Page 87 of Tempting Wyatt
“I couldn’t get Mr. Bojangles out,” I say, realizing that tears are leaking down my face and wiping them away quickly. “My mom was. . . she wasn’t home. I was alone. There was so much smoke. I couldn’t find him. They never found him.” My voice trails off as I remember everything I tried to forget about that night.
“Just breathe, baby. You’re okay. It’s okay. Breathe.” He pulls me to his chest and holds me there, his big, warm arms providing a safe shelter around me. I breathe him in until my body relaxes.
I whisper my grounding affirmations from therapy to myself. “This isn’t real. It’s a memory. I am safe.”
Wyatt holds me tighter, the safety and security of his arms protecting me from the pain in my past.
I had to go to the hospital for smoke inhalation. When they couldn’t get in touch with my mom and she didn’t show up when I was discharged, I remained with a social worker for a full day. When my mom finally did come get me, she wasn’t worried about whether or not I was okay. She was mad. The apartment had been destroyed, and she blamed me. Said I should’ve been more responsible, double-checked that the oven was off and noticed the dish towel that Miss Wilson had left trapped in its door. We didn’t have oven mitts, so she’d used it instead to remove my pizza.
“You’re safe, sweetheart. It’s a controlled burn,” he sayscalmly. “The wind shifted and blew the smoke in your direction, so I wanted to check on you.”
I nod against his chest because I do comprehend what he’s saying and understand that there’s no immediate danger, but I’m hyperventilating, and I can’t get control of it.
“Sorry,” I gasp. “Stupid nightmare.”
Like an enemy from my past, the smoke seems to be reaching for me, as if it failed to get me back then, so it’s returned to finish the job.
Wyatt keeps his arms around me and tucks me under his chin. When my panic attack subsides, he lifts me into his arms like I weigh nothing and carries me like I’m a bride down the path toward his cabin.
I inhale his scent, grounding myself in the safety of his solid presence. I rest my head on his shoulder, burying my face in his shirt as the embarrassment settles over me. I haven’t had that nightmare in over a decade. The farther we get from my cabin, the easier the air becomes to breathe.
But the hotter my humiliation grows.
I’m in a threadbare, old concert T-shirt and nothing else. As if I haven’t shown my ass enough already.
I groan in his arms.
“Are you hurt?”
I shake my head against his chest. “Just a little embarrassed. And, um, I don’t have pants on,” I tell him.
An odd sound rumbles through his chest. “You can borrow some when we get to my place.”
I pull back and look up at him. “They’ll probably fit perfectly.”
His dark eyes meet mine. “They’ll swallow you whole, but at least you’ll be warm.”
Like the gentleman that he is, Wyatt sets me down on his front porch and holds the front door open for me. When hedoesn’t follow me inside, I tug my shirt down as much as I can and turn to face him.
“Pants are in the bedroom in the bottom dresser drawer,” he says, working hard to keep his eyes north of my exposed thighs. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to go check on the guys, see how the burn is going.”
Vulnerability crashes over me again. I don’t want him to go. I don’t want to be alone.
My whole life, I’ve been alone. And I was fine with it—or I learned to convince myself I was. But right now, I feel like I’ll dissolve into a puddle if he leaves.
“Do you have to?”
He looks confused by my question. “Do I have to what?”
A lump forms in my throat. “Go. To help with the burn.”
He stares at me for what feels like forever. His jaw flexes.
He’s torn, and I want to tell him it’s fine if he needs to get back to work. But it’s not fine. I’m not fine. I need him.
Damn, I never meant to need him. Or anyone.
But here I am.
