Chapter 26
(Ellie)
I pace aimlessly around Wyatt’s mom’s living room, which looks like a small museum dedicated to Wyatt’s sports achievements.
“I’m almost done,” Wyatt shouts from the basement, where he went down to find suitable clothes for the dance.
“Fine,” I yell back. I stop in front of a glass display cabinet positioned beside the southern windows. The shelves are filled with awards Wyatt’s won throughout his life.
“Not bored yet?” Wyatt’s voice is partially muffled by some rattling noise.
“Nope, so don’t hurry.”
The more time I have, the better.
I told Wyatt I wouldn’t join him in the basement because I didn’t want to encounter spiders, though it’s highly unlikely that any room in Cristina Harrison’s house would harbor bugs—even if only in a storage space. Wyatt’s Mom shares my love for cleanliness and order, but I needed a cheap excuse for a breather.
I need to recover from the hot flushes Wyatt’s closeness and his surprising proposals induced in me before we go anywhere in public together.
I study the trophies in front of me. Most of the display is football-related, but there’s also a gold medal from a regional running race and a cup for a swimming competition, both dating back to Wyatt’s middle school years.
It’s not surprising to see that Wyatt excelled in other sports as well. Especially after learning about the terrible situation he had to cope with in his home. His drive to be the best must be deeply anchored in his wish to prove himself worthy. To himself, but probably also to his dad.
“Okay, so what do you think of this and this?”
Wyatt’s baritone makes me flip around.
He’s holding a denim shirt and a white-washed pair of jeans.
“These should work. But we also need boots and a belt.”
“Nothing that fits my size down there,” Wyatt answers with a headshake while stashing his clothes on the sofa.
“No biggie. After lunch, we can swing by Mr. Garrison’s store. He’s got a wide choice of cowboy footwear and belts.”
Wyatt walks closer to me, raising his brows. “What were you looking at?”
I point at the glass display. “Just at your old trophies. It’s amazing how many of them you have.”
“Did you see my Super Bowl rings too?” His face drifts into a boyishly proud smirk.
“You keep them here?” I ask, my eyes widening.
“Sure. I don’t really wear them. They’re way too flashy for my style. Plus, Mom gets a kick out of showing them to her visitors.” He waves toward an intricately decorated China bowl, sitting on a round table beside the sofa.
I dart over to it.
There they are. Two giant rose-gold rings with diamonds, bearing the Kites’ name and logo, the phrase “World Champions,” and some Roman numerals.
“Wow, I’ve never seen these,” I mumble.
“You can touch them if you want.” Wyatt’s breath tickles my ear. He must have followed me to the table without me realizing it.
“Go ahead, they won’t bite,” he says when I don’t move.
Of course, he can’t know that the moment his hot stream of air landed on my skin, the only thing I’d like to touch is him.
I swallow and reach into the bowl to lift one of the rings. It’s heavy and eye-blindingly sparkling. I can understand why Wyatt doesn’t use them as an accessory.
I lower the jewel back to its place, then smooth the embroidered runner beneath it and position the porcelain container in its geometric middle.
When I peer up at Wyatt, he’s studying me.
I become flustered as I remember Bill gawking at me similarly when I shuffled around the things in the restaurant.
“The fabric was wrinkly. I just want it to look nice for Cristina,” I blabber.
“I know,” he says, then his brows arch. “Why would you think that you need to justify your actions to me?”
“I…uhm…”
Wyatt cocks his head, his eyes searching mine.
Dang it, why do I feel as if Wyatt’s staring into my soul when we’re gazing at each other?
“Someone recently made a comment.”
“A comment?”
“Yeah,” I nod, “I was told that my love for symmetry is an obsession I should cure. Remembering this remark must have made me self-conscious.”
I keep Bill’s name out of my revelation on purpose. I don’t want to expose to Wyatt just how bad my date was. It’s safer if he thinks I continue to be smitten with my colleague. Then perhaps he’ll misinterpret those stolen glances I can’t seem to stop giving him.
