The Reason I Married Him

“Our wedding is going to be so dreamy,” Wyatt says as he flops on the bed when we return to the guest house.

“Why are you like this?” I ask as I take my shoes off and sit on the bed.

To my surprise, he tugs on my shoulder, forcing me to lie down next to him. He props himself up on his elbow to look down at me.

“Tell me it wouldn’t be as fun if I were normal.”

“It would be a lot easier,” I answer.

“But not as fun.” He rests his hand on my stomach.

“Are you trying to prove a point?”

“Yes,” he says, his hand moving to the waistband of my shorts and the hem of my shirt. What does he think he’s doing? “That even though you might not have asked for this intrusion in your life, you’re beyond grateful for it because I’ve added color to your world. Loads and loads of color.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“Another way to describe fun. I’ll take it.” His fingers dance over a small patch of exposed skin.

I look down at his hand and back up at him. “What do you think you’re doing with that hand?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“Uh, it seems like you’re doing something.”

“And what would that seem like?” he asks.

“Like you’re trying to slip it under my shirt.”

“Ew, why would I want to do that?”

The way he said ew was unexpected and actually makes me laugh out loud.

“Gross. I don’t want to touch you,” he continues.

“Then you better stop,” I say.

“Can’t, my hand is stuck.”

“Really, Wyatt?”

He smirks. “How about we play a game?”

“If you suggest strip poker, the answer is no.”

“Like I said a few seconds ago, ew!”

“Stop.” I laugh as I try to push him away, but while I do it, his hand slips under my shirt, and his warm palm presses against my stomach.

“Wyatt,” I say in a questioning tone. “What did we say about this?”

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, his thumb stroking just below my breast, making me hyper aware that he could easily turn me on at this moment.

“You are when you nearly touch my breast.”

“Ew, you have breasts?” His hand flies out of my shirt, and he shakes it above me as if he’s trying to get a bug off his fingers. “Gross.”

Because he makes me laugh, I reply, “That’s not how you reacted when you were sucking on them.”

His brows shoot up, and he points at his chest. “Sucking on your . . . tits? No, that doesn’t sound like something I’d do. I’m a dignified man, and dignified men don’t suck on tits.”

And this is why I like him, this right here. He saw how stressed I was at Hattie and Hayes’s. He noticed how quiet I was on the way home, and instead of letting me sulk away by myself, he’s flipped the mood around. He takes my wandering mind full of doubts and questions and puts me in another headspace, where I forget about the past, the worries that rest heavily on me, and the pressure, and settles me into a fun and carefree place.

“What do dignified men do?” I ask.

“Smoke cigars and talk about their loafers.”

I snort. “Oh wow, I had no idea. It’s weird, though, because I haven’t seen you smoke a cigar or wear loafers even once, let alone talk about them.”

“And are you with me every second of every day? I think not. Therefore, you don’t know what I do all the time,” he counters, living in this imaginary tomfoolery with me.

“Then how come I never smell smoke on you?”

The corner of his mouth tugs up in a smile. “You smelling me, babe?”

“Hard not to when you force yourself on me.”

“Now, when you put it like that, it seems like I’m some sort of predator.”

“Uh . . . my hand for your land?”

“Hey now, hold on a second . . . I only said that because it was catchy,” he says while I chuckle. “If this were my book, I would put that slogan on shirts. I didn’t really mean it . . . fully. Just in a comical sense. You are more than welcome to leave this agreement. The door is right there.” He gestures toward the door.

“This is my place,” I counter.

“Yeah, but I’ve grown accustomed to it and don’t want to leave. Plus, I’m getting close to squatter’s rights, and that’s a badge I would wear with honor. So it was nice knowing you, but if you don’t mind, I intend to enjoy myself this evening.” He pushes me toward the edge of the bed.

“Hey,” I playfully yell. “What are you doing?”

“Claiming my bed.”

“Don’t knock me off.” I grab his leg to keep myself on the bed, but he attempts to shake me off. Good thing for me, I have an impeccable grip. I wrap my arms and legs around his thigh and shin, and I don’t let go. The entire time he shakes, I can feel my shoulder graze his junk, my head . . . my ear.

That’s when he stops, laughter in his voice. “Christ, if I shake any more, my dick is going to act like a Q-tip in your ear.”

I laugh just hard enough to surprise him. “Wyatt, there is no way that thing will fit in my ear.”

That makes his brows shoot up in surprise. “Why, Aubree Rowley, are you saying I have a giant, beefy slayer of a cock?”

Oh my God, this man.

“And that is exactly why I can’t stand you most of the time,” I say as I release myself from him and move up on the bed. “The exaggerations with you. My God.”

“I wasn’t exaggerating, just repeating what you said.”

“I did not say you had a giant, beefy slayer of a cock. I just said it wasn’t a Q-tip.”

“Which means . . .” he says, motioning with his hand. “You believe I have a giant, beefy slayer of a cock.”

“We are done with this conversation.” I move farther up on the bed and turn away from him, but it’s only for a moment because he tugs on my hip, flipping me to my back.

He hovers over me and says, “Are we done because you’re getting turned on thinking of my cock?”

“Yes, Wyatt,” I deadpan. “That’s exactly why.”

“Knew it,” he says playfully. “I fucking knew it.”

“Good God,” I say as I plant my hand on his face and push him away.

He chuckles and moves off the bed. “By the end of this marriage, you’re going to be thinking of my giant, beefy slayer every second of every day.”

“Keep wishing, Wyatt.”

“ALL LOCKED UP,” Wyatt says before hopping in bed.

“I know, I checked.” I turn toward him and ask, “Is there more to why you check the locks other than research for your books?”

“What do you mean?” he asks as he tucks his hand under his pillow, facing me.

“I don’t know. You seem very vigilant about it, and I wasn’t sure if it was because something happened to you in the past.”

“Are you asking me a personal question?” he asks.

“I am. Don’t you think I have the privilege of knowing? I’m going to be your wife after all.”

That makes him gently smile. “True.” He lets out a deep breath. “Okay, yeah, something happened to me.”

“Really?” I ask as I press my hand to his bare chest, wanting him to know he can trust me. “Do you mind telling me?”

“No,” he says, letting out a deep breath. “Probably best that you know.” He rests his hand on my hip, tugging me a touch closer, and I allow it because I know when I’m talking about something serious, I like the comfort of being closer to someone. I play with the short strands of his chest hair. I’ve never been particularly tactile, but strangely, showing affection to Wyatt seems almost natural. “I, uh, I was twelve.”

“Twelve?” I ask. “That’s so young.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. It was just my mom and me at home. Dad was off on a business trip and Clarke was at a sleepover. My parents always locked the door every night, but we didn’t have extra measures, like a bar that you propped up against the door or even an Ada-lock. Nothing that I would prefer now.”

“I don’t have those things,” I say.

“And that’s why I sleep here, and you sleep there, farther from the door.”

