The old cook’s tanned face moves into a myriad of up-curving creases as he notices us approaching. “Wyatt! If it isn’t our town’s very own football hero!” He winks at me. “…and my favorite freckled troublemaker. I didn’t know you two were back in town. Where did you leave that handsome brother of yours, Ellieta?”
I smile at the nickname Tio Filippo gave me on the first day I set foot in his tiny restaurant in town. “Devon couldn’t make it, Tio. He’s getting married soon and has lots of arrangements to make.”
The cook’s mouth curls up even more. “With a nice girl from a Mexican family, I hear. Your mom gushed to me about it. I wish them all the happiness in this world.”
“Thank you,” I say.
The man’s glance jumps to Wyatt with a speed that defies his age. “And you, big man? When am I going to hear about your wedding bells?”
Wyatt shrugs. “Not sure.”
Tio Filippo clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Kicking the ball is bueno, but a piece of leather ain’t keeping you warm at night, huh? You gotta have something besides your career. Look at me, I still work but”—he puts up his fingers to count—“I have a wife, eight children, twelve grandchildren, and seven great-grandchildren. A life llena de felicidad.”
I expect Wyatt to make a joke that the cook’s definition of joy doesn’t match his own. Being a professional athlete requires a different focus than leading a small-town eatery. Still, to my surprise, he nods. “You’re right. I promise I’ll take your advice to heart.”
I give him a ‘what happened to you’ glare, but Wyatt only smiles at me briefly before returning his eyes to Tio Filippo.
The old man is apparently happy that Wyatt didn’t shake off his wise words, because he claps his hands. “Perfect. I suggest you start tonight. There is music, and you’ve got lovely company, so…” While he lets his phrase trail off, he shoots a foxy, slanted glance at me.
My cheeks heat.
“We wanted to eat some of your special pozole,” I say, brushing a curl behind my ear.
“That works, too.” The man chuckles. “First, my broth, them some nice dancing for you two!” He takes two ceramic bowls. While he fills them with the thick red liquid, he asks, “By the way, do you know how you can befriend a squirrel?”
Tio Filippo’s pork broth is as much an institution in Kingman as his habit of cracking humorless jokes over and over again. This particular one-liner has been in his repertoire ever since I can remember.
Still, Wyatt shakes his head, and I follow his example.
“Just act like a nut.” Tio Filippo’s bellowing whoops fill the air. “You get it? A nut!”
Wyatt chuckles politely.
I give the cook a warm smile. “That’s funny.”
Tio Filippo hands us our pozoles, then taps the top of his head. “I’ve got another one. What do cows most like to read?” Without waiting for our reaction, he answers straight away. “Cattle-logs.”
While the cook cackles at his own joke, Wyatt’s warm palm lands on my lower back. Though he probably meant his gesture as a sign that he’s had enough of Tio Filippo’s humor, my complete body lights up at his touch. I need to tighten my grip on the soup to avoid spilling it. Especially when Wyatt’s thumb brushes briefly against the small portion of the bare skin between my crop top and shorts.
Wyatt grins. “That was a good one, too. Now we’ll move along and leave you to your other customers.” He gives me a gentle push and guides me farther toward an empty table.
We sit down and attack our soups.
“Mhm, it’s just as good as I remembered,” Wyatt sighs.
He’s right. The smokiness of the dense chile broth, the corn’s delicate aroma, and the intensely spiced bits of pork come together into heavenly synchrony.
“I wonder what his secret ingredient is…” I mumble between spoonfuls. “I asked Laia’s mom to make me this stew once, and she’s an excellent cook, but even her creation didn’t measure up to this.”
“I can tell you.” Wyatt waves for me to lean closer.
I arch my brows at him. “What? Don’t tell me you know what Tio Filippo mixes into his soup to make it this addictive?”
He wiggles his brows. “I do. But you need to come closer because I don’t want his trade secret outed.”
Though other people are seated at the neighboring tables, I feel that Wyatt is tricking me into getting closer to him.
