Page 156 of Tempting Wyatt
His words only cause them to fall faster.
“What if you’re too late?” My voice is barely audible.
He takes a step closer, then stops, still respecting my space. Which I both appreciate and hate at the same time.
“I tried, baby. I rode Lucifer like hell, going as fast as I could to catch up to you.” He leans toward me, and I inhale his earthy, woodsy scent. His fierce gaze presses into mine. “I tried to beat the third act break up, angel. It was never supposed to be part of our story.”
More tears fall at his words, at the sincerity in them.I almost laugh. He really did listen to every word I said—even the rambling everyone else ignores or tunes out.
“I get it. You were hurt and angry. I deserve that. You have a right to your reaction, and I won’t deny anyone their feelings because I haven’t been allowed to have any for most of my life. But you locked me out.That’syour reaction when you’re upset or angry or disappointed. I can’t handle that, Wyatt. I can’t. Iwon’t.”
We both know I’m not just talking about literally. Though that was pretty fucking awful.
I need someone who will let me in the way I let them in, and I don’t know if Wyatt will ever fully let his guard down.
His voice is solemn when he speaks. “I will never lockyou out again, Ivy. Not from my house and not from my heart. It’s not my life anymore. I realized that the moment I knew you’d driven out of it. This isourlife now. If you’ll have me. Everything we do, we’ll do together, because angel? I don’t want anything in this life without you. Not even the ranch.”
His words hold the weight of wedding vows. They shatter the bricks around my resolve.
“I wanted to help.” My voice is still low but gathering strength. “And you shut me out, Wyatt. After forcing me to admit my feelings for you. I can’t just. . . It hurt. Youhurtme.” I’m embarrassed at how my voice breaks, but it can’t be helped.
His jaw flexes as he absorbs the truth in my words. “I know, sweetheart. You told me you had trouble being where you weren’t wanted. And I’d been making you feel unwelcome since day one.”
I nod, thankful I’m regaining control of my head movement and my breathing.
“You barely know me,” I tell him, realizing the words feel untrue as I say them.
His gaze presses hard against mine. “I know you. I know you can’t stand for people or objects to block exits and the smell of smoke triggers your panic attacks.” He steps closer and I don’t back up this time—allowing myself to bask in a small amount of his warmth. “You like coffee in the morning and tea in the evening. You do yoga to relieve stress because it makes you feel strong, and in control of your body, after growing up feeling weak and powerless. Every time you experience something new, you try to memorize it so you can work it into your writing later. You get so lost in your stories when you’re writing, you lose track of time and forget to eat. You haven’t had a pet since Mr. Bojangleswhen you were nine, but you want one. Badly. You’re scared to death of snakes. And you have a Henry Rollins quote tattooed on your left side. It says, ‘Someday I would like to go home.’”
He cradles my face with the palm of his hand, and I can feel the love seeping into my skin when his forehead rests on mine.
“I looked it up,” he says softly. “The quote. I read it a hundred times. I was trying to figure out how to ask you to stay, how to tell you that you were already home.”
Well, there goes the control of my breathing. The onslaught of emotions clogs my throat as I struggle to process everything he’s saying and what it means.
“You’re more observant than I realized,” I whisper into the small space between us. “But that doesn’t me we should?—”
“Baby, I asked for two things.” One side of his mouth lifts as he holds up the fingers to count them off. “That you stay out of the bunkhouse, and don’t go near Lucifer. Where did I find you?” Now he’s full on smirking. “Hand-feeding that mean ass horse and two seconds from playing strip poker in the bunkhouse.”
“Those were orders not asks and the only person I played strip poker with was you,” I break in but he stops me with an exasperated laugh.
“You’re stubborn, you talk back, and you don’t listen for shit,” he says with a grin. “But you’re mine. Because you fucked me up, Ivy Anderson,” he confesses. “From the moment I laid eyes on you and every second after.” His chest moves with his inhalation of breath. “I started doing things I’ve never done. Whistling. Smiling. Fuck, laughing.Out loud.”
At that, I smile. “The horror.”
He gifts me a small grin. But those dark eyes are still heavy with sadness. The line between his brows deepens.
“So yeah, I paid attention to every beautiful detail. And none of that fucked me up as much as falling in love with you did. Because I did not have that on my bingo card, baby.”
My eyes go wide. This man who barely speaks in full sentences seems determined to pour his heart out all over Main street.
I pull back to look at him. “Did my grumpy axe-wielding rancher just say he’s inlovewith me?”
“Deep ridiculous, obsessive love,” he admits, watching me carefully. “I fucked up and I will probably fuck up again in the future, but I’m yours, Ivy. And if you’re not ready now, I’ll wait. Show me all your messy, baby. Do your worst. I’m not going anywhere. Ever.”
I want to believe him, but a lifetime of evidence to the contrary makes it difficult.
He strokes my face, letting his thumb brush across my lips. “I was trying to save my ranch, and you came along and saved me. My sweet selfless Hollywood angel.”