“It’s not that much farther.”

“It’s far enough for me to be the first to be attacked.” His hand curls around my hip as he continues. “Anyway, Mom and I stayed up later that night. It was a Friday, and we had a fun movie night with popcorn and peanut M&M’s, our favorite nighttime treat. I was helping Mom clean up in the kitchen when we heard our dog, Millipede, start to growl.”

“You named your dog Millipede?” I ask.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Not a typical dog name.”

“Sorry, should we have named him something generic like Kevin?”

“Kevin would have been better than Millipede, but continue. Sorry for the distraction. I was just surprised by that detail.”

“It’s fine,” he says and sighs again. He starts to tense up, and I can tell we’re getting to the hard part of the story, so I continue to smooth my hand over his chest. “Millipede was growling, but we just thought he saw the neighbor’s dog outside, so we let him out to go to the bathroom. That’s when he started barking incessantly. Mom was getting annoyed, so she called Millipede in, and when he didn’t come, she had to go out there to bring him back in.”

“Oh God,” I say, my heart starting to race.

“Nothing happened to her. But Millipede was going crazy. We ended up putting him in his crate that night because we didn’t know what had got into him. We both got ready for bed, and Mom said good night. She went to her room, and I went to mine, where I turned on my reading light and started to read.”

I am not loving this story.

“After reading a chapter, I remembered that Dad had asked me to put out the trash, and I’d forgotten, so I jumped out of bed and peered down the hall at Mom’s room. Her light wasn’t on, so I decided not to bother her. When I turned to head back into my room, I saw a flash of something in the dark. Something moving in the living room.”

“Oh my God,” I say, my heart nearly beating out of my chest.

“I assumed Millipede escaped his crate somehow, so I fumbled down the hallway in the dark, switched on the light when I reached the living room, and standing in the middle was a man in a hoodie with a knife in his hand.”

I gasp as my hand flies to my mouth. “Oh my God, Wyatt. What did you do?”

“What any other teenage boy would do . . . wet myself. Right there, on the carpet of the hallway, I piddled.”

“Wait, you peed yourself?” I ask. “You didn’t scream? You didn’t run? You just peed?”

“Yup. There was so much pee that it flooded the hallway, one of those never-ending pees, you know? The kind where you stand there—or sit in your case—and start laughing because there’s so much pee. But I didn’t laugh. I just watched the hallway fill up with pee, at least a foot of it.”

My expression of shock and horror slowly slips away as I stare at Wyatt and the glint in his eye. “Are you lying?”

“Lying seems harsh. But spinning a story for your enjoyment? Now that’s more like it.”

“Oh my God, Wyatt,” I say, swatting at his chest. “I thought you were being serious.”

“About the peeing or the invader?” he asks.

“The invader,” I growl.

He smirks. “Well, I guess that makes me a good storyteller, doesn’t it?”

I flip to my other side, tucking my head against the pillow. “You’re annoying, that’s what you are.”

He leans over me and smiles. “Don’t be sour.”

Staring at the wall, I say, “You know, I was trying to have a serious conversation with you, find out something interesting about you, and you took it upon yourself to turn it into a joke. Well, I don’t find it very funny.”

His expression softens as he rolls me to my back. He brings his hand up to my cheek and says, “I’m sorry, Aubree.” He strokes his thumb over my cheek. “You want to know something? What I just told you, it was true, but in a dream I had when I was twelve. And the peeing, well, that happened too, but in my bed. My mom had to help me change my sheets in the middle of the night.”

I stare up at him and look for any tell that he’s lying. “Are you being serious?”

“Do you really think I’d lie about peeing the bed? Flooding the hallway with pee because there’s a murderer in the house, sure, but peeing the bed at twelve? That’s something only my mom and I know. We didn’t even tell my dad. She swore she wouldn’t.”

“So you really peed the bed at twelve?”

“Yes,” he answers, looking very serious. So serious that I crack a smile.

“That’s so embarrassing,” I say.

He chuckles. “I know. Tell me about it. I will never forget the feel of wet boxers plastered against my dick.”

“You know, the details aren’t needed.” I wave him off.

“Are you sure? Because there’s so much more I can dive into, like the smell⁠—”

“Oh my God, Wyatt, no.” His boisterous laugh actually makes me chuckle.

“Your loss.” He shrugs and then caresses my cheek again. “Do you forgive me now?”

“I guess so.” I playfully sigh.

“Good,” he says. “Now, where are we on those good night kisses? I can’t remember where we left off.”

“We left off with not doing any of that.”

“Right . . . right,” he says while nodding and looking away. “You know, I actually think we should revisit that⁠—”

“Good night, Wyatt,” I say as I turn away from him.

He chuckles and wraps his arm around me like every other night. “Good night, Aubree.”

“I’M GOING to shove my foot so far up your . . . ughhhh,” I growl as I realize my computer doesn’t have an ass I can shove my foot up.

I push away from my desk and drag my hands over my face.

“Why?” I say out loud to no one. “Why is this so hard? Why am I freaking failing at this?” I stand from my chair and start pacing the office floor. “This should be easy. You look at the numbers, you figure it out, and then you fix the issue. But I can’t figure it out. I can’t figure out why there is a problem with our numbers.”

The door opens to the office, and Wyatt sticks his head in. “Uh, everything okay in here?”

“No,” I say as I shove at my chair, feeling really irritated.

“Yeah, didn’t seem like it.” He glances around the room. “But you’re in here alone, which is slightly concerning, given I could hear you talking.”

“I was talking to the numbers,” I say out of pure frustration as I toss my hand toward the computer.

Wyatt fully steps into the office, wearing a pair of gray Chino shorts and an untucked button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons undone. His hair is styled, he’s left the scruff on his jaw from the night before, and he’s looking all kinds of handsome as he moves farther into the office.

And here I am, in a pair of cotton shorts, a ratty old shirt, and my hair tied up into a bun because I thought that if I was at my epitome of comfort, I could figure this whole thing out with the books.

I was so, so wrong.

“The numbers, ahh, I see,” Wyatt says, approaching me as if I’m a stray, ready to run away.

“I feel like you’re patronizing me.”

“Aubree, why the hell would I want to do that? I know better at this point. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, and maybe I can help you.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “This is my problem, not yours. I can figure this out on my own.”

“Mm, yeah, seems like it.” My eyes shoot to him, not appreciating his sarcasm. And he notices right away. “Uh, yeah, excuse the tone of that last comment. It’s just frustrating to see you frustrated but you won’t let me help. And I understand that you are a woman running her business, and the last thing you want is for some man to come in and tell you what you’re missing, but sometimes it’s good to have another pair of eyes on things, you know?”

“I don’t need your help, Wyatt.”

“Yup, completely get that, and I don’t need to help you. But maybe I can help calm you down. Why don’t I take you for lunch? Hank told me they’re serving mac and cheese at The Cliffs today. I told him to reserve me a seat on the deck. Come join me.”

