimes, we’ll cross paths during the day. A few days back, she was in the kitchen, helping Patsy prep dinner, so I snuck away from the herd and helped them prep too. Yesterday, Sally and John B were on Lucky River Ranch, helping Cash examine a pair of quarter horses he’d recently purchased, so I got to hang out with her in the barn and at lunch.

For the most part, though, we only see each other at the end of the day. I rush home. Sometimes, Sally is there; sometimes, she’s still out. When she’s home, we’ll hop in the shower together. When she’s not, I’ll clean up on my own and try to keep my dick in check while I wait for her.

During the week, we’ll have dinner at the New House with our families. I wouldn’t say things are great between John B, Cash, and me, but they’re getting better. I think now that everyone sees I mean business—I’m dating Sally out in the open, and I’m looking after her, treating her right—they’re coming around.

They know I’m treating her right because the woman hasn’t stopped smiling since the first night she slept at my place. Neither have I.

The timer on my phone chimes. I turn off the rice and give it a stir, then check on the green beans in the pot beside it.

I’m filling the wineglasses with some Oregon Pinot Noir—another Mollie Luck selection—when arms wrap around my middle.

“Hi.” Sally leans her head against my back and pulls me to her. She takes a deep inhale.

“Hi.” I smile, glancing over my shoulder. “Are you smelling me?”

“I am. You smell delicious. How was your day?”

“Better now. You?”

“It was awesome. I successfully fixed a broken femur this morning, and then I got to ride on horseback with the Hanovers’ herd during lunch. It was a pretty great day.”

I turn around and hand her a wineglass, then hold up my free hand. “Hell yeah, it was great. Proud of you, Sunshine.”

She gives me the high five I’m looking for. But instead of letting her arm fall, she grabs my hand and twines our fingers, going up on her tiptoes to kiss me. “I have something for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” I hook a finger in the waistband of her sweats, smiling like an idiot.

I love this woman’s hunger. She’s voracious for experience, for food and sex and sleep, and I’m more than a little thrilled to be the one indulging her.

She bites her lip. “Well, you’re gonna get that too. But I gotyou a present.” Turning around, she grabs the big paper bag she brought in earlier and holds it out to me, eyes glittering with excitement. “Hope you like it.”

I blink. When was the last time I received an actual gift? For my birthday, Patsy will always make my favorite Texas sheet cake, and my brothers will take me out to The Rattler to get hammered. Every so often, Ella will give me the little arts-and-crafts projects she does at school. As a matter of fact, the tie-dye butterfly she made out of a coffee filter and a clothespin still hangs on my fridge.

I can’t remember, though, when someone actually bought me something.

Setting my wine on the counter, I take the bag. I see there’s a rectangular box inside wrapped in cowboy-boot-print paper.

“Cute,” I say, removing the box from the bag. It’s heavy.

Sally leans a hip into the counter. “I can’t take credit for the wrapping. They did it at the store.”

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