Page 15 of Dahlia Made A List

He pulled up to the curb beside my house a few moments later, shining the headlights toward the house.

“Where’s the light at the stairs?”

“I must’ve forgot to flip the switch this morning.”

“You always work this late?”

“Only on Thursdays. You’d think after working the same schedule for the last six months, I’d be in the habit by now, right? But somehow, I forget more than I remember.” I unfastened my seatbelt and gathered up my bag, but he took the umbrella before I could open the door.

A minute later, he stood outside the passenger door, my yellow umbrella bright in the dark of the night and holding back the worst of the rain. I rolled my eyes but flashed him a grateful smile all the same. Once under the protection of the porch, he shook out the umbrella and leaned it against the side of the house, crossed his arms over his heavy chest, and his narrow-eyed gaze drilled down into me.

He wore a dark brown henley with sleeves down to his wrists and it was soaking wet. Plastered to his frame, the material molded to the rounded muscles of his shoulders, the flat heavy bulk of his pectorals. He’d kept me dry under the umbrella, but it wasn’t an umbrella made for two. With the rain this time of year, he had to be icy cold. But he gave off nothing but heat.

Water dripped from his hair to lick along the thick cords of his neck and disappear into his shirt. The sight riveted me, my eyes tracing the droplets, my tongue pushing against the roof of my mouth in an effort to hold back any words.

“Don’t bother Easy. I’ll teach you. When’s your next day off?”

I blinked up at him in the glare of the truck headlights. He towered over me, as big and intimidating as ever. The bright light cut angles into his grim, serious face. I thought of the framed pictures in Ms. Minerva’s home, of the images of Wyatt next to his relatives, dressed in his comfortable flannel and well-worn jeans, but his face as harsh and arrogant as the rest of his fancy relatives.

He threw his big shoulders back. I’d offended him with my hesitation. I didn’t mean to. But I didn’t know how to take him or his offer. We’d exchanged more words in the last two days than in all the time I’d been renting from him. “Tomorrow, actually.”

He nodded, his lips flattening into a decisive line. “Pick you up at eight.”

Six months as his tenant had taught me how much he liked a plan. Like a stodgy old man, he preferred strict order and organization. And as much as I liked looking at the man, we couldn’t have been more different, either in background or makeup. Why in the world would he offer to teach me to drive?

Another man, someone like Brandon or Ty or any of the men I labeled “boyfriend” in the past, I’d have known why they did me favors. I understood familiar, transactional relationships. So what motivated Wyatt?

Curiosity shimmied through me. I gave in to impulse and, for once, I didn’t feel a lick of guilt. He knew about The List and the no sex that went along with it, which took that transaction off the table, at least. “Okie doke, Wyatt. See you in the morning.”

Afteralltherecentrainy weather, I turned my face up into the fresh morning air, soaking in the sunshine like manna from the gods. I could be making a massive mistake spending personal time with Wyatt Weston. If I understood his motivation, it would sit better with me. He was the polar opposite of Brandon. The polar opposite of any guy I’d ever spent time with, which should have reassured me. But with his dark hair and his wide shoulders and his too-knowing eyes, he could derail everything.

Then I snickered. As if the man even looked at me that way. I pulled a certain kind of man and Wyatt Weston wasn’t him. But he would be the one to teach me to drive. Finally. Ten years since Jaelynn and her Nan had died.

A decade behind me, but as the memory rose, my palms grew sweaty. I’d been in the backseat, Jae taking her turn in the driver’s seat with Nan instructing from the passenger side. The hospital said Jae died on impact, Nan a few days later of her injuries, while I’d walked away with an ankle sprain and a couple bruises from the seatbelt.

Lucky, I guess.

I took a sip of my hibiscus tea and waved when I caught Mr. McCluskey looking up at me from his rocking chair across the street. Never missed a thing, that one. Maybe he’d be just as mystified as me about one of the Weston brothers offering to teach me to drive.

That funny little flip twisted my stomach again and I sucked down another swallow of my drink. The tea tasted fine, just as it should with just the right amount of honey. But I sure missed the indulgence of my big, fat morning coffees. Loaded down with cane sugar and sweet cream, flowing over my taste buds like heaven and landing straight on my ass like divine retribution.

The rumble of his big, shiny black Silverado reached me before he even turned onto Redbud. Two more minutes passed before the truck eased to a stop on the side of the street. I spun on my heel, swung my bag over my shoulder, snatched up the extra travel mug perched on the breakfast bar, and slammed out the front door.

He’d climbed down from the truck and stood at the passenger side taking in my approach in his low key, deceptively watchful way. He wore a dark blue Renegades cap, tugged low enough to put his eyes in shadow. But when his chin dipped to take me in, my pulse skittered.

I slowed as I reached him, holding out one of the travel mugs. “I made you a tea.”

The skitter leveled out to a heavy throb as he tilted his head to the side. He reminded me of a cautious, dangerous dog, judging the risk versus reward of accepting a treat that might just reach out and bite him. I should add that to my list. I’d love a dog. Or a cat. Or both.

“Got coffee in the cab.”

My mouth watered. “This is hibiscus tea. It’s good for your heart.”

“Flower tea?”

My lips twitched, but I didn’t crack. “Hibiscus tea. Good for the heart.”

He turned without taking the mug and opened the passenger door. “Heart’s fine.”

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