The Reason I Married Him
: Chapter 5

I rub some aloe vera over my shoulders as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. I wasn’t expecting to be out in the field without sunscreen during the hottest part of the day, but that happens when Wyatt Preston thinks he’s some funny guy attempting to make a statement.

Guess who won?

Me.

He ran out of stakes, and when he tried to take them away from me, I ran away, sprinting across the fields in boots and leaving him in my dust. He left after that, and I have never felt more satisfied. Well, besides when he saw me working on the chicken coop he’d been determined to build. I proved to him that I’m fine without his help or opinion.

Or the offer for his hand in marriage.

Honestly, I still can’t get over the audacity. He doesn’t care about this farm. He said it himself that he would hand over the land freely. The only reason he’s holding on is because he wants something from me, and that something is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

Marriage.

He wants to marry me . . . out of convenience, to save some family cabin.

Don’t get me wrong, I can understand the desperation to save something close to you, hence why I’ve been battling with him over this farm. But he needs other options because I’m not one of them.

I slip into a tank top with a built-in bra and slide into cotton shorts. I’m just having dinner with Ryland and Mac. It’s not like I need to dress up. With my hair wet and down, I slip on my sandals and start toward the farmhouse when my eyes connect with the stupid SUV that keeps popping up on the farm.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter as I stomp toward the house and up the porch steps. When I open the creaky screen door and see Wyatt on the ground, dressed up like a ninja and rolling around in mock pain from Mac’s zappy hands, I inwardly groan.

Whyyyyyy?

Why is he here?

Can I not have a peaceful moment without him tagging along?

“Aunt Aubree!” Mac says as she charges toward me. She sees me every day but still acts like I’m visiting for the first time in months. She is the absolute best balm for the end of any and every day.

“Hey, Mac, how was your day?”

“Great. I’m zapping Uncle Wyatt until he turns into dust.”

“Need help? Because I’d love nothing more than for that to happen.”

Wyatt looks up from the floor. “I’m sure you would,” he says.

Ryland jogs down the stairs, freshly showered and wearing comfy clothes just like me. “Oh hey, pizza is in the oven. Should be done soon.”

“Great, need me to do anything?” I ask.

“No, I’m good. Just going to set the table. Hey Mac, go upstairs, go potty, and wash your hands.”

“But I don’t need to go potty,” she whines.

“I understand you don’t need to go potty, but I bet there’s pee inside you that needs to come out.”

“No, no pee.” She shakes her head defiantly. What I’ve heard from people around town when I talk about Mac is that four is one of the worst years to parent because they really like to hold on to that independence and defiance. Not a bad thing, but boy oh boy when you try to get them to do something, it’s really hard.

“Okay,” Ryland says. “Then don’t go potty. That’s your choice. I just hope the pee goblin doesn’t get you.”

What the hell is the pee goblin?

“If it does, I’ll zap him with my zappers,” she says, holding out her hands and curling her fingers.

“Pee goblin is immune to zaps.”

“He is?” Mac asks, looking almost stunned at that new information.

Ryland nods. “Yup. He’ll come for you no matter what.”

She sighs. “Fine, I’ll go potty.”

And then with her head turned down, she drags herself up the stairs to go to the bathroom.

“What the hell is the pee goblin?” I ask.

Ryland places his hand on the counter as he leans against it and says, “Don’t judge me, but it was something she came up with when she said she peed her pants one day at school, that the pee goblin came to get her. And well, I ran with it.” He shakes his head. “I’m not perfect, just trying to get the girl to go pee so she doesn’t get an infection. Jesus Christ, she’s a camel. She holds that pee in longer than anyone I know.”

“I like the pee goblin,” Wyatt says as he removes his ninja mask and looks me up and down. “You look nice, Aubree.”

Uh . . . what is he doing?

I stand there, stunned and confused because why would he say that in front of my brother? Unless . . . this is part of his scheme.

“Aren’t you going to say thank you?” Ryland smirks.

“No,” I say as I move toward the kitchen and grab the napkins to help set the table.

“Let me get that for you,” Wyatt says, coming right up behind me and taking the napkins. “You had a hard day on the farm. Just look at that sunburn. Do you need me to get you any lotion for it?”

Wow, and the Oscar goes to . . .

“I just put some on, and I don’t need you⁠—”

“Uncle Ry Ry, I’m pooooooping!” Mac shouts from upstairs.

“Great,” Ryland mumbles as he moves past us. “Can you finish setting the table? I have to tend to my niece, who likes company when she poops.”

At times like these, I thank Cassidy for not listing me as Mac’s legal guardian.

Once Ryland is up the stairs, Wyatt walks up to me and says, “Want my help?”

I turn toward him and reply, “What I want you to do is to leave this house and never return.”

“Is that how you should be talking to your husband?”

Through clenched teeth, I drag out, “You are not my husband.”

“Not yet.” He tilts my chin up with his finger. I go to push him away, but he captures my wrists in his hands.

“What are you doing?”

“Just letting you know . . .” He leans in until his mouth is right next to my ear. The minute he starts talking, chills spread down my legs. “You are not to tell anyone about my proposal, not a single soul, and if you do, I’m selling my half of the land.”

A gasp falls past my lips as he pulls away. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would, Mrs. Preston.” Then he moves past me, grabs the plates from the cabinet, and starts setting the table.

“You know, this is not going to work,” I say, seeing through his whole act. “You think you’re going to change my mind in the next four or five days before you leave, but what you don’t know about me is that I’m as stubborn as the cows you want to purchase. I’m not budging.”

“You’ve clearly underestimated me,” he says with an arrogant confidence that drives me nuts. Then his eyes scan me before he says, “Your nipples are hard. Did I do that?”

“Oh my God!” I nearly shout, covering my breasts as I walk into the kitchen.

And yes . . . yes, he did do that.

But not because I think he’s an attractive man or replace the way his hair falls over his forehead intriguing. It’s because when I get angered, my body reacts, and unfortunately, that includes my nipples.

I’m facing away from him when I feel his heated body behind me. His hand lands on my waist, and I’m so insulted by his presumption that I turn around to face him.

Bad idea, because he’s so close that he presses me up against the counter.

“It’s okay to admit that I get you revved up.”