But I still obey.
His mouth almost brushes my earlobe as he leans into me, sending my pulse into a frenzied race.
“It’s carnitas cooked in Mexican Coca-Cola,” he murmurs.
“Get out!” I exclaim and recoil with feigned surprise. Though the discovery that the cook uses the soft drink I despise is puzzling, I exaggerate my bewilderment to hide the effect Wyatt had on me. “How do you know this?”
Wyatt looks surprised for a second, then he pulls back and his face steels.
“Wyatt…” Despite the thrills still cascading down my spine from his fiery breath, I inch nearer to him again. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” he says but avoids looking at me.
“It doesn’t seem nothing to me. It’s almost as if my question swept away your playfulness somehow. Did I remind you of something?”
His gaze snaps to mine. “Asking as my therapist?”
“No. Asking as someone who cares about you.”
“In that case…” Wyatt draws in a breath and keeps his eyes locked with mine. “I know this…because this pozole used to be my father’s go-to remedy for his hangovers. When the booze would wear off and his stomach got queasy, he would make Mom get him some pozole. After buying the soup for years, one day Tio Filippo confided to Mom his secret ingredient.”
I shake my head. “Oh gosh, I used to see your mom with those food containers. I always assumed she brought that food to you because you loved Mexican dishes.”
Wyatt sighs. “Yeah, it’s probably one of the few things my father and I have in common.”
I wait because I sense there’s something more coming.
After a second, Wyatt adds, “On Thursdays, when it was Father’s turn to pick me up from training, I’d sometimes convince him to stop at Tio’s eatery on our way home and get a load of soup. Those were the rare occasions he and I talked without fighting. We’d talk about school, girls, and football. Mom always wondered why none of us would eat anything for dinner those nights.”
My eyes widen.
This is the third time today that Wyatt has associated his father with something other than the image of an abusive drunk.
Could it be that their relationship was slightly more layered than he wishes to remember? There must have been plenty of bad, even terrible, things that Wyatt lived through with his dad. But perhaps there were also good things Wyatt removed from his consciousness so he could continue hating his father?
He, too, seems to realize that his words didn’t follow his usual thought patterns because his face freezes.
I don’t want him to sink into a sullen mood, nor do I wish to turn our evening into a therapy session. We’ll have enough time for that once he speaks with his mother.
I blink at Wyatt’s soup bowl, which is empty. Mine is still mostly full, but my stomach couldn’t possibly take anything in after our chat, so I point at the dance floor and force a cheerful smile onto my face. “What do you say if we change our mood by dancing a bit?”
Wyatt’s face illuminates as if I’m throwing him a lifeline. “Great idea.”
We stand up and take our soup bowls back to Tio Filippo.
A cha-cha-cha song is just ending as we get closer to the stage. The singer, a guy with a straw hat and a serious bling-bling belt, coughs into the mic. “Now, we’ll do a nice Tush Push, y’all. Let’s start. But beware, this one’ll be a real quickie. So if you’ve got a pair of shiny, new boots, you may end up with blisters.”
I poke Wyatt on the shoulder and, with a grin, glance meaningfully at his new shoes. “This so
ng isn’t for you then. What a pity.”
I aim to lift his mood with my mocking, and I score bull’s eye, because his lips curl up.
“Are you challenging me?” he asks.
Giddy vibrations sizzle through my chest, and without wanting to, I shift into a way too flirtatious tone. “What if I am?”
“Then I say…” He wiggles his brow and grabs my wrist.
Before I can protest, he hauls me into the fourth line of dancers, where there’s enough space for both of us.
My heartbeat shoots to the roof at his unexpected touch, and I cover up my excitement with more banter. “Are you sure? You heard the singer; you may get blisters.”
Wyatt gives me a dazzling smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse.”
A lively tune fills the air. The singer wasn’t lying. He’d picked a speedy song for us.
The dancers tap their heels and touch their toes to the ground, and I do my best to pick up their rhythm. Though it’s been a while since I line danced, my feet immediately jump to the right moves.