I shake my head. “I need to figure out this problem.”

“I get that,” he says calmly. He’s silent for a second and then says, “Did you know when I’m writing, I get stuck at times, and even if I plotted out a whole book, I sometimes have a hard time moving from one scene to the next. I wonder if it will be whiplash to the reader, if the connection makes sense, if the scene I’m writing is even worth it. I start questioning every little thing, and I can’t get out of that mindset until I take a break. Fresh air, a run, or sometimes just sitting at a coffee house, staring at nothing, will get me thinking about the story in a different light. Maybe you need to just take a breather for a second.”

“Or I can power through,” I say as I take a seat at my desk.

Wyatt closes the space between us and perches on my desk. “Aubree, I’m telling you right now, powering through will only frustrate you. If you’re so worried, bring your computer with you. If you want, you can look at it on the way into town and even while we’re waiting for our meals. But at least change up your location and get some fresh air.”

“No, I’m just going to stay here.”

“Great,” he says in a chipper voice. “Then I’ll stay too.”

“Wyatt, come on.”

“Come on, what? If you’re going to be stubborn, then I want to be stubborn, which means you get to have me here in the office with you while you attempt to figure out your issue with the numbers. Oh hey, is that a pencil?” He picks up a pencil off my desk. “Wow, haven’t seen one of these in a while. You know, I like to use pens when I take notes and plot. My favorite is⁠—”

“Oh my God, fine, I’ll go to lunch,” I say, standing up and unplugging my laptop. “I’m not going to sit here and let you annoy me with your drivel about pencils.”

“How did you know it was drivel? I didn’t even get to tell you what my favorite type of pen is, which is a big thing in my world. Pens matter, and writing materials matter. Ever consider that, Aubree?”

He follows me out of the office, and I hop into the four-by-four, which he quickly gets in as well.

“Hello, I’m talking to you,” he says.

“And I’m ignoring you.”

I start the four-by-four and take off down the dirt road toward the guest house.

“Why? You know, if you paid attention to what interests me, maybe you could get me a nice gift for our wedding, like a bouquet of my favorite pens.”

“My gift to you is saying I do,” I say.

“Solid gift, but I think I’d like something a little extra.”

“I don’t dry heave while saying it,” I reply.

“Mmm, solid response, but I was thinking more along the lines of pens . . . or, I don’t know, some lingerie that you could show me later.”

I glance over at him and catch that teasing smirk of his. You know, when he says stuff like that, it makes me believe that he might possess feelings toward me other than me being the key to his cabin, but then he tacks on that smile of his, and I know it’s Wyatt just being Wyatt.

“Why does the woman have to be the one who wears the lingerie for the man?” I ask. “Why can’t it be the other way around?”

“Baby, if you want me in a thong, all you have to do is ask. I have no problem strutting around for you.”

“Dear God, please don’t.” He laughs some more as we pull up to the guest house. “Just going to change real quick.”

“Why?” he asks. “I think you look good as you are.”

I glance down at the hole in my shirt and then back up at him. “Your standards are low for looking good.”

“Nah, Mrs. Preston, you set the bar high.”

I don’t bother to respond to him. I just hand him my computer and then move into the guest house, where I find a pair of jean shorts that have been freshly washed. I pull those on and trade out my holey shirt for a Hayes Farrow Stadium T-shirt. Hattie found a bunch in his house and asked if I wanted one. Of course I’ll take anything free. It’s really soft and one of my favorite shirts now. I move over to the bathroom, where I throw on a bit of mascara just for the show, then I slip on my Birkenstocks and loop my pack containing my wallet over my shoulder and head back outside, where Wyatt waits by his car. When he spots me, I catch his eyes scanning me, taking me all in.

“That was fast,” he says.

“Did you want me to put on my ballgown and curl my hair for you?”

He opens my door for me and says, “Curling the hair would have been too much, but the ballgown I would have immensely enjoyed.”

I get into his SUV and say, “Not sure you’re at ballgown status.”

“I’ll get there, babe.”

He shuts the door and then moves around to his side. When he gets in, he sets my computer on my lap and then buckles up and starts the car. When he pulls out, he puts his hand on my seat and then backs up, using one hand to turn the wheel and straighten out. I don’t know why I think that’s hot, but I do.

What’s even hotter is how he rests his hand on my leg when he drives down the road. Not sure why he’s placed his hand on my leg, but I like it. Therefore, I don’t tell him to move it. It’s probably one of those things where he tries to get me used to him, used to his touch.

“Want to talk about your problem?” he asks.

“Not really,” I say.

“Why?”

Because it’s embarrassing that I can’t figure it out.

Because I don’t want you to think I’m a failure and can’t handle this farm.

Because my sister left me to grow this business, and I can’t seem to do that.

“Just tired of thinking about it,” I answer.

“Hmm, doesn’t seem like it.” His thumb rubs along my thigh in a soothing motion that simultaneously relaxes me and turns me on. “Seems like you don’t want to talk about it because you don’t want to tell me something.”

“What could I possibly want to hide from you?” I ask.

“Your pride,” he says as he stops at a stop sign and looks over at me.

How?

How does this man already understand me so easily when we haven’t known each other that long? Am I really that transparent?

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he says, growing serious.

I look away, unable to sit here under his stare.

“I know I’m not wrong,” he says, continuing to drive. “There’s nothing wrong with being a prideful person, Aubree. But what makes you an even better person is being able to set aside that pride and ask for help. Especially when you’re having a hard time making sense of something.”

“Are you saying I’m too prideful to ask for help?”

He nods. “I am.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Okay, prove it,” he says.

“Fine,” I say, not letting him win this. Even though telling him seems like he’s winning . . . Ugh, I’m too irritated and exhausted to battle. “I can’t make sense of our numbers. Our output of potatoes, extract, and vodka is great, but the income is lower than what I’m calculating. I can’t quite make sense of it all, and I don’t understand why. I feel like I’m failing Cassidy, and if I don’t figure it out soon, it could be an issue.”

He continues to rub my thigh. “Okay, well, do you want me to look at it? I probably won’t know the answer, but I don’t mind. We can even talk it out. Tell me what you see . . .”

I look out the window, my mind so tired, but my heart telling me I want to do this myself. And that’s exactly the problem because if this was Cassidy, she wouldn’t do it herself. She never did it herself. She was always asking for help, never too prideful to seek out the right person to aid her in whatever she needed.

So why am I so against this?

Maybe because my father told me I would never amount to anything. That I was a waste of space and I have this inner need to prove him wrong.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Wyatt asks as we pull into town. “It seems like it’s running a mile a minute just from the way your lips are pursed.”

He pulls into a parking spot that . . . oh my God. It says it’s reserved for Wyatt Preston. I can’t even right now.

Hayes Farrow, one of the leading singer-songwriters in the country, doesn’t even have his own parking spot, but my fake soon-to-be husband does. The charm this man possesses is out of this world.