“Can you not be so obnoxious?” I ask, still covering my chest with one hand, hoping to calm them down. “It’s chilly in here, and I’m not wearing a bra. My nipples have nothing to do with you. Also, that kind of talk is completely inappropriate.”

“Not when you’re my future wife.”

“Oh my God, Wyatt. You realize you have a serious problem, right?”

“The only problem I see is standing right in front of me.” He grips my waist a touch tighter, just to remind me he’s holding me, possessing me in a way he has no right doing.

Yet why am I not pushing his hand away?

“Just admit it, Aubree,” he says, talking closer to me. “You want the land, and I want the cabin. It’s the perfect opportunity to help each other out.”

“But what about the fact that I don’t want to help you out?” I ask. “At this point, the last thing I want to do is help you make your dreams come true.”

“Sometimes your words can hurt, Aubree.”

“Please, you don’t have feelings,” I say. “All you have is your self-importance. I suggest you don’t waste your time with me and try to replace someone else.”

“Uh-huh, and what happens when I do and then use my half of the land for something else? Like . . . oh, I don’t know, sell it off for commercial space.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” I say even though a slight panic enters my heart. He was right about earlier. I don’t know him that well, and I have no clue what kind of integrity and loyalty this man possesses.

Other than the love he has for his cabin.

But from his proposal, it seems like he has no problem stepping over people to get his own way.

“I very much would and would enjoy every second of it.”

Just then, Mac and Ryland come down the stairs, and I see the moment Ryland notices us in the kitchen, in an intimate position, because his eyebrow raises in question.

Thankfully, Wyatt pulls away and continues setting the table, but that doesn’t stop Ryland from staring me down, a slew of questions rolling around in his head.

I ignore him, though, and get everyone drinks. The last thing I need is for Wyatt to do something brash, like sell off the land. So I keep my mouth shut and move around the kitchen, pretending to be helpful.

“THAT WAS GREAT, THANK YOU,” Wyatt says as he pats his stomach after dropping off his empty plate of food. “Was that homemade crust?”

“Dude, does it look like I have time to make homemade pizza crust?”

Wyatt laughs as I finish loading the dishwasher for Ryland. “No, but I wanted to be polite and not assume.”

“I appreciate it, but assume away with any shortcuts. The easier, the better for me.”

“Good to know.”

I wipe my hands on the kitchen towel. “Is there anything else you need help with? Want me to give Mac her shower?”

Ryland shakes his head. “Nah, I can handle it. You can head home. Thanks for doing the dishes.”

“Anytime,” I say.

“Here, I can walk you home,” Wyatt says as he comes up to me.

“Uh, I think I can make it,” I say, highly annoyed with him. Not just because of everything he did today but because he was so freaking charming during dinner.

He had Ryland rolling with laughter and Mac sitting on his lap at one point, playing with his cheeks. The entire dinner was consumed by him. And the worst thing? He sat next to me at the table and draped his arm over the back of my chair several times, making it seem like something was happening between us.

A budding relationship if you will.

It was subtle but significant, enough for Ryland to piggyback off catching us in the kitchen together. I can only imagine what’s going on in my brother’s mind at the moment.

“Nah, I’ll make sure you get home safely,” Wyatt says with a knowing smile. “Have a good night, Ryland.”

Ryland smirks as he shakes Wyatt’s hand. “Have a good night, Wyatt.”

And then with his hand on my lower back, Wyatt guides me toward the front door as if he’s my escort and I have no idea where I’m going.

When we reach the porch and head down the stairs, I spin away from him and whisper, “Stop that. I know where my house is, and I don’t need you acting like we’re a couple in front of my brother.”

“Why not?” he asks. “When you say yes to my proposal, it won’t come off as a big surprise.”

“Uh, getting engaged after being around someone for a week will be a big surprise no matter how many times you place your hand on my lower back.”

“Well, it will soften the blow. Trust me, I know about this kind of stuff.”

“You know about fake marriages?” I ask. “Please, tell me how?”

“Uh . . . it’s called being an author,” he says as he follows me to my guest house. I open the door, ready to slam it shut on him, but to my horror, he helps himself in. “I wrote a book with a marriage of convenience as part of the plot, so I’m well-versed. I know all the ins and outs of what to do and what not to do. When I say giving subtle hints to the people around you about a possible romance is key, I’m not lying. It played off beautifully in my book.”

“That’s fiction,” I counter. “This is real life. It’s completely different.”

“Some might say fiction is just research for real life.”

I stare at him, deadpanned. “Absolutely no one says that.”

“Some might.”

“No one,” I reply. “Also, what the hell do you think you’re doing, coming into my house? I didn’t invite you in.”

“Husbands don’t need invitations,” he says as he kicks off his shoes and looks around.

I point at his shoes. “Put those back on. You’re not staying.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave before you go to bed, but I just want to get a good look at where I’ll be living.” He moves to my closet and opens the door. “Hmm, we’ll need to make some room for my stuff.”

I shut the door and block him from it with my body. “You’re not staying here. Therefore, we don’t need to make room.”

“Oh, you want to go for the tiny house situation? Not a problem. We can also do a small barndominium, and once we get divorced, you can turn it into an Airbnb. You’re welcome for the idea.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You will when you start seeing the extra income.” He flops back on my bed, arms extended. “Ooo, comfier than I thought it would be. This will do.”

“You have lost your freaking mind if you think I’ll share a bed with you.”

“Where else would I sleep?”

“On the floor,” I reply as I grab my toothbrush and start brushing my teeth.

“Aha,” he says, lifting and pointing at me. “You’re thinking about it. I’m wearing you down.”

Crap, that got past me.

“I meant, on the floor outside because you wouldn’t be my husband.” I spit into the sink and rinse my toothbrush.

“Nice try,” he says, flopping back on the bed. “You know, the Airbnb wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Think about all the branding you could incorporate into the space. Offer up a gift basket of all things from The Almond Store and fresh eggs for breakfast.”

“Can you stop it with your ideas? They’re getting annoying.”

Because they’re actually pretty damn good. An Airbnb would do very well here, especially since the inn is one of the few spaces available to book with all the amenities. Apart from the RV park outside of town, there’s a camping ground about three miles up the coast.

“Sad that you’re not thinking of them? It’s okay, babe. We can think up some ideas you can develop.”

