Page 63 of Tempting Wyatt
An unfamiliar sensation hits me like a wave, and I’m lightheaded for a moment.
If he had a son, would he look like this serious-faced cherub?
Clearly, I’ve had too much sugar today.
Laurel watches me closely with an inquisitive expression that makes me nervous. I clear my throat and turn the page to a picture of a group of kids outside a church.
I can’t help but notice the stark differences between the identical twins. Asher’s dress shirt is tucked in, and he stands up straight, hands clasped tightly in front of him. Caleb’s shirt isn’t even buttoned correctly, much less tucked in, and he’s busy pulling Willow’s braid instead of looking at the camera.
“You could publish this,” I tell her. “Selling pies and jam at the market in town is great, but this is a gold mine, Laurel.” I point to the book. “You could publish volumes of it. Comfort meals, celebration desserts, family favorites—whatever you wanted and were comfortable with. You could reach out to publishers, or some writers self-publish these days.”
She waves a hand at me as if I’m being ridiculous and turns to the apple cake recipe. “I’m not an author. I’m just a rancher’s wife.”
I gape at her. “Yes, and Ree Drummond is just a pioneer woman. Who built an empire.” I use the camera on my phone to snap a photo of the apple cake recipe. “Call itRecipes from the Rancher’s Wifeif you want. But you are so much more than that, and I’m positive people would fall over themselves to get these recipes. I think this apple cake changed my life.”
I’m not exaggerating. I haven’t forgotten the heat in Wyatt’s eyes when I moaned through a mouthful of warm caramel.
She brushes the topic off, and we check on the cakes in the oven. But there’s a gleam in her eye, and she asks a few more questions about my publishing knowledge. I give her the name and contact info for a literary agent I know, just in case.
Once we pull the cakes we made out to cool, I excuse myself to wash up. Isaac is working on a plumbing issue in the bathroom near the kitchen, so Laurel directs me to the one upstairs.
I’m excited to see more of the gorgeous, lodge-style farmhouse, but the sound of sobbing is audible as soon as I reach the top of the stairs. It grows louder when I head down the hall.
I have two choices. Pretend I don’t hear Sutton crying,mind my business, and go to the restroom, or barge in her room and ask if she’s okay.
I stand outside her door for a full minute. When the sobbing becomes heavier instead of fading, I knock gently on the door.
A loud sniff, then, “Yeah?”
I push the door open a few inches and step partially inside a room decorated for someone much younger than her.
“Hey. Sorry to disturb you, but I came up to use the bathroom and couldn’t help but hear you crying. You okay?”
She wipes her tear-streaked face and sighs heavily. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.”
I take a few more steps into the mostly pink-and-white room and lower myself onto a plush chair at the vanity beside her bed. “Cute room.”
She scrunches her nose. “I think it’s been this way since I was ten.” She glances around, her eyes softening, as if she forgot what the room looked like. “My mom was so excited to make this room girlie for me. I didn’t have the heart to change it. And now I mostly live in the dorms. I’ll get an apartment after graduation, so it seems silly to bother redecorating it now.”
I nod my understanding even though I can’t imagine wanting to live anywhere else if I had a home like this one.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re having a great night. Anything I can do? I’m an excellent listener. And I’m certain there are lots of great places to bury bodies on this property.”
Sutton’s lips quirk just a fraction as she looks wistfully at her phone. “My boyfriend and my best friend both turned their locations off at the same time tonight, and neither of them is answering my calls or texts.” She inhales deeply. “We used to all hang out together, and sometimes, I’d get this weird vibe between the two of them. Lately, they’ve beenhanging out without me and getting super defensive when I ask what they did or where they went.”
Internally, I cringe at the reminder of my fiancé and my friend on my living room floor. I’m about to tell her that I completely get it, but she hugs a pillow to her chest and wipes a few more tears. I hand her a tissue from the box on the nightstand as her gaze lands on a picture of her with a group of friends.
“I’ve been super busy since I decided to add special education to my art degree.” She gives her pillow a squeeze. “And since my dad died, I’ve been distant, I guess. They both mentioned that I’ve been kind of a drag lately.”
I want to throat-punch these assholes. “First of all,” I begin, knowing I’m in danger of subjecting this poor girl to a rant, “people who love and care about you are supportive when you suffer a loss and don’t call you a drag.”
Her watery eyes meet mine. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Definitely. And secondly, your boyfriend hanging out with other girls, then being a dick about discussing it with you? Also not okay.”
I reach out and touch her hand.
“I’m twenty-six and single, so I’m probably not the best person to give you relationship advice, but you’re kind and beautiful and brilliant, Sutton.Keep your heels, head, and standards high.”
