Page 96 of Tempting Wyatt
“I need my computer,” I tell him. “But now I’m just picturing a giant snake attacking me if I grab it.”
“I got it, baby,” he says, pulling me in to kiss my forehead before carrying my belongings back to his cabin.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ivy
I’M NOT ENTIRELY SURE I KNOW WHAT’S happening to me.
I don’t even know if it’s good or bad yet.
And all my janky brain can think isthis can’t be real.
Wyatt can’t be real.
Maybe it’s because nothing is ever supposed to be this good. I’ve had to fight for every scrap of affection I’ve ever received. Even from my own mother. But Wyatt’s love language is acts of service, and boy can that man service with an intense ferocity that leaves no room for doubt.
Parts of me begin to pulse just thinking about it.
But it’s more than just his selfless orgasm giving. I casually mentioned that the only thing I like more about my cabin than his, was the porch swing.
This man, who undeniably has a mile long to do list, proceeded to procure and hang a swing the side of a twin mattress on his porch.
Now I’m sitting on it, with my computer and a plate of day old pastries from Laurel.
Even as I write the scene, I know what the critics will say when this becomes a show.
It’s unrealistic.
A little over a week ago, I would’ve said the same thing. Because it is. I’ve never known a man who justdoeswhat you need him to right then and there the way Wyatt Logan does.
I almost hate to write a character like him because of the unrealistic expectations he creates.
Hence why I have doubts.
Ihaveto doubt because this doesn’t make sense. It hasn’t even been two weeks. Surely something that burns so hot is going to burn out just as fast. Right?Hope so, because my time in Montana is running out quickly.
“Right?” I ask Blanche and Rose out loud.
The two hens barely spare a glance in my direction. They’re more social than Dorothy and Sophia who are busy keeping Jasper at bay as I toss them scraps of the stale pastries I couldn’t finish off this week. Wyatt says they’re Laurel’s chickens, but they all seem to just roam all over the ranch like a security detail regularly checking the perimeter.
I’ve named the rooster Stanley because we do not like him, and I obviously spent entirely too much of my childhood watchingGolden Girlsreruns.
I’m losing it. And I probably need to eat an actual dinner.
Wyatt said he’d be out late, rounding up bulls, and would miss dinner but that I should go to the main house. I’m running low on wardrobe options, so I throw my charcoal knit writing cardigan over a cream-colored slip dress and slide my feet into my boots.
Planning to head up to the main house for dinner, I drive the side-by-side through the clearing that leads to the house.
When I see Antonio carrying what appears to be a dozenor more pizza boxes toward the cowboy camp, I turn the side-by-side around. A wide grin spreads across his face.
“Need a ride?” I gesture to the stack of boxes he’s carrying.
“Well now, I might be inclined to take you up on that, Miss Ivy.” He glances back toward the house. “I’m just running these to the bunkhouse. Don’t want to make you late for dinner. One of the hands can pick me up.”
Truthfully, I’ve been dying to see the inside of the bunkhouse. Neither Wyatt nor Isaac has shown me the inside, and I’m quite curious.
“I’d love to take you,” I tell him. “I’ve been meaning to check out the bunkhouse anyway.”
