Page 72 of How to Say I Do
“Whatcha doin’?”
“This is called a sink, dear, and it’s where you wash dishes. I’m going to show you how to use it.”
I made a production out of washing up, hand scrubbing his plates and pans and grill tools until they sparkled with a brand-new shine. When I was finished, I clicked his tongs and pretended to go for his nose. “See? Easy.”
Wyatt’s smile knocked the breath clear out of my lungs. His eyes sparkled, so full of adoration that my mind stopped. I could have stayed there forever, lost in everything that he was.
We brushed our teeth together upstairs, taking turns spitting and rinsing at the sink. He didn’t have any abominable habits, like wiping off toothpaste residue on a towel or leaving water spills all over the counter. We each lined up our toothbrushes on the edge of the sink to dry, and then—
It was time to go to bed. Separately.
“I guess this is goodnight,” I said, sagging sideways into the doorway of Liam’s room.
He wrapped his huge, work-worn hands around my shoulders and squeezed, and then dropped a kiss to the center of my forehead. “Goodnight, Noël,” he whispered. “I’m real happy you’re here.”
The bed he’d made for me was as comfortable as a hug, and the sheets and comforter smelled like cotton and sunshine and fresh-cut flowers. I curled into the pillows and dragged the blankets up to my chin. But it still felt wrong, in some tiny, annoying way, and I flopped over and glared at the ceiling until the flash of my phone on the nightstand caught my eye.
Of course.Duh. The last thing I did every night was text Wyatt, and even though he was only two doors and fifteen feet away, it wouldn’t feel right until I’d sent him my goodnight text.
Wyatt, apparently, had had a similar realization, because there was already a text from him waiting for me when I scooped up my phone.
Sweet dreams <3
I took a quick selfie—me in bed blowing a kiss to the camera—and dropped it into a text back to him.
Sweet dreams to you too
I thought that was it, and with the wrongness assuaged and everything right in the world, I would drift off into sleep. But my phone buzzed again, and I dragged it off the nightstand and into bed with me, dreading an emergency work message or a text from Dinah or some other celebrity calamity.
I powered on the screen, and there he was. Wyatt had sent his own selfie in response to mine—him lying in bed, one of his pillows tucked up against his chest and held in a hug, and he was blowing a kiss to the camera, just like I had.
My sweet, sweet cowboy, who was shy and didn’t like selfies and said goodnight to his horse, and who made the lives of everyone he touched remarkably and extraordinarily better. My dearest, darling Wyatt. The man of my dreams.
CHAPTER20
Noël
How couldI possibly capture every moment of that week, or put into words all the delicate layers of tenderness and humor and dignity and honesty and affection and care and playfulness and respect and and and—
Our lives took shape smoothly, sliding together as effortlessly as they had in Mexico. As if—if you believed in things like this—we were meant to be.
We shared somuchin such a short amount of time. All we had were six days, the same number of days as our first week together. But this time we weren’t holding back, and we had all our cards on the table, both of us wanting the same thing.
Each day was a treasure trove. Our mornings began sweetly, with Wyatt making coffee that we shared on the porch steps while the rising sun rustled the oaks. I cuddled into his side, and he wrapped his arm around me.
He made pancakes and french toast and omelets with fresh peppers and tomatoes and mushrooms. He taught me how to scramble eggs, and I secretly Googled how to make toast, and then proudly brought my pile of crispy bread slices to the table with an ostentatious flourish.
Every day, first thing after breakfast, we checked the vines. We walked the near blocks, inspecting the cabernet and tempranillo and petite sirah grapes. His blocks were immaculate, bordered by wildflowers and bees and butterflies. Wyatt showed me how he was shading the fruit and how he’d draw broad bunches of leaves across the westerly exposed grapes to protect them from the sun.
He plucked a juicy tempranillo for me to try and fed it to me with his fingers. My whole face screwed up, my eyes clenched shut, and my lips puckered after the first bite. “Oh my God!” I protested once I could speak. “It’s so bitter!”
“That’s the mustang grape influence. Imagine that a couple dozen times as bitter, and you’ll understand why there’s no mustang grape wine. No amount of fermentation can fix that. But with the right blending, I can transform that grape”—he pointed to the tempranillo vine—“into a full-bodied beauty.”
“It’s absolute magic, what you do.”
He was pink and grinning and digging the toe of his boot into a weed that had dared to sprout near his vines. He dug it up, pulled out the root, and kept his eyes on the ground. “It’s a little bit of science and a whole lotta experience, and even more crossing your fingers and toes. It takes ten years to really learn the land, and how the sun and the wind and the rain work for and against you. Before that, you barely know what you’re doing.”
“That’s the— What’s it called? The terroir of the place?”