“That’s so condescending,” I say as I sit on my bed because my legs are sore, and I have nowhere else to sit. That’s how small this room is.

He turns to face me and props his head on his hand. His five o’clock shadow is coming in very dark, making it look like he almost has a full beard. Not that I care to admit it, but it looks nice on him.

“Trust me when I say I won’t be condescending when we’re married.”

“Oh great, so you’re just condescending when you try to court me?” I scoot down on my bed, freaking exhausted from the day. When I sink into the pillow, my eyes start to droop.

“So you think that we’re courting? Good to know. Is this like a . . . I bring you flowers every day kind of thing? Because I know how to woo.”

“How about you try leaving me alone? That’ll score you some points.”

“Thank you for the suggestion. I’m afraid I can’t take it because I’m rather attached to you already.”

“You like to be tortured with sarcasm and sass?” I ask as I sink deeper into my pillow and cross my legs at my ankles.

“Call it my guilty pleasure,” he replies as I slowly shut my eyes. “Are you falling asleep on me?”

“I am,” I say, not bothering to open my eyes. “And if I replace you here, in my bed, in the morning, you will face a serious problem.”

“Shouldn’t you want to get used to sleeping with me?”

“No,” I answer. “Because I’m not marrying you, so there’s no need to get used to sleeping with you. Simple as that.”

“You say that now, but I’ll wear you down.”

“I wish you luck in your endeavor because you’ll need it. I know how stubborn I can be. You’re in for a real uphill climb.” I curl into my pillow.

“Good thing I like a challenge.” He stands from the bed and moves toward the door. “Sweet dreams, Mrs. Preston.”

The audacity.

How I wish I could wake up tomorrow and this all be a horrible nightmare.

I will never be Mrs. Preston.

No matter his threats.

LAST NIGHT, I easily got the best night of sleep I’ve had in a very long time. Not certain why. I know it has nothing to do with Wyatt, that’s for damn sure, but it was amazing. I feel refreshed and ready to start my day.

I might have slept in just a touch, but that’s okay because it’s the weekend, and I have the day off if I want to take it, but I don’t. I want to finish up that chicken coop before Wyatt can get his hands on it. If anything, I want to show him that I don’t need his help.

So with a fresh travel mug of coffee in my hand, I head out of my house and hop into the four-by-four. It will be hot today, so I slathered on the sunscreen and put on a pair of worn jean shorts with paint spots all over them and a green tank top that says Save the Trees. I tossed my hair into a bun and tied a rolled-up bandanna around my head to help keep the stray hairs out of my eyes.

I plan to finish up some last-minute framing of the chicken coop and then paint all day. While the paint dries, I want to build some flower boxes to place around the chicken coop to make it more visually appealing. That was something Cassidy really believed in when she was creating this farm. We might use old barnwood, but a flower plant will be next to it. Which reminds me, I need to water them all today.

I drive down the path toward the barn. When I round the corner and Wyatt’s SUV comes into view, I inwardly groan.

No.

No way he’s here. It’s eight in the morning. Doesn’t the man know how to sleep?

Why is this happening, and what did I do in life to deserve this?

Growing irritated immediately and losing all the joy that my great night of sleep brought me, I park and hop out just as Wyatt comes into view wearing a pair of cargo khakis with a hammer hanging onto one of the belt loops. His black T-shirt is tight around his biceps while it falls over his narrow hips. And today, he’s wearing a backward hat that seems like it’s seen its fair share of hard workdays.

“Morning, babe,” he says when he spots me.

“Can you not call me that? I’m not your babe.”

“You will be.” He winks. “Your favorite muffins are in the barn as well as some fresh fruit and coffee.” His eyes land on the mug in my hand. “But I see you already have some. Either way, it’s there for a refill.”

It’s bad enough that he keeps showing up here every day. What’s even worse is that he knows my favorite muffins are my absolute crutch, and even though I can’t stand the man, I replace myself moving into the barn, where I can already smell the maple apple waiting for me. Damn him.

I take a seat on the tractor and bite into a muffin. The delicious flavors marinate over my taste buds as I consider what my life has come to.

I have a man following me around my farm, calling me Mrs. Preston, proposing marriage like a lovesick fiend, and bringing me muffins that I can’t even muster up the strength to say no to. If you told me last week this is where I’d be, I wouldn’t have believed you. Not even a little.

“I have to admit, you’re good at picking out muffins,” he says as he picks one up and takes a large bite of the top. I eat them the same way. None of this working around the sides. Nope, just dive right into the top. “This is my second one this morning.”

“You act as if that’s an accomplishment,” I say. “I’ve had six in a day.”

His brow rises. “Six?”

“Not even ashamed. Just be happy I’m not stabbing you with that pitchfork over there because you’ve had two from this box.”

He glances behind him at the pitchfork and back at me. “You know, I truly believe you’d do that.”

“Good, the more unhinged you believe I am, the better.”

“Doesn’t scare me, though.” He leans in close and says, “I like my women a little on the crazy side.”

“If that’s the case, maybe you can replace a bride on Craigslist. I think the majority of people on there offering human services such as marriage are unhinged.”

“Nah, why look around when I have the perfect specimen sitting right in front of me?”

“You have serious issues.” I shake my head. “Also, why are you here?”

“Do you really have to ask?” He pours himself some coffee. “My future bride is here, and I want to spend as much time with her as I can. Would I prefer to do it somewhere besides a chicken coop or dusty potato fields? Of course, but she has this stubborn streak that I have to work around.”

“Have you ever taken the hint that maybe I don’t want you around?”

“Babe, I was able to read your distaste for me the minute I walked into the farmhouse the first night I was here. Trust me, I’m well aware of your feelings, but you need to understand I have every right to be here on the land, and I plan on being here for as long as I want. Might even extend my stay. I know Ethel has been waiting on confirmation for me to do so. I have nothing better to do, and I have goals to meet. So stop fighting it. I’m here to stay.”

“You are not here to stay,” I say as I take another bite of my muffin. “You’ll be here until you get bored with the monotony of farm life or a new book idea pops into your head.”

“Honestly, I like it here.” He leans against the tractor wheel, looking up at me. “I like the town, the people, the atmosphere. Ethel told me last night that I could write anywhere in the inn that I wanted to, so I’m taking that as an open invitation. I was looking at real estate last night, and there are quite a few places I’m interested in.”