Wyatt’s mouth opens then closes.
An alarmed sensation settles in my chest. “What, do you agree?”
He immediately shakes his head. “No, of course not. You’re perfect the way you are. But…”
“But what?” I fold my arms in front of my chest.
Wyatt sighs. “Don’t look at me like I’m about to stab you because I’m not. I don’t think you need to worry about your passion for keeping objects at specific geometrical angles and your dishes in color-sorted piles, or for your habit of predicting your luck through prime numbers…”
“I don’t—” I protest but break off when Wyatt gives me a knowing look.
“You do. Each of these quirks is a part of you. And they’re cute, just as you are. You don’t need to change them. But what you should do is to inspect why you developed them.”
A nervous giggle bubbles up from my throat. “Wyatt Harrison, are you acting as my therapist now?”
He smiles at me. “No, I’m not. But it’s a topic I wished to address with you at some point, as I think you don’t realize it.”
My eyes widen. “What topic?”
“Your brother.”
“Dev?” I squeak. “What’s he got to do with it?”
“I believe a whole lot,” he answers, holding my gaze. “You remember how you told me you always worried about Devon getting enough air? That’s why you still scan unknown places for escape routes.”
Ah, gosh, Wyatt still remembers this confession? “I confided that to you over fifteen years ago,” I mumble, shaking my head.
A glint invades his eyes. “I told you. My memories of you never faded.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I quickly push it down by swallowing big. “Anyway, what’s your point with Devon?”
“You used to be terrified of losing him. Your mom once told me that she thought you had more fear than she and your dad together summed up and multiplied by three.”
“She said that?” I’d always tried to be the pillar to my parents when they worried about my brother. I’d never thought they saw through my composure.
Wyatt nods. “That’s a tough burden for a young girl to carry. I suppose, since you couldn’t control that inner anxiety, you controlled whatever you could—your external environment.”
His words leave me speechless.
How does he know? How does he see me this well?
“Your deduction skills are worthy of Sigmund Freud,” I say lightly because if I admit just how accurate his assumption is, I might break into a sob.
“Does it mean I scored close to home?”
I give him an imperceptible nod.
He reaches out and grips my hand, squeezing it ever so slightly. “You’re an amazing sister to Devon, Ellie. You’ve always been that. But you still see your brother as a person who needs your help and protection. However, he’s fine now. No, better than fine. He’s happy with Laia.”
“I know this…”
He shakes his head, letting go of my fingers. “No, you don’t. You don’t want him to learn about our past, which means you’re still trying to protect him.”
Wyatt’s only partially right. I might have asked Wyatt to keep our relationship a secret in college because I feared how the news would affect my brother. But now I’ve insisted on hiding the truth from Devon to protect myself.
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Ever since I let the cat out of the bag with Laia and my roomies, each of them has brought up Wyatt in various ways and forms. But I don’t need anyone to remind me of how much I used to love him. It’s enough to listen to my heart to have that knowledge.
When I don’t react, Wyatt says, “Sorry, I didn’t want to come across as accusing. I guess I’ve got even less talent for speaking about other people’s emotional baggage than about mine.”
I give him a small smile. “I spent several years learning how to address these issues. Considering your lack of training, you did a pretty outstanding job analyzing me.”
His eyes widen. “Really?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Maybe, after your therapy is over, we can discuss again whether we should tell Devon about our past.”
By then, Wyatt will be back with his team and, hopefully, no longer thinking about spilling the beans to my brother.
Wyatt grins. “Okay, then. Let’s return to this later. Wanna go and grab that devilishly chocolatey dessert?”
“That’s a proposal I like,” I say, smiling.
Chapter 27
(Ellie)
The first stars have just popped up on the horizon when we reach the Mohave County Fairgrounds. Their shimmers mix in with the sparkles of the string lights hanging from the poles determining the perimeter of this year’s Boot Scootin’ Bash.
