Page 48 of Dahlia Made A List

But he showed up for my dinners and overcooked chicken. He’d taught me to drive, despite the panic attacks. He came to the yurt when I ghosted him for days.

With a pack on his back filled with all the things I would need, because Wyatt was a planner. Jae would have loved him. She’d have been distracted by his muscles the same as me, but she’d have loved how he organized his days. Before Sunday dinner happened, I’d meant to invite him up here with me. Then the yurt became an escape instead of a treat.

But here he was, in all his grumbly glory. Strong and steady.

He liked me. For a heartbeat, I let myself think maybe he more than liked me.

Because I’d ghosted him, but here he was. Just like the lights on the stairs and his calm during my panic attack and a million other little things he did that smoothed out the wrinkles in my days.

The starling in my chest swooped, stealing my breath, then swooshed down in a joyous dive. I wanted to dance and twirl and laugh and shout. I wanted the feeling inside me to last forever.

Sunday, I’d tipped my bread plate off the edge of the table before the meal even started. And knocked my wine glass against the edge of a plate and sent a splash of dark red wine to stain the pristine white tablecloth. I couldn’t remember being so awkward since my early teens. I’d learned to steady my nervous fingers long ago, but somehow those lessons escaped me Sunday.

But then his uncle and brother seemed to turn on Wyatt and I’d blurted out the first thing that came to mind. And then the words just kept coming.

After our time together Saturday and then the invitation to share dinner with his family on Sunday, I’d had visions of a romantic end to our weekend together. Instead, I’d sat in silent humiliation the whole way home while he stewed, then bolted from the truck the instant he pulled up in front of my apartment.

And I’d been relieved. Exhausted after one of the worst nights in years, struggling with myself, with doing the right things, worrying about what those right things were.

And ashamed because I hadn’t been able to hold the lie together in front of Minerva and J.T. Pendleton and the rest of Wyatt’s family. The lie of the easy-going, happy woman. That I might have creamsicle hair, but I knew how to conduct myself in a social setting.

That I was a worthy partner to a man like Wyatt Weston.

And yet, here he was. Powering up the path in his uniform of flannel and worn dark jeans. Jeans pulled snug over thick thighs I’d sat on just a couple days ago. Like I needed the reminder of his ridiculous attractiveness. I couldn’t breathe for thinking about Wyatt and the feelings he stirred.

I crossed the decking surrounding the yurt, nearly tripped over the two plank steps down to the ground, quickened my pace until suddenly I was running toward him. Just before I reached him, he shed the heavy pack onto the trail. I launched myself against his big, strong chest, wrapped my legs around his hips and framed his handsome face with both my hands.

He grunted at my impact and I laughed. I was still laughing when I pressed my lips to his.

For twenty seconds, I played my lips over his firm mouth, sliding my thumbs along the edge of his beard. Marveling at the wonderfulness of his surprise arrival.

Then he took control, one hand palming my ass, flattening me against his belly. The other threading into my hair to angle me where he wanted me. He took my mouth in a deep, devouring kiss. Clamped against him like I was, I squeezed my legs around his hips as he thrust and withdrew his tongue.

I savored the damp heat of his mouth, the wet slide of his tongue over mine. No more thinking. No more worrying. Just this. This attraction exploding between us.

His hand tightened in my hair, enough to pull me back with a gasp at the loss of his mouth.

“Peculiar welcome for someone who’s been ignoring me for days.”

I wiggled in his arms, feathering my fingers into the hair at the back of his head. “You really want to talk about that now?”

“Nope.” He hauled me close again, muttering against my mouth. “But we’re talkin’ after.”

I leaned into his hold until my nose nuzzled along the side of his. “Whatever you say, Wy.”

He grunted. So typically Wyatt. I pressed soft kisses high on his cheek, another to his temple, nibbled along the curve of his ear. “There’s no bed.”

He grunted again, his chest bouncing and I smashed my palms flat to his pecs to lever myself back in his arms. Unbothered by his laugh, I asked, “I mean, we don’t really need a bed, do we?”

And the smile I’d been hoping to see for weeks now blossomed on his supple lips as he pulled me close again. He moved toward the yurt, carrying me flush against him, my chest rubbing along his with every step. His laughter lingered, tilting up the corners of his mouth. I dug my hands in at the back of his neck and hauled myself closer, craving a taste of that smile.

He stumbled on the step, but corrected himself in a flash, shoving inside the yurt and finding the table in the next instant. My heart thumped as he set me on the rough surface and shrugged out of his flannel. When he reached to his back and pulled his white T-shirt over his head, a ripple of lust coursed through me. He bared a broad, muscled chest with black hair covering him from pec to pec, narrowing over his abdomen and disappearing into his jeans.

“Oh,” I said, flattening my palms over the rounded contour of his shoulders. “I like this.” His heat burned under my palms as I drew my hands down, tunneling my fingers into the thick hair starting just below his collarbone, dragging my fingers lower to his flat nipples.

He shifted closer, his chest heaving as he sucked in a deep breath. I smiled, looking up into the dark angles of his face as I trailed my fingers down. His lids fell, hooding his eyes and my blood heated.

I threaded my fingers through the hair lining his abdomen, his muscles tightening under my touch. “So many pretty muscles, Wyatt.”

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