“Stop,” I say, lowering my muffin. “No, you’re not.”

“I think it would be good to be closer to Mac. Help out Ryland. I know Clarke would have appreciated that.”

“Ryland has all the help he needs.”

“Wait,” he says, turning toward me. “Is that . . . is that panic I see in your eyes?”

“No,” I answer even though I feel panicked.

“I think it is.” He smirks. “Why would you panic about me moving here? Worried that you might have to see me every day on the farm, attempting to stake out my side of the property?”

“There’s no panic.”

“There is,” he says as he comes up to me now, standing right in front of me so his chest touches my knees. “Afraid you might fall for me?”

“Oh my God.” I roll my eyes. “No, not even a little.”

“Then why the panic?”

“There is no panic,” I try to say as casually as possible. “If you want to move here, move here. If you want to spend your days on this farm, by all means, spend your days here. That is your choice, but there will be rules about who works on what project, and right now, this chicken coop is my project, so you can figure out something else to do.”

“Ooo.” He winces. “I actually worked really hard on the framing, and if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be as far as you are on this project, so . . . technically, it’s mine too.” He places his hand on my leg and says, “But we can work on it together.”

“Over my dead body.” I hop off the tractor, ready to move toward the coop, when he pins me in place, using his large body to keep me from moving.

One hand on the tractor, the other on my hip, he leans forward and says, “Come on, Aubree, it’ll be fun.”

“Your definition of fun is much different from mine.”

His hand grips my hip tighter, just like last night, and if my head were on straight, I’d push him away. I’d kick him in the shin. I’d do anything to free myself of his imposing self.

Yet I stay here, grounded by him. Which is so strange as I never felt grounded by Matt.

“Maybe we can talk about what we replace fun,” he says, his thumb rubbing along my hipbone.

“If you really think you’re going to win me over by attempting to turn me on, you’re interacting with the wrong woman.” The words fly out of my mouth, but I don’t think I necessarily believe them.

“Turn you on?” he asks. “I’m just trying to get you to look at me without creasing your brow in disdain.”

“Your chances of that happening are slim to none,” I answer.

He sighs and leans forward as he says softly, “Why do you hate me, Aubree?”

His deep brown eyes with a hint of green around the outer edge stare back at me, looking for answers I don’t have. Because I don’t know if I can pinpoint what annoys me about him.

Maybe it’s because he came out of nowhere and started claiming the land he shouldn’t have in his possession.

Maybe it’s because he waltzed into town looking like a hero and sweeping everyone off their feet.

Maybe it’s because he has this likable charm, and I’ve nearly been caught up in it.

Maybe it’s because he is annoyingly and stupidly attractive, and no man should ever be that good-looking, but he is. Or that he has more muscles than a man who sits at a keyboard all day every day should have.

But it’s probably because I fear he’ll replace the deficiencies of this farm, know how to fix it, and become a better fit for the job than I am . . .

“Still thinking, are you?” he asks, his voice deep and sultry as his thumb rubs across my hipbone again. “It’s okay to admit that you don’t actually hate me, and this is all a front. That you replace me extremely attractive, and the only way you can keep yourself away is by pretending to hate me. I get it. I’ve written about it before in a book, but just like in fiction, you’ll give in at some point.”

“Can you not compare me to your books? This is reality, Wyatt.”

“And my books are so popular because I bring reality into them. I bring real thoughts, real dreams, real heartache. They might be thrillers, but the emotions and people are real.” He studies me for a second. “The feelings you’re storing away, keeping hidden, those are real, and it will help the both of us if you just let them out.” Nope.

Not. Happening. Ever.

“I have nothing to share with you,” I say as I knock his hand down and move past him. Mentioning feelings and “opening up” to me? That’s the minute I check out. That’s a big no for me.

Sure, he can rub his thumb over my hipbone.

He can pin me against the tractor.

He can call me babe and Mrs. Preston and put his hand on my lower back.

But the moment he asks me about feelings is the moment I’m out. That’s my hard line.

I head toward the chicken coop, where I notice he has finished the construction portion. Everything is almost done from the roof to the ramp, to even a few flower boxes and laying stalls. I turn toward him in disbelief. “What time did you get here this morning?”

He comes up next to me, his chest against my back, his presence so freaking overwhelming that I can feel my knees knock together. It’s from my irritation pulsing through me and not from the idea that this strong, attractive man standing behind me wants to marry me.

Jesus, Aubree, it’s not even for love. It’s for convenience.

But still, it’s been a long time for me to even have a male presence other than my brother around. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a man look me in the eyes, grip me by the hip, and tell me what he wants—even if it’s make-believe.

If Cassidy were still alive, she’d be screaming at me to get this man off the farm. She’d be fuming that I deserve way more than a marriage of convenience. She would know. She married for the wrong reason, and even though she loved Clarke, I know she loved someone else more, someone she never got to be with. She wouldn’t want Hattie, Ryland, or me to make the same mistake she made. She was all about feelings and true love.

We were so, so different.

“I came in around five thirty. Organized and tried to keep quiet, then got some work done.”

I look over my shoulder at him. “Five thirty? Why on earth would you do that?”

“Wanted to beat you to the coop.”

I shake my head. “That,” I say. “That will never gain my trust.” Not that I want him to gain my trust.

He’s deliberately trying to anger me. That’s what he’s doing. Don’t let him.

I walk over to the paint cans where I picked out the color Iron Ore for the coop and the fencing.

“Want me to grab the rollers?” he asks.

“No, I want you to leave.”

He walks up to me, and to my surprise, he places his finger under my chin, forcing me to look him dead in the eyes. “Aubree, I’m not going anywhere. Please, stop fighting it,” he says softly. “I’m here to stay for a while, so put me to good use. If you don’t, I’ll just do what I think needs to be done, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”

He’s right, I don’t want that at all. I don’t need him waltzing around the farm, trying to see what he can help with, especially when nothing needs his help. So even though I don’t want to spend my morning painting with Wyatt as he pesters me with his ridiculous terms of endearment, I settle with the idea that it’s the better choice than letting him go off on his own.

“Fine, grab the rollers.”

He grins at me, his thumb under my chin. “Such a good Mrs. Preston.”

