Page 105 of Tempting Wyatt
wyatt
THE RAIN CATCHES ME OFF GUARD. That rarely ever happens.
But I’ve been a little distracted lately.
It wasn’t in the forecast until a few days from now. But Doppler radar and weather reports be damned because it’s coming down hard when I make it to where Antonio is handling a heifer in distress. She’s stuck in the mud halfway down the mountain.
“Son of a bitch,” I bite out as I help him with the rope.
In some ways, we need the rain. In others, it will be a wasted day tomorrow, where no one can get shit done because of the fucking mud. If it goes on too long, we’ll be sandbagging riverbanks until our backs break.
There’s a beautiful woman waiting in my bed, and I’m here.
“I’ll go down and push her,” I tell Antonio. “You hold tight to the rope.”
The rain hasn’t let up, and neither has this damn heifer. She’s wedged herself in a patch of thick mud halfway up themountain, legs sunken deep, her breathing ragged from the struggle.
“Come on, girl,” I mutter, bracing myself as I move to the backside of her. “You wanna be stubborn, fine, but you’re getting outta here one way or another.”
I drive my shoulder into her rear, muscles burning, cursing the way the mud sucks at my feet with every step. The rain seeps past my collar, cold as hell, but the heifer finally shifts, her weight rocking forward. With one last shove and a loud disgruntled sound from her, she stumbles free, nearly taking me down in the process.
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” I say dryly as she huffs and trudges toward the others.
I tell Antonio to get some shut eye now that this is handled.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and glance at the time on my phone. It’s a few minutes shy of midnight. Hell.
I should’ve been back hours ago. Back to my cabin. Back to my bed.
Back to Ivy.
The thought sends something restless through me, tightening low in my gut as I swing into the saddle and guide Jameson down the mountain.
She was already curled up in my bed like she belonged there when I left. And damn if I didn’t want to be right beside her, warm and tangled up in the scent of her.
Instead, I’m soaked through, sore as hell, and half asleep by the time I reach the cabin. The porch light is still on, the glow from inside spilling warmth across the rain-slicked steps.
When I step inside, I’m wrapped in Ivy’s vanilla and sunshine scent, along with something else, something savory.
Sure enough, propped against the saltshaker on the kitchen table, is a note in neat, cursive feminine handwriting.
There’s food in the oven, keeping warm. Don’t argue, just eat. You’re welcome.
I might be smiling as I take off my boots. When I open the oven, the scent of chicken and herbs fills the kitchen. I pull it out and eat it straight from the pan. She repurposed some of my leftovers into a chicken and rice casserole, and it’s damn good. A hell of a lot better than the cold pizza I was going to inhale standing over the sink.
As I eat, I notice the whole place feels different with her in it. Warmer. Less empty somehow. I’ve always appreciated my solitude—side effect of growing up with five siblings. But this is nice.
That realization plagues me as I shower, letting the hot water ease the tension in my shoulders and back. She’s leaving in a matter of days, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to stop the thoughts running through my head. The fantasies of her, in a scenario where she’s here for more than just a few days. Where she’s standing barefoot in my kitchen, looking edible in my shirt, stretching up to grab a plate from the cupboard. The way she looks curled up in my sheets.
My body reacts to the thought of her.
As exhausted as I am, I think about fisting my dick before getting in bed. Before I make a decision, she’s there, like I conjured her with my thoughts.
“Late night?”
I see her through the fogged-over glass shower door. Wild curls. Bare legs beneath my shirt.
My fantasy come to life.