After the first clap, I’m relaxed enough to peek at Wyatt. I’m curious to see how he’s doing. In my experience, very muscular men aren’t the most graceful hoofers—my brother isn’t—but Wyatt is nothing like Devon when he moves. Wyatt isn’t just the sexiest man on the dance floor by far, but also surprisingly graceful for his tall frame.
While I’m staring at him, I accidentally slide against the dancer in front of me, who just shuffled backward like everyone else. I quickly apologize and return to my place.
Wyatt chuckles. “Maybe it’s you who’s got trouble with the pace, hon.”
My cheeks warm, probably tinting into the hue of the spiciest salsa roja.
Why did I have to catch Wyatt in the middle of the movement that gives this dance its name?
Two girls turn their heads to us to tell Wyatt to shut up, but as their gazes lock in on his hips, they almost trip. You see? It’s obviously not my fault. The sight of Wyatt’s tush swinging should come with a warning label for young wo—
“Darlene, watch your foot. What’s gotten into you?” A grumpy baritone behind me complains.
I whip my head around and see a lady who’s probably my mom’s age tear her glance away from Wyatt’s behind and then struggle to adjust herself back to the song’s beat.
Okay, scratch that. Warning label for all women—without age restriction.
Chapter 28
(Wyatt)
After the Tush Push ends, the band continues with Boot Scootin’ Boogie without a break.
The line before us steps to the right, and I follow along to place my right foot in the correct position. While pulling my left foot behind the right, my eyes seek Ellie.
Most likely thinking I glanced at her because I don’t know what comes next, she says, “Vine left, kick right, kick left, kick right.”
“Ah, right,” I murmur, though I know this song’s choreography by heart.
It was my father’s favorite, and the only one at any festival that would lure him onto the dance floor to join my mother. Before I can reflect on why Dad’s popping into my head so often today, Ellie adds with a grin, “Now the best part: Stomp, stomp, kick, kick ball change.”
The keen edge in her voice pumps my blood and empties my head of my worries. We continue turning, tapping, and jumping as the beats require, and I realize I’m having tremendous fun.
In Georgia, I don’t concede myself the pleasure of a night out too often, and even when I do, I never have company as charming as Ellie.
Probably because there’s no one else quite like her.
When the tunes of “Hoedown Throwdown” start, I call out to her, “I’m gonna sit this one out.”
“Not a Hannah Montana fan?” she asks, picking up the pace of the new song.
“Nah. I’m too old for this.” I grin and move to the side of the dance floor.
I’m not really tired. A bit of line dancing isn’t comparable to the workouts I’m used to. But I’d love to admire how Ellie does the country hip-hop grooves without the risk of accidentally knocking over the other dancers.
Ellie nods to me, but her lips are already humming the song’s lyrics, while her body follows the beats in perfect synchrony.
As she jumps to the left, she sticks her boot heel to the ground and glides backward in an agile movement while raising her hand. A wave of heat rushes to my belly. She looks entirely absorbed by the music and at ease with herself. She doesn’t count or watch her steps, and each and every movement she makes blends in with the melody.
The technician in charge of the lighting moves a spotlight behind the band.
Suddenly it’s like the whole universe is conspiring to make it impossible to peel my eyes off Ellie. The sparkling stream lands on her, turning the fine mist of perspiration covering her skin into tiny, shiny beads and making her face glow with a surreal beauty.
I know I should probably not stare at Ellie but—
I stop mid-track as an assignment she gave me after our fourth session comes to mind.
Ellie challenged me to switch ‘should’ for ‘could’ in my inner dialogue. She claimed that patients often lure themselves into the false belief that they don’t have a say in their feelings, but they could avoid this detrimental thinking with a small semantic change.
She said there was a world of difference between “I should feel calm” and “I could feel calm,” because, in the first, there’s an external pressure to feel in a certain way, whereas, in the second, it’s an internal choice.
I never really tried this exercise.
How would my previous thought sound with this adjustment? Okay, here it goes.