I swat his hand, making him laugh. “Don’t call me that.”

He moves over to the rollers and sets them up while I open the paint, stir it, and then pour it into paint pans. Would it be easier to use a paint sprayer to get the job done? Yes, but I don’t have one, so we’re going with this. We work in silence together, prepping the area. The whole time, I ignore the glaring realization that we can accomplish a task together without talking. We somehow know what the other person will do and move around each other to prep.

Once we’re set, he hands me a roller, and I hand him a paint pan. “You start on that side. Paint everything, including the wire fencing.”

“You want me to paint the wire fencing?” he asks, looking confused. If he wasn’t so annoying, I’d think the crinkle of confusion in his nose was cute.

But it’s not.

“Yes, it will make it easier to see inside the coop. Trust me.”

“You’re the boss,” he says as he rolls his roller in the paint and starts painting, the sound of wet paint being spread out on wood and wire filling the silence between us.

It’s peaceful.

And for a moment, I almost forget he’s here as I get into the motion of painting, rolling up and down, dipping back into the paint, only to repeat the process, but then . . . he speaks.

“What’s your favorite part about the farm?” he asks.

I dip my roller into more paint. “You know, we don’t have to talk.”

“How am I supposed to get to know my future wife, then?” he asks.

This motherfucker.

I swear I’ve never met someone as persistent as he is. He’s nonstop. It’s actually—I hate to admit it—slightly impressive because he gives zero fucks. He just puts it out there, and if you don’t like it, he really doesn’t care. He just keeps moving forward. To live your life that way . . .

Ignoring his last comment, I say, “Why do you want to know? Besides your stupid future wife crap that’s not going to happen.”

He chuckles. “Well, because after being here for a few days, I think I have a place I like. It’s probably my favorite.”

“If you say your favorite place is being in my presence, I’ll honestly throw up on you.”

He laughs wholeheartedly. “Although a close second, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?” I ask.

“I asked you first.”

“How do I know that you’re not going to say the same place as mine when I answer just so you can go on some tirade about how we’re so meant to be and our marriage is made for the ages?”

“I like the way you think,” he says as he wiggles his eyebrows.

“Be serious.”

“Fine,” he says as he pulls a pencil out of his pocket and writes something on the post in front of him. He then faces me and says, “My answer is on the post behind me. Tell me your favorite place, and we can see if it’s mine.”

This is a very risky situation because if our places match by some chance, then I’d be wary of the universe trying to tell me something. And even though there is no way I’d ever say yes to his proposal, matching common favorite places would at least make me think deeper about my circumstances.

I set my roller down and brush off my hands before reaching for my mug of coffee and taking a sip. After a few seconds, I say, “The big oak tree out past the silos.”

The moment the words fall out of my mouth, I watch as a slow, knowing grin falls over his lips.

No freaking way.

He steps aside and smirks, gesturing to his answer. I don’t have to get close to know what it is.

It’s clear as day.

Giant oak behind the barn.

The son of a bitch.

He has to be a mentalist. This can’t be real. There is no way this man, who I can’t stand having around, has the same freaking favorite spot as me. He’s been here for two seconds, and he doesn’t even know the significance of it.

I shake my head and turn around to get back to painting—ignore, ignore, ignore.

After a few seconds, he says, “Well, I know where I’m going to propose now when you’re ready.”

“Don’t even think about it.” I grip my roller tighter as I continue, “That tree is sacred, and I don’t want you messing up my memories of it with some asinine, fake proposal that’ll mean nothing.”

He pauses, and I can feel him turn toward me, but I keep my back facing him. “Sacred?” he asks, his voice softening. “What kind of memories do you have under that tree?”

“Nothing I want to share with you,” I answer.

“Are they with Cassidy?” he presses.

I sigh. “I said I don’t want to share them with you, Wyatt.”

He’s silent for a moment—but I can hear him thinking—and then he says, “Fair enough, Aubree. I am truly sorry you lost your sister. Cancer is fucked.”

He turns back and starts painting again.

Cancer is fucked.

God, he is so right. But as I allow more silence to continue, because I have no idea how to answer that comment, I begin to feel the weight of the oak tree between us. He doesn’t need to know why it means so much to me. He doesn’t need to know that I hate emotional tension, either. Or dealing with emotions. But he showed true sympathy just then. Which I appreciate and also hate. But I’m not good at them.

When Matt left me, that had been one of his complaints. “You need to learn to express your feelings, Aubree. No one likes being with someone who is so closed off. So . . . unavailable.”

That’s me.

Thanks for that, Matt. I’m sure Amanda is all about her emotions and feelings and all that other shit I just don’t deal with.

I do it if it’s necessary. Like when Hayes and Hattie split up, I was there for my sister. And the night that Ryland realized he was going to be Mac’s legal guardian and the weight of that hit him, I was there for him as well. But other than that, I just wish to keep my emotions to myself.

When we both end up on the same side, painting, Wyatt finally breaks the silence when he says, “I wrote a Halloween thriller once, a short story for my publisher about killer chickens.”

I glance up at him. “And you said your books were based in reality.”

He grins. “That one might have been a bit far-fetched.”

“Maybe a little,” I say as I keep rolling, grateful he broke the tension.

“Think you’ll have any killer chickens?”

“I can only hope because then I’d direct them toward you.”

He grips his chest over his heart. “The things you say to me, wife, they truly are a blessing.”

IT’S SO HOT TODAY.

Hotter than I want it to be.

Normally, if it were this hot on a Saturday, I’d call it a day and go back to my guest house, where I’d shower and then binge-watch some show I wanted to catch up on. Maybe take Mac to town to grab some ice cream or even to the beach to dip our toes in the water.

But there is no way in hell I’m calling it a day when Wyatt is still here working.

Currently, he’s on top of the chicken coop, installing shingles. How does he know how to do that? I have no idea. My guess is he spent last night watching YouTube videos over and over again, hoping he could apply the knowledge today.

While he continues to bang away on the roof, I finish the paint touch-ups.

Because it’s so hot, the paint dries quickly, making the project easy but also miserable at the same time. All we have to do is install the flower boxes, and we’re ready for the chickens. Not that I care to admit it, but I don’t think we would have gotten this done as fast as we did if Wyatt hadn’t helped me. Because Parson, his men, and Echo are busy with their daily tasks. Esther and Aggie are doing their own thing, and then I pick up projects around the farm as well as take care of the business, so this was one of those projects I wanted to do but just didn’t get to it . . . until Wyatt put his hands on it.