He puts the SUV in park and turns toward me.

“What’s going on, Aubree?”

I let out a heavy sigh as I stare down at my lap. “I just feel like I need to do this myself,” I answer truthfully.

“I can understand that,” he replies. “When I first started writing, I was trying to prove my creative writing teacher wrong. He told me that my ideas were predictable and barely researched. That my sentences were juvenile, and my vocabulary was immature. I set out to prove him wrong and the C he gave me in class. I told myself that if I could become successful all on my own, I could prove to him I’m much better than the C grade he gave me. And when I first started, boy, did I fucking fail. It wasn’t until I started asking for assistance, interviewing crime analysts and forming a group of like-minded author friends, that I found some success. It takes a visionary to start a project and a village to complete it.” He lifts my chin with his finger. “Don’t be caught digging a ditch by yourself with a spoon. Take the help from the person with the excavator.”

Then he steps out of the SUV and moves around to my side. When he opens the door, he leans over my lap and unbuckles my seat before taking my hand in his. I’m tense at first, but I relax when he gently squeezes it.

He starts to tug me, but I don’t move.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“I . . . I think I need help,” I say, his words running through my head.

It takes a visionary to start a project—that visionary being Cassidy. It takes a village to complete it—that village being me and my siblings and this town.

He’s right, I can attempt to do this myself, but it would be so much easier with help. I told myself at a very young age that I would never be like the cold, distant, horrible man that my father was. A man who would spend his nights in front of the television drinking. A man who thought of his children as his servants, not his loved ones. A man who thought the world owed him something from the misfortunes he suffered. He never did anything to fix his life. He relied on bitterness and booze to propel him from day to day.

And here I am . . . bitter, resentful, not letting anyone help out.

That was what my dad would have done. He would have sat back, not letting a soul offer him a hand. The only help he took was from his own children.

Help in raising his own children.

Help in making him meals.

Help in carrying him up the stairs when he was too damn drunk to do it himself.

I don’t want to be like him.

I refuse to be like him.

“Okay, then let’s get you some help,” Wyatt says. “Want to work while we eat? Talk it out?”

“Yeah,” I say softly. “I think I’d like that.”

“Okay.” He clutches my computer to his chest. “I got you, babe. Come on.”

He takes my hand in his and then helps me out of the SUV. When he shuts my door behind him, I stop him and say, “I’m sorry that I’m so stubborn. I appreciate you sticking around, even when I push you away.”

His expression softens as he says, “I’m here for you, Aubree. I’m like a boomerang. You keep tossing me away, and I keep coming back.”

“One day, I’m sure that string will break,” I answer, feeling far too insecure and inefficient. Not worthy of his time.

He grips my chin and shakes his head. “No, that string tying us together, it’s unbreakable. Nothing you can say or do to me, Aubree, will make me snap. This is forever, this bond. Even after a year of marriage, we will still be tied together when we go our separate ways.”

“You might be regretting that sooner rather than never.”

“Impossible,” he says as he guides me toward The Cliffs.

Given his special parking spot, it’s not much of a walk, but from the car to the restaurant, Wyatt waves high to a few people, shakes two hands, and compliments someone I’ve never met before on how adorable their baby is. He came here to immerse himself in the town and find a bride—well, he’s impressively done both. Oddly, I think one of the reasons I find myself drawn toward this man is because he’s so friendly, kind, and understanding.

Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of understanding in our house. Cassidy did her best, as did Ryland, but at the end of the day, we were all kids and should not have had to act like adults at such a young age. Dad didn’t have patience with us, he was never kind, and he was not one to walk around town, shaking hands.

Wyatt . . . he’s the complete opposite, and I find that immensely attractive.

When we reach The Cliffs, he holds the door open for me and immediately says hi to Hank at the register.

“Wyatt, how are you?” Hank says in a greeting.

“Great now that I got my girl to take a break for a second to eat lunch with me.”

Hank smiles at me. “She’s always been one of the hardest workers I know.”

“Thank you,” I say shyly, very pleased with the compliment. Sometimes I feel like I walk around this town invisible. I was never the outgoing, loving one like Cassidy. Or the entertaining, funny one like Hattie. Or the solid, reliable one like Ryland. I’ve just . . . done what I have to do and never spent too much time interacting with the town if I don’t have to. It’s nice to have a compliment.

“Go ahead and grab a seat. I’ll send someone over to take your order.”

“Thanks, man,” Wyatt says as he brings me through the restaurant—as if I haven’t been here before—and right to the back deck. He then brings me to a table in the far corner, right up against the railing so the ocean is the only thing we see. “My favorite table.”

“You have a favorite table?” I ask as he pulls out a chair. I reach for mine, but he pulls me toward his chair instead, taking a seat and bringing me onto his lap.

“Yup, come here often for a bear claw and coffee. My physique begs me to stop, but I can’t.”

“Trust me when I say your physique is unaffected.”

In a shocked voice, he asks, “Are you saying you like my body, Mrs. Preston?”

“Don’t push it,” I say as he wraps his arm around my waist. “By the way, there is a perfectly good chair over there for me to sit on.”

“Yeah, but when you sit on my lap, I can feel like a manly man.”

“Do you really need the ego boost?”

“Yes, because you don’t tell me how hot or strong I am enough.”

I turn toward him and pat his cheek. “Aw, poor baby. You need to fish for compliments.”

“I do.” He pouts his bottom lip. “So if you can offer me some compliments, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“I just told you, you have a great physique.” Leaning in, I whisper, “And I’m pretty sure I told you how big your penis is the other day.”

A stupid grin spreads across his face. “You know, I actually forgot what you said. Can you repeat?”

“No,” I deadpan, causing him to chuckle.

“Dammit.”

“Hello, the soon-to-be newlyweds,” our server says as she sets down some silverware and two glasses of water in front of us. “How are we this afternoon?”

Wyatt’s grip on me grows tighter as he says, “Fantastic. Aubree was just giving me a compliment about how⁠—”

“She doesn’t need to know that,” I say, poking him in his side.

He chuckles and looks up at the server. “She’s so shy when it comes to compliments. Go ahead,” he encourages. “Tell her how⁠—”

I clamp my hand over his mouth and say, “Two mac and cheeses please, a side salad with ranch for us to share, and this water is great. Thank you.”

The server smirks and nods. “Got it. I’ll put that in for you.”

Then she takes off.

“Aubree, now she won’t know how big my penis is.”

“Wow, what a shame,” I say sarcastically as I try to get up from his lap, but he holds me in place.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Uh, to the seat across from you.”

He shakes his head. “No, that doesn’t suit me. I prefer for you to sit on my lap . . . well, actually, if I’m being totally honest, I prefer for you to sit on my face, but I’m not sure Hank would allow that here.”

My cheeks flame as I say, “You would not prefer that.”

