Page 53 of Stealing His Cupcake
“I think not.”
The line goes dead, the sudden silence underlying how royally I just fucked up.
Chapter 38
Amy
Ittakesalittlelonger than the promised twenty minutes, but eventually I hear Wyatt’s SUV approaching. As he pulls into the garage, I look over the food I prepared one more time to make sure everything is in order. Unbidden, the memory of doing the same right before that last “date” with Craig emerges, bringing along a flash of anxiety so strong my knees wobble.
The food is nothing fancy. What if Wyatt hates it? I haven’t even asked him if he eats Coq au Vin. What if he doesn’t eat mushrooms? A shudder runs through my entire body as I recall Craig’s disgusted look. What if I used the wrong kind of mushrooms this time too? “Are you trying to poison me, Amy?”Cold sweat breaks out across my skin, my chest tightening and squeezing all the air from my lungs. My clammy hands tremble, fingers curling into useless fistsas I try to breathe, but each inhale is shallow, shaky, and never enough. “Useless bitch.”The words echo in my mind so loudly I don’t even hear Wyatt’s greeting, crying out in surprise when he puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Amy?”
Wyatt’s low, concerned voice pulls me back to the present. For a long second, I’m torn between the terror-fueled instinct to run away screaming and the desperate desire to seek comfort in Wyatt’s arms. Fortunately, the latter wins and I throw myself at my husband, tightly wrapping my arms around him and hiding my face in the folds of his shirt. I only realize how hard I’m shaking once I lean into the firm planes of his chest, solid as a rock. Exactly what I needed right now.
“Amy, what’s wrong?” Holding me close, Wyatt strokes my back and kisses the top of my head. “Please, tell me. Was someone here? Did someone try to get in? Did someone send you a message?” He’s tense now, lifting his head from my hair to look around as if he expects masked men to jump from around every corner. “Talk to me, cupcake, please.”
“I-I’m s-sorry. If-if the mushrooms are wrong. I’m s-sorry. I really tried.” Great, now I’m sobbing again. Why do I have to be so broken?
“The mushrooms? What mushrooms? There’s no one here?”
The oddly specific question jolts me from my pointless wallowing. “N-no? Should there be?”
Relaxing an infinitesimal amount, Wyatt shakes his head. “No. Of course not. I just— Nevermind. So, will you please tell me what’s wrong? Did the store deliver the wrong kind of mushrooms or something?”
“N-no. I just, I’m sorry.” I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for. It’s an automatic reaction at this point. Whenever something happens, I immediately start apologizing, even if it’s clearly not my fault. Until today, I never even realized I was doing it, or how pathetic it makes me look. “I-I think I had a panic attack.” I’ve been reading about trauma responses for the past week, so I know enough to recognize it.
Wyatt stiffens again. “Because of me? God, Amy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare—”
“No! It had nothing to do with you.” The last thing I want is for Wyatt to blame himself. “It’s all Craig.” I spit the name out like rotten meat, and it still leaves a foul taste in my mouth. “Making the food and—and the mushrooms and I-I just— I’m not making any sense. I’m sorry.”
Wyatt plants a soft kiss into my hair. “Don’t apologize. You are making sense. You’ve been through something traumatic and your reactions are natural. I just don’t want to make things worse.”
“You’re not. I feel safe with you.” Ironic but true. Sucking in a shaky breath, I blink to force the remaining tears out of my eyes before looking at Wyatt. His tender gaze melts away the last dredges of panic.
“Okay. But maybe you shouldn’t cook if it triggers you.”
I consider the idea for a second before firmly rejecting it. “No. I love cooking. Giving it up just because it might occasionally bring back bad memories is not a solution.” I might not be an expert on trauma, but I’m pretty sure Miranda would agree. I can ask her when we talk later today. Unlike my relationship with Wyatt, PTSD is a “safe” thing we can discuss, along with my complicated relationships with Craig and my mother. “If I let him affect my life, it feels like Craig wins. Does that make any sense?”
“It makes perfect sense.” Wyatt gently kisses me before peering into the kitchen. “It smells delicious in here. I love mushrooms, by the way. Well, except those that cause hallucinations or death.”
Chuckling, I extricate myself from Wyatt’s arms to get a tissue. After blowing my nose unceremoniously, I gesture toward the back door. “I thought we’d eat outside.”
“Good idea. We need to enjoy the porch before it’s buried under six feet of snow,” Wyatt snickers as he grabs the pot with the stew and carries it outside.
“Six feet? Good god. Don’t the roads get completely blocked?” The thought of being snowed in is alarming. Then again, Wyatt has a ton of supplies in the basement, and if we were stuck here together, it might not be that bad. It might even be fun.
“Why do you think I drive a truck?” Wyatt asks, then hesitates. “We can always move somewhere else, even just for the few months in the year if you don’t like winter.”
God, he’s so sweet. “I love winter!”
Wyatt snorts. “Yeah, just wait until you shovel a metric tonne of snow from the driveway every day. Let’s see if you still love winter then.”
“Probably not,” I admit. “But I’ll love it if I get to spend it with you.”
To save Wyatt from having to respond, I start loading his plate, ignoring the twinge of anxiety as I watch the mushrooms among the pieces of bacon. They’re the right kind, dammit, and they’re done well. I tasted them several times to make sure. There’s nothing for Wyatt to complain about.
There was nothing to complain about with the meal you made for Craig, either, a voice reminds me. It’s been mostly silent once I accepted my attraction to Wyatt, but it still pipes up when I’m doubting myself or letting Craig’s crap influence me.He was just being an asshole. Wyatt isn’t like that. Everything will be fine.