“Fucking fuck, it’s hot,” Wyatt says from the roof. “Aubree, I know you want me to shrivel up and die under the sun while I’m up here, but can you please hand me my water?”

The temptation to let him shrivel up is heavy, but I also need to give credit where credit is due. He helped me with this project, so I should give him some water as a thank-you.

I set my roller down and walk over to where his water bottle rests in the shade of the barn. Just as I bring it out to the chicken coop, a piece of fabric plops on the ground. Confused, I look up to replace Wyatt standing on the roof, shirtless and glistening under the bright sun.

Mother of God.

For someone who writes books all day long, the man sure does have a body.

And we’re talking an incredibly fit, toned body.

I mean . . . who truly has abs like that? Two well-defined rows, divided down the middle and horizontally, meeting up with a delicious deep V at his hips.

And now that he’s removed his shirt, there’s a reason his pants barely hang on to his narrow waist. An enticing dark patch of hair leads from his belly button to the waistband of his briefs. Call me sun sick, but it fascinates me . . . makes my mouth water, makes me wonder what is just below the zipper.

“Uh, my water,” Wyatt says as my eyes lift to his chest where they focus on his thick, flat pecs that expand all the way out to his shoulders, defining him in a way that I’m not privileged to see when he’s wearing clothes. “Can you hand it to me, Aubree?”

“What? Oh yes,” I say as I lift on my toes to hand it to him. But I’m not tall enough, so to my surprise, he hops off the roof, landing right in front of me with an earth-shaking plop.

Dear God, that was . . . umm . . . well, some might say hot, but I’m not going to say that. I’m just going to keep my mouth shut.

“Here,” I say, handing him his water.

He slides his fingers over mine, and in a husky tone, he says, “Thanks, wife.”

I steal my hand away and take a step back as a smile crosses his face.

Annoyed with his arrogance once again, I say, “Why did you need me to get your drink if you were going to hop off the roof anyway?”

“Last-minute choice,” he says. “Thought you might want a closer look since you can’t seem to stop staring.”

“Oh, get over yourself. I was not staring.” Oh God, he caught me staring. My cheeks flame with embarrassment.

“Uh . . . you were, this was you.” He tilts his head, parts his mouth, and stares at my chest.

I attempt to push him away, but he captures my wrist and holds me close, his sweaty skin inches from mine.

“I’m totally open to you checking out what I have to offer, but just let me know next time so I can flex for you.”

I straighten my back and look him dead in the eyes. “You, Wyatt, are an idiot.”

He chuckles and releases my wrist. “Denial looks pretty good on you, Aubree.”

God, he’s insufferable. Just when I was starting to think that it was nice to have him help me with the chicken coop, he changes my mind.

“Since it’s noon, do you want to grab something to eat?” he asks.

“No, I’m good.”

“Come on,” he says. “I know you’re hungry. I can see it in your withering eyes. My treat. I can take you to The Hot Pickle, or we can grab some pizza . . .”

“This is just you trying to get me to go out with you,” I say.

He shakes his head. “This is me trying to get food in my stomach so I don’t turn into a raving man beast with fangs, looking for his next meal. Which could very much be you.” He nods toward his SUV. “Come on.”

My stomach growls right on cue, and it’s loud enough to block out the sound of the wind whispering past the barn.

Wyatt chuckles. “Looks like your stomach has spoken.”

“Fine,” I say. “But we’re grabbing food and then coming back here. We’re not sitting at some table, eating food together while you try to stare longingly into my eyes.”

“It’s such a shame when you take the romance out of things.”

“Put your shirt on, I’m driving.”

“I WOULDN’T HAVE PEGGED you as a truck girl,” Wyatt says as we bounce down the driveway’s dirt road toward town.

“I have to have a truck if I live on a farm,” I answer.

“But this truck is different. Very, uh . . . not comfortable.”

I roll my eyes as I pull out onto the back country road, which is paved. “Is your precious author ass getting bruised?”

“It is,” he says. “Will you rub it for me later?”

I shake my head. “Should have seen that coming.”

“You seem to have something against me being an author because you’ve made quite a few backhanded comments about it.”

“I have nothing against it. I could never write a book, but I just replace it annoying that you come on this farm, thinking you know everything when your knowledge comes from Google and mine comes from real-life experience.”

“Understandable,” he says. “I can see how that would be annoying. Thank you for sharing your feelings with me.”

“Are you treating me like a child?” I ask.

“I sure as hell hope I’m not treating you like a child.” He laughs.

“No, I mean when you validated my feelings and told me you understood. That’s a technique we use with Mac when she gets upset.”

“That’s called empathy, Aubree. Are you not familiar?”

Such a smart-ass.

“Not so much,” I say as I make a left at the stop sign, pastures of cows on both sides of the road as we make the short jaunt into town.

“Are you not familiar because you weren’t shown empathy growing up or because you don’t like the acknowledgment of other people’s feelings?”

“Both,” I answer. “I don’t like emotions, and I don’t like feelings. I avoid them at all costs, and if you think this is a gateway to diving deeper into that mindset, you would be wrong.”

“Noted,” he says. “So if I were to, I don’t know, break my leg while finishing the chicken coop roof, would you feel bad for me?”

“I’d be grateful that you’d be out of commission and unable to bother me around the farm anymore.”

That makes him laugh. “Wow, okay. That’s some real sociopath kind of thinking, yet”—he glances in my direction—“I’m still intrigued.”

“What does that say about you?” I ask.

“That I like hardworking women who don’t take any shit from anyone. Hence why I want you to be my wife.”

“You want me to be your wife because of a cabin, not because of my personality.”

“Your personality is real and authentic. It might be a bit harsh at times, and sure, am I afraid that if we slept in the same bed, I might wake up with one testicle missing? Of course. But at least I’d know that the one testicle removed then stored in a jar on her nightstand was kept by a woman with character and ambition.”

“You are something else,” I say with a shake of my head and a slight smirk.

“Doesn’t hurt that you’re a smokeshow either,” he says.

