Page 35 of Tempting Wyatt
That probably says a lot about my current mental state. And here I am, telling other people to go to therapy.
Hours later, in the middle of the night, I hear footsteps onthe porch and worry that I overslept. But when I blink myself awake, it’s still dark out. Pitch-black dark.
The time on my phone says 1:24. I still have a few hours before ranch-hand duty starts, but my mind can’t fight the curiosity of who or what was on the porch.
I untangle myself from the covers, use the bathroom quickly, and make my way to the front door. Peeking out the window, I see nothing and no one. Maybe I should be worried, but I feel safe despite the unfamiliar surroundings. I open the door just an inch. Then another.
Cool air hits my bare legs.
A paper sack with handles sits on the welcome mat.
Figuring it’s more baked goods from Laurel, I bring it inside and peer at the contents. Atop a large shoebox sit three neatly folded T-shirts. A white one, a black one, and a gray one, all bearing the Triple Creek Ranch brand.
Inside the large box, labeledLucchese, is a pair of mahogany and caramel-colored cowgirl boots with intricate designs all over them.
They’re gorgeous. They’re my size.
Wyatt.
In that moment, I know exactly why he wasn’t at dinner.
And I smile.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ivy
THE SUN ISN’T UP YET, and I’m shifting uncomfortably on the porch steps, staring down at the stiff leather cowboy boots that don’t want to go on my feet. Give me four-inch stilettos any day, but these I can’t seem to maneuver.
“Need some help there, Hollywood?”
The rumble of Wyatt’s deep voice startles me from my struggle. I gaze up at him in the glow of the porch light.
From the moment we met, it felt like he wanted me to leave. But he bought me boots—expensive ones. I’d looked them up online last night. They’re top of the line.
I sigh at where the boots lie on the steps. “I don’t think these boots like me very much. Maybe I need a bigger size?”
He regards me intently, then surprises me even further by dropping to his knees. He takes the right one in his hand.
“May I?”
I shift in his direction. “Sure.”
“Flex your foot a little.”
I do as I’m told. His hands, strong and callous, graze thebare skin of my ankle. My breath hitches as he takes hold of my calf, guiding one boot upward with practiced ease.
My foot slips easily into the cupped heel as if it were made for me. He repeats the action with the other boot.
“You’re better at this than me,” I murmur, feeling the warmth of his hand, even through my jeans.
“I’ve had more practice,” he teases, his voice low and smooth. “Though most folks around here don’t wrestle with boots like they’re wrangling a calf.”
Before I can remind him that I’m not most folks or from around here, he straightens abruptly.
“Stand and slide your feet forward. See how they feel.”
Still mesmerized by the sight of him kneeling before me mere seconds ago and the shifting of his shoulder muscles beneath his charcoal-colored shirt, it takes me a moment to follow the order.
