Page 44 of If All Else Sails
I have a plan, Jacob texted back cryptically.You’ll see.
I’m guessing Wyatt’s mother is that plan. Kind of a low blow, going directly to someone’s mom. Very Jacob.
Also—Wyatt has a mother? I’ve been wondering about his family this whole time, and some part of me thought Wyatt sprang fully formed from the head of some hockey titan or something.
Not really, but I just can’t picture him with a mom and dad. Or siblings. Does he have siblings? Now that I’m thinking about it, I can’t wait to meet the woman who gave birth to this enigma of a man.
“I have so many questions for your mom,” I tell him as I grab the first load of groceries from the back of the Bronco.
“You will not talk to my mother,” Wyatt says forcefully, and hurt pricks me deeper than it has any right to.
My cheeks burn, but I start up the cottage steps, keeping my face turned carefully away from him. The words he just hurled my way land in the center of my chest like a boulder. So—he doesn’t want me to meet his mom. Why should he? We’re not close.
We’re notanything.
But it hurts my feelings. For no justifiable reason.
“Right. You don’t want me to meet her. That’s fine. I can drive into town later. I’ve been meaning to check out the library. Or stop by the coffee shop. I’ll just—”
“No, Josie,” Wyatt interrupts.
He crutches up the steps behind me, and I close the door behind us both. “You don’t need to explain.”
“It’s not that,” Wyatt says.
We stand there in the living room, just a few feet between us. It’s too close, especially considering how much physical space Wyatt takes up. He’s not a bull in a china shop, but more like a water buffalo stuffed into a coat closet.
“I know it’s weird having me here. Being your nurse or your handler or whatever you want to call it. You don’t even have to tell your mom about me. I’m just here because Jacob hired me.”
“You don’t understand,” he says. But that’s all he says.
I wait a few more long seconds, eyebrows raised, inviting him to help me understand. When he doesn’t, I brush past him to get more groceries. He’s standing in the same place when I return with the last of the bags.
“Things are complicated with my family,” Wyatt grits outfinally. “It’s not that I’m embarrassed about you. It’s more that my mother is...”
“Awful?” I suggest. “Judgmental? Grumpy?”
Wyatt frowns, though I can’t be sure if he suspects I’m listing qualities in him that might be shared with his mother.
“She’sa lot,” he says.
“Does she bite?”
He breathes out a laugh. “Not literally.”
“Will she get the wrong idea about me being here?”
I don’t elaborate, but I think Wyatt gets my unspoken question:Will she think we’re dating? Or get hopeful and try to play matchmaker?
It’s a common parental tactic. My own parents have tried it several times with a number of men. Obviously, my single status is living proof they’ve had zero success.
“Maybe. But that’s not why I’m concerned. She’s kind of like...” He shifts, briefly putting weight on his booted foot before readjusting. “Kind of like a high-society steamroller.”
I snort. “That is a very specific description.”
“Yeah, well, it’s apt.”
“I’m not worried about being steamrolled. When will she be here?”
