Page 15 of Tempting Wyatt
From what I can see, it’s full of cinnamon rolls, muffins, several flavored coffee creamers, a jar of homemade jam, and a candle. God bless Laurel Logan. I briefly consider asking if she wants to adopt me.
At this rate, I’m going to gain ten pounds from staying here, but I can hardly make myself care.
I would like to know for certain how many sexy sons this woman has. I need a head count.
“Wow,” I say softly as he hands the basket over. “Thank you, and, um, thank her for me, too, please.”
“Will do,” Isaac says kindly. “Is there anything else I can get you? Renting the cabins is a new thing on the ranch, so I apologize if it was sparsely stocked.”
It’s full of dishes, fluffy towels, cooking utensils, a high-end blender, and a coffee maker. I can’t imagine what they consider well-stocked if this is their version of sparse.
“I think I’m all set but thank you.”
My stomach rumbles, which reminds me—other than these pastries, rolls, and pies, I don’t have much in the way of food. As fun as diabetes sounds, I probably need to locate some protein in the near future.
“Actually,” I call out as Isaac turns to leave, “I was going to ask your mom about local grocery stores and restaurants. Any suggestions?”
He turns and rubs his jaw. “There’s a general store about ten miles from here. And a decent barbecue place in town, plus a bar with pretty good food. Livingston is only about thirty minutes away, and there are tons of places to eat there, but I’m fairly certain my mom is expecting you for dinner at the house.”
This is news to me.
“I would love that, but are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude on your family dinner.”
Isaac’s smile grows wider. “She’d be insulted if you weren’t there. We eat at seven. And don’t worry about Wyatt. His bark is worse than his bite.” With a wink and no further explanation, Isaac jogs down the stairs and toward the barn.
“I’m not worried about Wyatt,” I mutter to myself as I close the door and bring the basket inside. “Wyatt should be worried about me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
wyatt
“YOU DID WHAT?”
I glare at Isaac from across the kitchen as the screen door slams behind me. My mother side-eyes us while stirring something in a pot on the stove. Probably preparing to break up a fight, like when we were kids.
Isaac sneaks a piece of garlic bread from a pan beside her. “I invited her to dinner. She just got here, Wy. Damn. You want her to starve?”
My pulse pounds in my temples as my heart rate amps up. “She has a car. She can drive. She could go to the diner or The Stillery.”
My mother frowns at me, disappointment etched in her delicate features. “She shouldn’t have to drive in an unfamiliar town and pay forty bucks for a mediocre meal, son, when there’s plenty of food here. She’s already paid for the cabin in full for two weeks.”
I hate disappointing my mom, but, damn, I don’t need this tempting woman at my dinner table. My siblings are perceptive. They’ll see the effect she has on me, and I’ll never hear the end of it.
I rub the back of my neck in a pointless attempt to relieve the tension that’s been there for half my life.
“She drives a Porsche, for fuck’s sake. I’m pretty sure she can buy her own dinner. An overpriced meal or two won’t break her,” I grumble, hoping my mom doesn’t hear my garbage language.
A small gasp from the open door behind me tells me my mom might not have heard my hateful words, but my unwanted dinner guest did. That’s what I get for not closing the door behind me when I came in.
Turning slowly, I see Ivy exiting the front porch quickly. She nearly trips down the stairs.
Well. . .fuck.
“Nice one, brother,” Isaac deadpans. “Really have a way with the ladies. No question why you’re still single.”
My mother watches Ivy out the window over the sink, then slaps my chest with her wooden spoon. Splatters of red sauce dot my black T-shirt. Like a crime scene.
“Go get her, Wyatt Everett Logan.Now.”