“Aubree,” he says in such a flat tone that I turn to look at him. “If it were between eating the mac and cheese you just ordered for me or eating your pussy, I’d choose your sweet, delicious pussy any day. For every fucking meal.”

“Wyatt,” I whisper, feeling like my entire face is about to explode from the heat.

“Yeah?” he asks, looking so sure of himself.

“That’s . . . that’s . . .”

“Hot? I know.”

“I wasn’t going to say hot.”

“What were you going to say? Tempting? If that’s the case, we can leave right now so you can sit on my face.”

“Oh my God, I’m not sitting on your face.”

His bottom lip is in full pout mode. “Why would you say such a mean thing to me? Have I not been kind to you? What did I do to deserve such a harsh punishment?”

“Stop it,” I say as I open my computer. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m being truthful,” he says as his lips nearly caress my ear.

“Well, stop being truthful.”

“You want me to lie to you?” he asks. “Okay, well . . . uh, I think you smell terrible, and I hate that you’re sitting on my lap right now. It’s sickening actually.”

Seeing where this is going, I turn to face him and catch that brilliant smile on his lips. “Wyatt . . .”

“Hmm?” The expression on his face is so light and breezy, you’d think this man has never faced heartache or tumultuous times. That or he’s really good at just staying positive and lighthearted no matter what happens to him.

“Remember what we said about . . . the sex part of all of this?”

He nods. “I do.”

“Okay, so then, let’s keep that in mind.”

“I am.” His grip on me grows tighter. “It’s not like my hand is up your shirt right now, caressing your nipple. Because it can be.” He pauses. “Do you want it to be?”

“Dear God, Wyatt,” I say as he chuckles. “Are you always like this?”

“You’ve been with me for two weeks, you tell me.”

I resign with a sigh. “You’re right, you are.” I pull up the Excel sheet and say, “Think I can pull up a chair next to you?”

“Nah, I’m good like this.” He rests his chin on my shoulder.

“You don’t think it’s a little excessive?”

He glances around the deck. “No. I think it’s necessary. Not sure people are seeing just how much we are in love. You sitting on my lap is sealing the deal on this façade.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, my heart slightly plummeting from the use of the word façade. “So how does you telling me to sit on your face help the façade?”

“Great question that I’d love to answer,” he says. “You see, from the mere mention of me pleasuring you with my tongue, you grew a beautiful shade of pink. Now, people from the outside looking in would assume that’s a blush, a blush from something I said, which means we’re madly in love with each other. See how that works?”

So it’s all for show. It always is. Not sure why I think it’s for any other reason. This right here is why I can’t develop feelings. What he says and how he touches me makes me believe there could be more. When this isn’t reality at all. This is one big production, and I’m along for the ride.

Which means I need to start getting caught up in the charm of it all, enjoy the friendship—yes, friendship—we have, and keep moving forward.

“Clever,” I answer.

“They don’t call me the plot king for nothing.”

“Do people really call you that?” I ask.

“No,” he says sadly. “But I’m hoping it might catch on. Think you can jump on my socials and comment as a loving reader and start calling me the plot king? See if the word spreads?”

“That wasn’t part of the initial deal. You’ll have to pay extra for that.”

“Not a problem . . . do you take tongues to the clit as payment?”

“Jesus Christ, Wyatt.”

He chuckles and squeezes me even tighter. I try not to sink into his warm hold, but my body betrays me, and I slip into the ease of his personality.

“I CAN SEE why you love this so much,” Wyatt says as I remain on his lap while he feeds both of us.

If I were someone watching us, I’d think to myself—get a freaking room! Can’t they keep their hands off each other for one second? There’s a perfectly good chair on the other side of the table, use it.

But that must be the skeptic in me because all we’ve received are smiles, cooings of appreciation, and even a pat on the back from Hank after he hand-delivered our meals.

Wyatt has really won over this town, and that’s something to marvel at. My family has been here forever, and I wouldn’t say everyone in town agrees with us, but Wyatt is winning over every person.

“Glad we have this for our wedding. I was going in blind with your food choice, putting all my faith on your taste buds, and it looks like I can trust them.”

“You better,” I say as I wipe my mouth with my napkin. “I’ve had your dick on my taste buds.”

He snorts so hard that he has to pick up my napkin and dab his nose.

“Fuck,” he mutters as he finishes cleaning up. “Mac and cheese is now lodged in my nasal cavity.”

“You’re not the only one who can be crude,” I say, pleased with myself.

“Apparently,” he says on a light chuckle before taking a sip of his water. “And you’re right, if you allow the sweet taste of my dick on your tongue, then I should trust any food choice of yours.”

“Sweet, huh?” I ask. “More like salty.”

“Uh, doubtful,” he says in a scoff. “I eat at least three pounds of pineapple a week. My dick offers mouthwatering nectar for anyone who comes eye to eye with it.”

“A great example of a man thinking he’s doing the world a service by producing cum for anyone interested.”

“Not just anyone, babe. You, great-tasting cum for you.”

“I honestly can’t with this conversation.”

He chuckles and wraps both of his arms around my waist while placing a gentle kiss on my neck that sends shivers all the way down to my toes. “You started it.”

“No, any unnecessary and filthy talk is always started by you. I was just trying to give you a taste of your own medicine.”

“Well, keep it coming—see what I did there—because I love when you talk about my dick on your tongue.”

I shake my head and then lean back into him. “Are we going to discuss the farm at all? Or are we just going to talk about fellatio this entire meal?”

“Ooo, fellatio, great word. I mean, I’m all for that topic, but I can sense that you’re wanting to move on, so yes, let’s talk about the farm.”

“So what do you think is going on?” I ask. “What am I not seeing?”

Growing slightly serious, he scrolls through the spreadsheet that he’s been looking through while we’ve been eating and he says, “I see what you mean about the numbers seeming less, but the units sold are higher. There is something off. Have you spoken to Hattie about what she’s selling the almond extract at?”

“No, I can see it on my end. It’s the regular price.”

I feel him nod. “And the only source of income is from the store?”

“No,” I say. “The website as well, which is what Cassidy set up right before she started to get really sick.”

“You sell products online?” he asks.

“Yes, just the almond extract and vodka. We want to move the honey over there as well as some other products, like cookie mixes and whatnot, but we haven’t gotten to that aspect of the business yet. Only so much we can do at a time.”

“Understandable,” he says. “Who does the fulfillment for the online store now?”

“Esther. She’s in charge.”

“Is she in charge of the website?”

“I was taking care of it for a bit, then Hattie for a second, and now I believe Esther has fully taken it over. At least that’s what was in the process of happening when I spoke to Hattie last.”

“What’s the website?” he asks.

“What do you mean? We sell goods.”

“No.” He chuckles. “What’s the name of the website?”

“Oh.” Since I’m already connected to The Cliffs’s Wi-Fi, I pull up my web browser and type in the website. It takes a few seconds, but I show him when it comes on the screen. “It’s simple. Cassidy wanted it to be so much more, but she didn’t have the time, and none of us are webmasters.”