I could probably not stare at Ellie’s booty shimmying as she zig-zags her feet…but the truth is, I want to. Oh, jeez, she was right. This linguistic trick works. By switching this one little word, I realized what I want.
I want to continue to gape at Ellie, but not just at her hips.
At her.
Observing Ellie having fun is probably one of the most gratifying things I’ve ever done. Perhaps even more than that mythical rushing touchdown I did against the Patriots.
When Ellie enjoys herself, her eyes sparkle, and their glimmers light up the world around her. Even her curls radiate her joy and bounce with more grace than usual. I wish I could see her be this careless and happy every minute of the day.
Preferably in my arms…
A poke in my ribs tears me out of my fantasies.
“Fallen into a trance?” Ellie asks with a wink.
“No, tired,” I say to her, shaking my head to clear it. “Enough dancing?”
Ellie shrugs and tilts her head to the floor. “No, but they put on a Texas Two-Step.”
I look at the dance floor, which is filled with couples gliding in a large, counterclockwise circle. Mhm, this might just be the best excuse ever…
I stretch my hand to her.
She eyes it with furrowed brows. “What are you doing?”
“Asking you to dance?” I smile.
Ellie’s eyes widen, and she swallows. “Didn’t…didn’t you say you were tired?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
I reach my hand even farther, so it almost touches her.
The surrounding air becomes heavier as I wait for her answer, almost as if it changed from gas to liquid. A throbbing starts in my fingertips as I yearn for her skin to melt with mine.
Her eyes bounce between the dance floor, my face, and my stretched hand. She sighs and puts her palm into mine. “Okay, but don’t crush my toe.”
Despite her mocking comment, her voice remains soft and serious, as if she also feels that the mood’s shifted between us.
“Will do my best,” I answer in the same tone then haul her closer to me, placing a hand below her shoulder blade.
She slides her fingers up on my arm, stopping just above my biceps. We begin to move with the others, following the quick-quick, slow-slow rhythm the other cou
ples dictate.
“You lead well.” Ellie peers up at me, her eyes wide.
“You seem surprised.”
“I guess I am,” she says, keeping my gaze. “We never really danced together before. And knowing your preference for smashing the defense on the gridiron, I expected you to be slightly more…”
I bend my neck slightly to get closer to her face. “Pushy?”
“Perhaps, yes.”
“With you, I could never be that. Ever.”
Ellie stares at me then withdraws her gaze, directing it to just above my shoulder. “If old Harry doesn’t look like a rooster among a bunch of hens,” she says.
It’s clear she’s trying to dissolve the sizzles between us, but because I don’t want to belie what I just promised her, I turn my head to check what she’s looking at.
Harry is standing in the middle of his wife’s friends, telling a story with wide gesticulation.
“Yes, he’s in his element tonight. It’s nice to see everyone again,” I say.
I blink back at Ellie, and I catch her staring at me.
When our eyes meet, she blushes. “Yeah, it was a good idea to come to this dance.”
Something in her tone suggests that she didn’t say this because she’s glad to see Harry and Martha, but perhaps because she enjoys being in my arms.
Her phrase gives me permission to bring up the subject we started earlier today but didn’t finish. “I really think we should tell Devon about us,” I say.
Her eyes widen. “Didn’t we agree to shelve this topic for now?”
Wyatt shrugs. “You agreed that Devon is in a good place now. There’s nothing you need to defend him from.”
“I’m not sure…” Ellie mumbles. “What if your friendship suffers?”
“It won’t.” I raise my arm to initiate a spin for Ellie. When she graciously completes the turn, landing back in my arms, I continue, “But even if he’ll be upset with me for a while, I don’t mind. I’m fed up with pretending about you. Aren’t you?” Since she stays silent, I clear my throat. “Well, unless it isn’t pretending for you, and you’re still angry that I…”
Her eyes flick to mine, and she shakes her head. “No. I said I forgave you, and I meant it. I’m not angry with you anymore. Not one bit.”
Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) Page 22