I stop at a stop sign and glance in his direction. He’s grinning like a fool.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he asks as he reaches over to my side of the truck and attempts to place his hand in mine. I quickly retreat.

“Stop trying to flatter me. I don’t need your inflated opinion of my looks to get me to say yes to your foolish idea. I’m comfortable with how I am and what I see in the mirror.”

“Inflated opinion?” he says, his voice changing from easygoing to serious. “That’s not an inflated opinion, that’s facts. You’re hot, Aubree. I have no problem saying that.”

“Please, Wyatt⁠—”

“Please, what? Tell you more? Okay,” he continues. “You have these very intense green eyes that suck me in immediately because I have to know if they’re real or not. It’s difficult not to stare, not get captured. Then there are your freckles, barely visible to the naked eye, but they darken when you’ve been outside longer. I’ve never been a hair man, but something about those braids you like to wear flips my stomach upside down. And not that I should mention your body, but fuck, Aubree, it’s curvy but muscular, soft but strong. You can hold your own, but you also look like someone I’d like to hold. And last, those lips, like two flower petals, waiting to be explored.”

I pull into one of the town community parking lots and turn off the truck, only to turn toward him. What the hell is he on to say such crap? Even if some of that was nice to hear. “Are you feverish?”

“Nope,” he says.

“Flower petal lips? Really? Is that how you describe your characters’ lips in your books?”

He shakes his head. “Nah, never really focus on that shit.” He turns toward me, his large body eating up all the space in the truck’s cab. “You know, some people who just received as many compliments as you would say thank you, maybe blush, possibly even act a little shy while repaying the favor.”

“Why would I thank you when I don’t believe a word you said?”

“Why wouldn’t you believe it?” he asks, looking insulted.

“Because you’re sarcastic. You run around the farm calling me Mrs. Preston and telling me that I’m a good wife. Why the hell would I believe that you actually think I’m pretty or hot or whatever you said?”

“Good point,” he says. “But I wouldn’t lie to you about something as personal as looks. That wasn’t out of sarcasm or to boost my appeal. Those were cold, hard facts. I thought you were hot the day I helped Clarke and Cassidy move into their house, and I still think you’re hot. Simple as that. Feel free not to repay the compliment. I don’t need any validation.”

And because I grew up in a hostile environment where no one told me I was pretty until my sophomore year in high school when I went to the homecoming game in Cassidy’s brown floral dress, I can’t quite process what he just said to me. My mind can’t wrap itself around the compliments. Instead, I brush them off, not wanting to focus on them.

Not wanting to get caught up in them.

I revert to what I know best—being argumentative. If my dad taught me one thing, it’s that you argue until you get your way.

“Of course you don’t, because you think you’re the hottest man alive, don’t you?” I hop out of the truck, and so does he.

“No, that would be Chris Evans.”

I pause and wait for him to catch up. “You think Chris Evans is the hottest guy in the world?”

“Yeah. He has it all. The slight hint of a Boston accent, good looks, great body, a sense of humor. How could you not?”

“Easy, the hottest guy in the world is Michael B. Jordan.”

“Oooo.” Wyatt nods. “Great choice. He is quite the looker. I might have to change my answer.”

“He’s mine. You keep your Chris Evans, while Michael and I⁠—”

“Hey, what are you guys doing?” Hattie says.

Startled, I stop right on the spot, which causes Wyatt to run into my shoulder.

“Shit, sorry, babe,” he says, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand straight.

My eyes connect with Hattie’s inquisitive expression as she looks between us, a slight smirk on her lips.

I know that look. I’ve seen it many times before.

She thinks she sees something, knows something.

And there’s no doubt in my mind that Ryland has said something to her about last night, how Wyatt draped his arm over my chair possessively, or how he caught us in the kitchen close to each other.

“Uh, hey . . . there,” I say awkwardly.

Hattie smiles even brighter as she looks between us. “Hey.” She beams. “So . . . what are you two doing?”

Clearly making a huge mistake by being out and about in town together. Sometimes when I’m hungry, I don’t think things through. This is one of those times.

“Grabbing sandwiches,” Wyatt says while bumping my shoulder with his. “We finished the chicken coop just as Aubree’s stomach barked at us.”

Hattie chuckles. “I’ve heard it bark before, quite a terrifying thing.”

“Very terrifying,” he says. “What about you?” I hate how casual he is. How he’s able to chat it up without a worry in the world. While I’m over here sweating, my skin prickling, my stomach flipping, and every anxious bone in my body sending out warning signs that this was a bad idea.

“Heading up to By the Slice for some pizza with Hayes. After, we’re going to drive up the coast for a hike. Just got done with a few things at the store. Marlene is closing, so we thought we’d have a fun afternoon.”

“I tried to get this girl to have a fun afternoon with me, but you know how she is, work, work, work.” He nudges me, and I feel my mouth go dry as Hattie looks at me gleefully. When I don’t say anything, Wyatt nudges me again. “Tell them, Aubree. Tell them how much you denied me fun today.”

“You were the one who got up at five thirty this morning.”

“You, uh . . . you know what time he woke up?” Hattie asks, implying that I was there when he woke up.

“Oh my God, no.”

“You know what time I woke up,” Wyatt says, not making any of this better. “Don’t lie.”

God, I could kick him in the shin right now. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Trying to gather myself, I add, “I mean, yes, I know what time he woke up, but only because he told me, not because I was there in person to see him rise from his bed. I wasn’t there. I was in my house, and he was at the inn. There was no knowledge of wake-up times other than what has been communicated between us, not from . . . firsthand experience.”

Wyatt drapes his arm over my shoulders and says, “What your sister so eloquently is trying to say is that we didn’t sleep together.”

Hattie chuckles. “Good to know.” She then eyes me suspiciously like I have something to say to her that I’m not saying, and I really don’t. All I’m hiding is the fact that he asked me to be his wife and I said no.

And for the briefest moments, when he offered me the land, I considered taking him up on the deal. It was so brief, though, it was not even worth mentioning.

Also, if I have to admit to it, Wyatt is an attractive man.

But like I said, not things she needs to know.

“Are you blushing, Aubree?” she asks.

“No,” I say, covering my cheeks with my hands. “Why would I be blushing? There’s nothing to blush about. Not a single thing.”