The area assigned to the dance is huge—roughly six-plus acres of field covered with countless gazebos. The space hosts various food and drink stands, a large stage for Charlie’s Country Heart, and an enormous dance floor that’s already chock-full of hopping townspeople.
“I can’t fathom why I bought shorts this tight when I was younger,” I grumble as I climb out of Wyatt’s Corvette.
The pair of fringe shorts I unearthed at my parents’ is lower-rise than I’m comfortable wearing nowadays, however they still fit in with tonight’s Old West theme better than the flowy spaghetti dress I traveled in.
Wyatt slams the car door and winks at me. “You can also blame your Friday trips to Daisy’s Creamery.”
Though his tone is entirely light, clarifying that he’s joking, my hands move self-consciously to my hips.
Wyatt’s face grows serious. “Just kidding. You’re gorgeous, Ellie. Absolutely perfect. You’ll be the cutest cowgirl. Please forget my idiotic comment and stop fussing with that belt.”
While my attire might pass Cora’s strict fashion police—after all, with the white peasant-style crop top I stole from Mom’s wardrobe and the cute red bandana around my curls, I’m almost boho-chic—it’s not my roomie’s approval I’m after. It’s Wyatt’s.
I’d love to deny this, but I can’t. Not when his compliment infuses a mushy warmth in my belly.
“You don’t look too shabby yourself either,” I answer as we stroll toward the large sign marking the entrance. I hope the vivid hillbilly tunes drifting in the air will muffle the husky edge that crept into my voice.
It doesn’t help that Wyatt’s clothes couldn’t make him more masculine. Double denim might be dangerous territory for most men—I mean, who really wants to look like a tired version of the Marlboro Man?—but on Wyatt, it’s is a darned sweet look.
My eyes drift to his legs.
With the brown leather belt and roper-style boots that he bought at Mr. Garrison’s store after lunch, he could pass for a dashing cowboy—rugged and a tiny bit dangerous.
Wyatt notices my dipping glance and smiles. “I owe you for not letting me buy those fancy cockroach killers that canny shopkeeper tried to talk me into. As far as I can see, nobody uses lace-up boots anymore for dancing.” He points at a boisterous group of guys shuffling toward the Get Your Gulp drink stall.
I shake my head. “You won’t see those chaps showing off their boogie skills. They’re only here to carouse.” While the men do sport square-toe waders, their walk is more than a tad wobbly.
“Mr. Garrison didn’t want to milk you,” I add because I don’t want Wyatt to form the wrong impression of the shopkeeper who’s my father’s friend. “He recommended his most expensive piece to you because he thought someone with your standing wouldn’t settle for a pair of simple shoes.”
Wyatt snorts. “With my standing? I’m no king.”
I shrug. “Yeah, but few in our town ever make it to the fame and riches you have.”
As if to prove my point, a group of people, among whom I can spot Louisa, my mother’s hairdresser and Franky, the guy who fixes my dad’s car—even if he’s officially an accountant—turn to us. One of them must have spotted Wyatt and told the rest.
They all smile and wave. Franky even lifts his beer and yells, “Here’s to our town’s best-darned quarterback!”
This causes several other bystanders in the crowd to turn and stare at us and, slowly, a round of applause fills the air.
I stand a bit taller, because I’m unintentionally basking in Wyatt’s popularity right now, so I want to look my best.
Wyatt, to my surprise, rakes a hand through his hair as if this attention flusters him. Then he smiles and shouts back, “Thanks, guys. Really. But please, continue to enjoy your evening!”
He gently nudges me forward.
As we move on, a couple of guys pat his back. Phil, the florist who supplies my mom with orchids, even asks Wyatt for insider scoops about the Kites’ upcoming season strategy.
Wyatt is courteous to everyone but cuts most of the conversations as short as possible.
When we get through the busiest part of the party, which, as always, is the line leading to the drink stalls, I lean in close to him.
“You see,” I say in a low voice. “You’re a celebrity to them. It thrills everybody that you’re here.”
“To be honest,” he whispers back, “I’m only concerned with one person’s feelings at this dance. Someone who isn’t blinded by such trivialities as fame and money.”