Wyatt takes a moment to look over the very basic Shopify website that Cassidy set up. With a white background and basic blue font, there isn’t much to it other than a homepage with a picture of the storefront, a shop page, and a contact page. She wasn’t even able to add the about us page she mentioned when she first started putting it together.

“It’s pretty basic,” Wyatt says. “But it does the job.” He clicks on the store and scrolls down, looking over the pictures of our products. Our two products. “I like what she did with the pictures, capturing the feel of the store.” He clicks on the almond extract and then balks. “Holy shit.”

“What?” I ask.

“Is that how much you sell your almond extract for?”

“What do you . . .” My voice fades away as my eyes land on the price. Two dollars and ninety-eight cents. “What the fuck,” I say as I bring the computer closer. “Does that really say what I think it says?”

“Uh, if you think it says two dollars, then yes.”

“Oh my God, we sell it for twelve dollars.” I stare down at it, thinking about when Cassidy put this up. It was just as she started feeling unwell. She wanted to do something when she was lying in bed, something that made her feel like she was contributing. She must have missed putting the one in front of the two to make it twelve dollars, not two.

I lean back against Wyatt, feeling a sense of frustration and relief at the same time.

“Do you think that’s the problem?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper as I move back to the Excel sheet and sort the products by almond extract. “That easily explains the higher volume of sales with lower income.” I let out a relieved sigh. “God, Wyatt, I’ve been driving myself crazy over this. And I should be mad about this, furious that no one caught this, but I’m just relieved.” I lift and look him in the eyes. “Thank you, Wyatt. I thought . . . I thought it was something I was doing wrong. That I was failing Cassidy.”

His expression softens as he lightly cups my cheek. “You’re not failing her, Aubree. You’re preserving her legacy through this farm, the store, and Mac.”

I wet my lips, my emotions getting the better of me as I say, “That means a lot to me, Wyatt. Thank you.” And then, because the relief outweighs the frustration, I grip his cheeks and press my mouth to his.

His hand falls to my thigh while the other holds my back, and he kisses me back. It’s slow and thoughtful, with a hint of hunger as our lips part and our tongues lightly tangle.

The world around us falls to the wayside as nothing else exists besides us—me sitting on his lap, his grip holding me tightly as our mouths explore each other.

Comfort and reprieve pull me into a tight hug while I get lost in Wyatt and the way he captures me so easily with his kisses.

I forget that we’re in the middle of town, in a popular restaurant where anyone can see us.

I forget that this is a platonic relationship.

I forget that he’s not my man but a business partner.

None of that matters as I move my tongue deeper into his mouth, my body igniting into a burning inferno as his hand slides farther up my thigh.

I shift on his lap and straddle him so I have better access to his soft lips. My hands caress the rough stubble of his beard while I melt further into him, my lap now moving over his bulge. My mind returns to the other morning when I rode him, feeling his thickness between my legs. I want that again. Badly.

I want to know what it feels like to have him fully inside me. To own me. To do whatever he wants to bring me pleasure.

I feel almost desperate for it, so desperate that I start to move over his lap, causing him to groan in my mouth.

“Umm, Aubree.” My sister’s voice halts me mid pulse.

I’m knocked back into reality as the bubble we were just in fades away, and the salty smell of the ocean returns. The light from the afternoon sun shines down on us, and the clatter of forks and plates from around the restaurant floats between Wyatt and me.

Oh my God.

I pull away, my eyes connected to his.

Wyatt has a satisfied smile across his lips while I feel horrified.

Clearing my throat, I glance over my shoulder where Hattie stands by the table, a shocked but gleeful look on her face.

“Oh, hi there,” I say as I attempt to shift off Wyatt’s lap, but he holds me in place. Not sure if that’s because he wants me to remain seated on his lap or because he wants me to hide his very obvious erection.

“What, uh . . . what are you doing?” she asks.

“Um, you know, just enjoying the afternoon,” I answer awkwardly.

But of course Wyatt, being Wyatt, leans forward and whispers, “She was trying to get me to have sex with her right here.”

“Wyatt,” I snap, which makes him laugh. I look back at Hattie and say, “I was not doing that.”

“I don’t know.” Hattie smirks. “It kind of seemed like you were.”

“I wasn’t.” I stick my chin up. “I was trying to . . . feed him.”

Mentally, I toss my hands up in surrender because that is honestly the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said in my life. I was trying to feed Wyatt. What is wrong with me? I’ve probably been hanging out with Wyatt far too much.

“Feed him?” Hattie snorts while Wyatt chuckles, the rumble of his chest knocking against me.

“Well, you were giving me all the good nutrients, babe. Thank you.”

I turn on his lap and fold my arms across my chest. “Well, now that he’s been fed, I think it’s time we leave.”

“Nah, I’m good right here,” Wyatt says. “I’m actually still hungry, so if you could feed me some more, I’d appreciate it.”

“He does look malnourished,” Hattie says. “Maybe you should take him back to the guest house and really give him a feast.”

Wyatt points at Hattie. “Now there’s an idea. Babe, we should listen to your sister.”

I look back and forth between Wyatt and Hattie and say, “I hate you both.”

They laugh together before Hattie says, “No, you don’t. You love us.”

“Barely,” I mutter.

Wyatt wraps his arm around my stomach and rests his chin on my shoulder. “Why don’t you tell Hattie what you figured out.”

“Is it something sexual?” Hattie asks as she takes a seat at our table. That’s when I see Hayes walking toward the table with two smoothies.

“No, it’s not something sexual,” I say as Hayes pauses and looks among all of us.

“Uh, what did I just walk in on?”

“Aubree feeding Wyatt her tongue,” Hattie says as she lifts up from her chair and lets Hayes take a seat. He then pulls her onto his lap and hands her, her smoothie. Hattie thanks him with a soft kiss and sips her drink.

Is this a thing? Where women sit on their men’s laps?

Apparently, because Hayes holds Hattie tightly, just like Wyatt holds me. The only difference is that they’re madly in love, and we’re just mad.

“Having an afternoon delight?” Hayes asks. “In public nonetheless.”

“My girl gets what my girl wants,” Wyatt says with such cockiness in his voice that I truly wonder how he can be so good at acting. He’s an author, not an actor. Maybe it’s the multiple personalities he has in his head.

“Smart man,” Hayes says before sipping on his green smoothie.

“So what do you want to tell me?” Hattie asks, bringing the conversation back—thankfully.

Enough of this afternoon delight stuff. I’m embarrassed as it is and fretting the private conversation I’ll have to have with Wyatt about how I accidentally got out of control.

“I haven’t said anything because, well, I didn’t want to worry you, but the numbers have been off with income when compared to what we’re selling in units.” Hattie’s expression morphs from joyful to concerned.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re okay, but I was struggling to make sense of why we weren’t bringing in as much as we should have. Well, I just figured it out with Wyatt. We’ve been selling the almond extract on the website for two dollars, not twelve.”

