Page 34 of Concealed

“Not a chance,” he says.

“Thank you.”

He leads the way toward the truck, his hand resting ever so gently on my back. But it’s not a sexy touch. It’s a protective, cautious one.

“Let’s go for a walk on the beach,” I impulsively suggest.

He smiles, and his strong features set against the moonlight deliver shivers straight down my spine. “That sounds perfect.”

“What time do you work tomorrow?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m used to no sleep,” he insists, which is what he always says.

I can’t imagine functioning under those conditions, let alone at an elite level, but he is clearly doing something right.

It’s dark on the beach, but the glittering night sky lights our surroundings enough to provide limited visibility. The ocean breeze and crashing waves against the shoreline are magical, especially because I became so used to sweating in the desert.

It’s nice to be back in my home state.

“Can I ask you something?” I’m channeling my bravery, which is a lot easier when Wyatt can’t see me. Plus, we’re both watching where we’re walking and not looking at each other’s faces. “And you have to tell me the truth.”

“Sure,” he agrees.

“What were you thinking when you got home today?” I blurt.

This is Pandora’s Box, and I really shouldn’t open it. He might not experience the same sparks that I do every time we touch, even when it’s inadvertent or accidental.

But what if he does?

He might not be obsessing over the fact that we could have already kissed if the children playing at the pool hadn’t spoiled the moment.

But what if he is?

“I… What?” he asks.

I take a deep breath because it suddenly matters to me – a lot. Maybe I just want to know that another guy could possibly find me attractive, or maybe it’s Wyatt-specific. Either way, there’s no going back now.

“When you walked in on my workout,” I clarify. “What were you thinking?”

His swallow is audible, and I’m so curious how he’s going to play it. All I want is the truth, but maybe he thinks I can’t handle it.

“Uh, well…” he starts. “I guess that I should maybe post my schedule on the fridge or something so I don’t surprise or interrupt you when you’re in the middle of something. Not that I always stick to my schedule, so maybe it would be better if I send a text to let you know when I’m planning to be back home or at least on the way. I’m sorry that–”

“Wyatt,” I interrupt. “Shut up.”

“But you asked me a question.” There’s laughter in his voice, and all I want is to have his lips moving against mine.

“And I asked for an honest answer,” I remind him. “You were thinking about posting your schedule on the fridge when you were looking at me?”

If that’s the case, then I really need to work on my squats.

Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the freedom, or maybe it’s just the company, but Ineedto know if this man finds me as attractive as I find him, and if the almost-maybe-kiss could ever be a real one.

I.

Want.

To.

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