While my head knows (well, sort of) that Wyatt isn’t good for me, the rest of my body, including my dumb heart, refuses to acknowledge this truth. That must be the reason my voice trembles as I say, “That’s because I know you.”
Wyatt’s eyes widen while his gaze heats with raw emotion. He slowly nods. “Yes, I suppose you do. Better than anyone, perhaps.”
Before I can make sense of this unsettling phrase, a hearty “Howdy!” interrupts us.
Martha’s husband, Harry, is walking to us with a smile on his face.
“Wyatt, my boy,” he exclaims. “My wife told me you were in town, but she wasn’t sure you’d stay for tonight.” He adjusts his cowboy hat so his bushy eyebrows become almost invisible.
His gesture reminds me of something my father told my mother when we first moved to Arizona from Washington state and she caught him splurging on a custom-made felt hat.
Dad claimed that a nice hat makes or breaks the cowboy look. I never thought much about this statement, but as I blink at Harry’s black hat, I can’t help but admit that my father was spot on. The hat alone makes the sturdy chap, who I know prefers the comfort of his couch to exercise, look like a rodeo old-timer.
“We couldn’t miss the dance, could we?” Wyatt grins.
Harry snaps his fingers. “Not unless you want to skip a rip-roarin’ good party.” He waves his arm around. “We’ve got food, enough booze to make the angels happy, but above all”—he points to the stage—“music that’ll make you wanna hop, whether you’re light on your cowboy-booted feet or just barely breaking in the leather.”
“Great band, by the way.” I smile at him. “Congrats on commissioning them.”
“Thank you.” Harry pats my shoulder. “You’ve always been a sweetheart, Ellie. Martha and I often wonder how come you’re still singl—”
“Harry, where are you?” Martha’s shrill soprano cuts through the surrounding noise like a knife through butter.
“I’m here, honey,” Harry calls back and waves to his wife.
Ah, thank heavens for the interruption.
I’d
much rather if Wyatt doesn’t think my date with Bill was out of the ordinary, and I definitely don’t want Wyatt to discover that I spent most of that dinner wishing I hadn’t accepted Bill’s invite.
Martha’s pink cowgirl hat matches the color of the tiny doggies printed on her shirt. Though the dim lighting makes it difficult to read her face, I swear I can detect a weird mixture of relief, guilt, and anticipation in her chubby features when she realizes with whom her husband is speaking.
“Ah, I’m glad you came,” she says when she reaches us. “It’ll be quite an interesting evening for you.”
Did her accent on interesting refer to what I think it did?
Before I can develop a strategy to deflect and defuse her suspicion about Wyatt and me, Martha grabs her husband’s elbow. “Come, Harry, let’s leave the young folks alone. We belong with the elderly crowd.”
Harry’s hand flies to his chest, and he winks at us. “Uh oh, my better half is calling, so I must obey.”
Martha and Harry rush off to Pizzageddon, a food stall that sells extra-large pizza slices. In front of the saloon-type wooden backdrop, other ladies are waiting for them. Despite their costumes, I still recognize them as members of Mom’s book club.
“Are you hungry, too?” Wyatt asks.
“Not yet. You?”
“No, even if…” Wyatt sniffs twice in the air, “…can you sense that? I’d recognize that smell, even in my sleep.”
I follow his example and the hearty, spicy flavor that fills my nostrils makes my mouth water.
“Tio Fillipo’s pozole,“ we say simultaneously.
We exchange a glance and both giggle.
Wyatt cocks his head toward the blue food truck. “Shall we?”
“Absolutely!”
We wander over to the retro caravan that the Mexican cook has been using since the festivals back when I was a child.
Wyatt whispers to me, “I can’t believe he’s still cooking. How old can he be? Like a hundred?”
“Perhaps even more,” I answer. “It must be the chiltepin he uses to flavor his soup. That pepper not only melts your face off, but also keeps you ageless, apparently.”
Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) Page 21