“What?” Hattie nearly shouts, pulling the attention from around the restaurant. She waves and smiles at some patrons and then leans forward. “What do you mean we’ve been selling it for two dollars?”

“I’m assuming when Cassidy created the website while she was sick, she accidentally entered the wrong number, forgetting the one in front of the two. And I know the website has been the last thing on our minds, just some passive income while we’ve focused on the store, the farm, and Mac. It just slipped right by us.”

“How much have we lost?” she asks.

“Not sure, but I can speak with Esther when we get back to the farm and explain what’s been going on.”

Hattie presses her hand to her chest. “She’s going to be so upset that she missed that.”

“I’ll take the blame,” I say. “Tell her it’s something I should have noticed before passing the website over. I’ll get it fixed. Thankfully, we caught it before the holiday season.”

“True.” Hattie leans against Hayes. “God, Cassidy would have been so mad at herself.”

“She wasn’t doing well then. I should have double-checked her work.”

“We all should have,” Hattie says. “An expensive lesson to learn, but I guess we know what to do moving forward.”

I nod. “I’m just relieved I figured it out.” I swallow hard. “I hate feeling like I’m failing.”

The table grows quiet because I know it’s rare that I share such thoughts or feelings I experience.

“You’re not even close to failing,” Hattie says as she reaches across the table and takes my hand. “You’re the glue of this entire operation, Aubree. Without you, we’d be drowning. Ryland would be struggling without the support you offer him daily. I probably wouldn’t be with Hayes because you’re the one who stepped in and helped us. You’re the one who ran the store and the farm at the same time, keeping it afloat. We’ve relied on you heavily. If it weren’t for you, we would all be in over our heads. You’re not failing. You’re helping us thrive.”

I don’t know if it’s her words of affirmation or if it’s the relief I’m feeling, but my emotions climb up my throat, growing tight as my eyes water.

Don’t cry, Aubree.

Don’t freaking cry.

But it’s useless. I blink, and a single tear rolls down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away, humiliated that I showed such weakness. I half expect Hattie to gawk at me, but when I glance up at her, she offers me a soft smile and a squeeze of my hand.

“We’ll let you two finish your lunch.”

She gets it.

She understands.

The last thing I want right now is a crowd, staring at me as I try to get myself together.

“Thank you,” I say, keeping my head tilted down.

They offer their goodbyes, and when they’re gone, I feel Wyatt turn my head toward him. “You okay?” he asks softly.

“Yup,” I answer as I take a deep breath. “I should actually get back⁠—”

“Aubree.”

My eyes meet his. “Yes?” I ask.

His hand presses against my cheek, and his thumb rubs across my skin as he says, “You can be yourself with me. You don’t need to swallow the emotions. You can let them out.”

“I’m fine,” I say despite my throat tightening again.

“I know you’re fine. You’re strong. One of the strongest people I know, but even the strong are allowed to feel weak for a moment.”

My lip trembles.

My eyes water.

And before I can stop myself, another tear rolls down my cheek.

He smiles softly, bringing me into his chest. I wrap my arms around him and allow myself to feel at this moment, on the back deck of The Cliffs where anyone could see me fall apart.

But for some reason, as I rest my head against Wyatt, shame doesn’t eclipse me.

But rather, comfort and peace start to surround me.

Relief.

Like for the first time in my life, I don’t have to put up a wall. I can let it crumble because nothing bad will happen to me, not when I’m in Wyatt’s arms.

“ECHO, ARE YOU BUSY?” I ask as I step up to her bee house, well, more like a shack. She’s in the midst of expanding.

“Nothing I can’t step away from,” she says as she removes her work gloves and turns toward me. “Everything okay?”

I glance over my back to make sure Wyatt is nowhere near us, and I tug on her arm and move toward the back of the bee house. “Echo, I think there’s a problem.”

“A problem with what?” she asks, her face growing concerned.

“With me.”

“Okay,” she drags out. “Care to explain?”

I twist my hands together and whisper, “I’m falling for Wyatt, like . . . really falling for him.”

A smile plays on her lips as she says, “I knew it.”

“What?” I ask, surprised. “Oh God, is it obvious?”

“Not to anyone else, but to someone who knows your situation, yes, it’s obvious. I’ve watched you slowly become warmer around him. I’ve watched you hold his hand. Lean into him. I’ve watched the way you look at him. I told myself I was imagining it, but it seems I wasn’t.”

I lean against the bee house and press my hand to my forehead. “Oh God, do you think he’s noticed?”

“Probably not,” Echo says. “And so what if he does?”

I drop my hand to my side and stare back at Echo. “So what? Uh, Echo, I’m not supposed to be falling for him.”

“Says who?”

“Says our agreement. Says him. I know it might seem like the man is all over me, because he is, but he’s just pretending. Trust me, he’s drilled it into me that this is all a façade. When he calls me baby, when he’s holding me and kissing me? It’s just a job for him. Meanwhile, I’m over here, soaking up every ounce of him and wishing that it was real. Like . . . how? How did this happen? How did I happen to fall for an irritating, annoying, sarcastic man who grates on my nerves?”

“Does he grate on your nerves, or does he see you for who you are and push you past your comfort zone?”

I look over at Echo and say, “I came here to be delusional, not for you to point out the obvious.”

She chuckles. “Come on, Aubree. Is it so bad that you’re falling for the man you’re marrying in a few days?”

“Yes,” I nearly shout. “He doesn’t feel the same way.”

“Have you asked him?” She lifts a brow at me.

“How the hell am I supposed to ask that?” In a whiny voice, I say, “Hey Wyatt, I was wondering if you like me the way I like you.” I shake my head. “Come on, there is no proper way to bring that up.”

“Sure there is. You sit him down, look him in the eye, and say, ‘I know you’re probably not expecting this, but over these past two weeks, I’ve come to the realization that I like you more than a friend.’”

I nearly gag.

“That is not something I want to say to him.”

She chuckles. “Well, you could break it down like that.”

“And then what? Have him tell me thank you, and that he likes me as a friend? That’s just asking to be humiliated.”

“Or,” she says, “he could say something like . . .” In a deep voice, she continues, “Aubree, I’ve come to find you quite attractive in the past two weeks as well, and I’d like to explore the possibilities of a real relationship.”

I gawk at her.

Unblinking.

Unmoving.

And after a few seconds of silence, I say, “That’s a terrible impression of him. He’d never say that.”

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Well, then what would he say?”

“Uh . . .” I drop my voice and say, “Aw, Aubree, you loving on me? That’s so cute.” I clear my throat and say, “It would be condescending but not condescending. It would be confusing, and he’d joke about it, and as he teased me, I’d melt, right there, on the spot.”

“I think he’d be more sensitive toward your feelings.”

“Or he’d be so stunned that the only way he’d know how to react is by joking about it. And I couldn’t take the joke. I like him too much to have my feelings teased.”

“But if you like him, don’t you think you should at least let him know, especially since you two are getting married?”

“I don’t⁠—”

“Aubree?” Wyatt calls out, and I feel all the blood drain from my face.

“Oh my God,” I mouth to Echo. “Do you think he heard us?”

“Aubree, where are you? I can hear you.”

“Holy fuck!” I whisper. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

“Shhhh,” Echo says, gesturing with her hands for me to cool it. She clears her throat and shouts, “Back here.”

My face burns as I whisper, “What are you doing? Oh God, don’t say anything to him.”

“I won’t,” she whispers back just as Wyatt appears and pauses as he looks at us both, huddled together, probably looking anything but innocent.

A grin spreads across his face as he says, “What are you two doing?”

“Nothing,” Echo says casually as I shout, “Talking about you.”

Echo glances at me in shock as fear takes over me. Fear that he heard what we were talking about.

“Talking about me, huh?” He casually leans against the bee house and folds his arms over his chest. “What in particular were you saying?”

Echo casually waves her hand. “Oh, you know, nothing⁠—”

“Your penis,” I shout again.

Yup, penis talk. That seems safe. I’d rather him think I’m talking about his penis than the feelings I have for him.

“My penis?” he asks. “What exactly were you saying?”

Echo looks at me for help, but I come up short. That’s apparently all I have in me, so Echo improvises and says, “Just that she thinks it’s nice.”

“Nice?” he asks, looking over at me.

My cheeks are so hot right now that I truly think it would be easier to burn on the spot than finish this conversation.

“Yeah. Nice.”

“I see.” He glances back and forth between us, his perceptive eyes probably picking up on our blatant lie. “Well, can’t hear that enough. Although, I’d prefer that my dick is referred to as mean rather than nice. A nice dick presents the idea that it doesn’t do the type of punishing it’s able to do. Rather just presents a gentle time, like an afternoon picnic under the sun. A mean dick, now that’s something to be proud of. A mean dick strips you away from the picnic, bends you over the park bench, and takes what it wants while giving at the same time.”

Echo looks at me.

I look at her.

She glances at Wyatt.

He smiles at her.

And then both of them look over at me.

Smiling awkwardly, I ask, “What does a neutral dick do?”

Wyatt lets out a roar of a laugh as he walks over to me and takes my hand in his. “Why don’t I show you.” And then with a quick goodbye, he moves me away from the bee house and Echo and toward the four-by-four.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“I want to show you something.”

He helps me in, then hops into the driver’s side.

“Who gave you permission to drive this?” I ask.

He starts it up and grins at me. “Mrs. Preston.” And then he jolts us forward, flying us down the dirt road of the farm and straight toward the guest house. “You know, I have a feeling you weren’t talking about my dick back there.”

Oh yeah, what gave it away?

“But if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine,” he says. “And for what it’s worth, the nervous chatter about my penis to cover up what you were talking about, I didn’t hear anything. So no need to worry.”

Ease settles in my chest. “Well, we weren’t talking about anything, you know, bad. If you’re worried about that.”

“Not worried in the slightest. Can’t possibly think of anything that would make you say anything bad about me. I’m the picture-perfect man.”

“Dear God,” I mutter, causing him to laugh just as we pull up to the guest house. He turns the engine off and hops out. I do the same, and he meets me by the house and takes my hand again. “Can I ask what this is all about?”

“Be patient,” he says as he opens the door to the guest house. I half expect him to show off some sort of redecorating, but when nothing is changed, I wonder what the hell he’s really doing. “Sit here,” he says.

I sit on the bed, then watch him grab his laptop and bring it to me. He takes a seat so our shoulders bump against each other.

“Now, you might hate this, and I’ll take no offense, but I was bored today. You won’t let me work on the farm, and Maggie and Ethel won’t let me near the wedding planning, so I did something.”

“What did you do?” I ask.

“I made a website.”

I groan. “Wyatt, did you make us a wedding website? Seriously, I don’t think that’s necessary.”

He chuckles and shakes his head as he opens his laptop. “No, I made a website for you.”

“What?” I ask as he plugs his password into his computer. When the screen lights up, a website for The Almond Store and the farm come into view. A beautiful, professional picture spans the banner across the top of The Almond Store website. Tabs along the top look like divider tabs from a notebook. One for the shop, the farm, the store, and our story. My throat grows tight again as I stare down at the beautifully constructed, professional-looking website.

He clicks on the tab that says Our Story and up pops a picture of Clarke and Cassidy when she was pregnant.

“Here,” he says. “If you want to read it. I hung out with Hattie today, and she helped me with some details and I pulled from what Clarke had told me.”

I shakily take the picture, and I read through the beautiful write-up about Cassidy and Clarke. Where they met, the love they shared—even though I know they weren’t in love—and the legacy they built together. I try not to cry at the pictures framed in white, like Polaroids. Or the beautiful picture of Cassidy at the bottom with Hattie in front of the store.

Or the picture of Cassidy and me in front of the potato fields.

But when I read the paragraph at the end, the one that talks about me and the farm and the changes I’ve made to carry on Cassidy’s dreams, I let the tears fall.

I let them cascade down my cheeks, not feeling the need to wipe them away, to hide and make sure no one sees me.

Instead, I openly turn toward Wyatt, my tears staining my cheeks. “This is . . . this is so incredible, Wyatt.”

He smiles softly. “So those are happy tears?”

“Grateful tears,” I say, and then I cup his cheek and lean into him, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before pulling away. “This is more than I could have ever asked for. Why did you do it?”

“Wanted to do something nice for you. Something helpful. You’re setting aside your life for a year to help me, and I want to do as much as I can for you.”

“It’s not necessary,” I say but look him in the eyes. “But this is . . . this means a lot to me.”

“I’m not stepping on toes?”

No, you’re making it that much harder for me not to fall for you.

You’re making it so freaking easy to say I do on Saturday.

You’re proving to me that my brother isn’t the only decent man on this planet, that there are men out there willing and wanting to be kind and thoughtful. That they don’t live with a bottle in their hand, ready to verbally attack you.

“No.” I shake my head. “You’re not. This was incredibly thoughtful, and I’m grateful, Wyatt.” And because I can’t help it, I kiss him one more time, but this one lasts two seconds longer. When I pull away, his eyes slowly open, and a lazy smile spreads across his face.

“Well, I’m not done yet. I still have to figure out the shop for you, but I figured this was a good start and something that will keep me busy and out of your hair.”

“Which is the most important thing of all,” I tease.

“I’m just here to please.”

Yet it feels like he’s here for so much more than that.

It almost feels like Cassidy sent him, like Cassidy knew something all along. Because with every day I spend with Wyatt, with every night he holds me, it’s like the dark gray cloud hanging over me is slowly parting, and a glimpse of the sun peeks through.