“Probably sunburn,” Wyatt says as he continues to hang his arm wrapped around me, which is not helping the situation. “I told her to put some sunscreen on her face, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

Hattie folds her arms against her chest. “She can be stubborn, can’t she?”

“So stubborn, but it’s one of the things we love about her, isn’t it?” Wyatt asks.

“Yes . . .” Hattie says in a knowing tone. “One of the many things we love about her.”

Her emphasis on love doesn’t slip by me, nor does the way she keeps looking between me and Wyatt. I can only imagine the narrative going on in her head.

“Well, I’ll let you two get your food so there is no more barking from Aubree’s stomach,” Hattie says with a grin. “Wouldn’t want to unleash the beast.”

I shake Wyatt’s arm off me as he says, “To be honest, I’m slightly curious as to what the beast would do.”

“It’s not pretty,” Hattie says.

“Yet, she’s pretty herself. Would love to see that contradiction, but I don’t think I’m brave enough to tempt it . . . at least not yet.”

Hattie chuckles. “Probably smart. Okay, well, catch you two later. Have fun.” She winks knowingly and takes off.

When she’s out of earshot, I say, “What is wrong with you?”

“Probably a lot of things,” he answers. “Can you be more specific?”

I turn toward him, hand on my hip as I speak quietly and tersely. “You realize that between last night and right now, my brother and sister will assume something is going on between us.”

“Perfect,” he says, pressing his hand on my lower back and moving us toward the sub shop. “Then I’m doing my job.”

I stop and turn toward him. “No, you’re putting on a show that I didn’t⁠—”

“Aubree?”

Oh God, I know that voice.

And not in a good way.

This is the only reason I hate small towns.

Because you bump into people you never want to see.

Turning around, I come face to face with my ex-best friend.

“Amanda,” I say while adjusting the bandanna on my head. What’s the use? I look like I’ve been rolling around in dirt all day long and she looks pristine and put together like she just walked off a photo shoot. “I, uh, I didn’t know you were in town,” I lie, because what else am I supposed to say?

“Oh really? I thought your sister would tell you that Matt and I went into The Almond Store.” Of course she did, but the last thing Amanda needs is the knowledge that people were talking about her presence.

“Must have slipped her mind,” I say.

“Probably, now that she’s with Hayes Farrow. Seems like she is completely occupied. I get that, though. When you fall in love, it’s hard not to be distracted. Which speaking of, the light of my life.”

The light of her life? Oh my God, could she be any cheesier?

And then to my horror, my ex-boyfriend walks through the open door of The Hot Pickle and joins Amanda as he places his hand on her back. There’s no doubt in my mind that she does this for show because the evil wench places her hand on his chest and kisses him very . . . provocatively. Like, there’s tongue action going on. We’re on a sidewalk in front of a sandwich shop. Reserve the tongue for the home and the drive-in movie theater.

When she pulls away, she wipes her thumb over his lip. “Oh, sorry about that, my handsome man, I got lipstick all over you.”

“Never going to complain,” he says as he looks up at me. “Oh hey, Aubree. Wow, it’s been a while.”

Yes, it has. Last time I saw you, you told me that small towns were for losers and that you wanted to grow and would never be caught dead living in one.

“Yes, it has,” I say and then gesture to the both of them. “I’m assuming you’re together.”

Amanda rubs her stomach. “And expecting. I hope that’s not weird for you.” She winces. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that replaceing love has been difficult for you.”

What.

A.

Bitch . . .

“I wouldn’t say hard, just been preoccupied, you know, since my sister died and left behind a farm, a business, and a four-year-old daughter,” I say, the bitterness in my voice unmistakable.

“Oh yes, I’m so sorry to hear about that. I can’t imagine what your family must be going through. I can only imagine how much easier it would have been if you had someone by your side to help you through it all. Like I have Matt.” She snuggles in close to him and smiles, the look on her face basically saying I won the prize . . . and you didn’t.

Well, guess what, Amanda? Matt had a very hard time replaceing the G-spot, and when he did, he congratulated himself with a personal, one-on-one handshake. So who really is winning?

“But yup, we’re having a little baby girl, and we’re so excited. Just moved into town where we can raise our baby in a beautiful, peaceful environment. And of course, Matt was just promoted and granted access to work remotely. Isn’t that great? He can be the father he’s always wanted to be and still provide for us financially.”

Is she trying to write her annual Christmas card right here on the spot? Because that’s what it sounds like. Next thing I know, she’ll start saying how they’re volunteering at the soup kitchen this year while also adopting a rescue dog from the shelter who will be named Mitzy. And isn’t that just adorable?

I’m stunned if I’m honest. How is this the same person I used to call my best friend? How can someone who I used to believe had my back—loved me unconditionally—be so callous and cruel now?

“Oh, and we just adopted the cutest little furball.” What are the odds? “A kitten named Whiskers. Isn’t that the sweetest name? Matt named him. And he told me he’ll be in charge of all the cat litter so I never have to worry about it.”

“What a hero,” I say with a thumbs-up.

“He truly is. Boy, do I wish you had a man in your life like him. I think it would really make you less grumpy and happier. I hope that’s not offensive.” It’s really offensive. “I’ve just been asking around about you, you know, wanting to see how you’ve been since we’ve had our falling out, and the word around the street is that you’re the grump of Almond Bay.”

Uh . . . pardon me?

That’s news.

“The grump?” I ask, falling for it of course.

“Yes. Apparently, a lot of the locals were happy when Hattie took over The Almond Store because she’s much warmer like Cassidy was.” I feel Wyatt place his hand on my back while stepping in closer, reminding me that I’m not alone in this conversation. His embrace is kind, but I feel utterly humiliated that he is witnessing this. “Although, Cassidy and Hattie were always so close, and you were the outcast in the family.”

Thanks for the reminder.

For digging your dagger right where you know it belongs.

That’s what happens when you know someone so well for so long—they understand your trigger points. And she nailed this one.

“Well, it was great seeing you,” I say with the fakest smile I can muster, desperately wanting to cut this short before she takes that dagger and goes after my other trigger points.

“So great seeing you. Maybe one day, you’ll replace the kind of love that Matt and I have found.”

Jesus Christ.

When she came to Almond Bay, did she make it her mission to replace me one day and just drive it home that I’m single and she’s not?

That she is with my ex-boyfriend?

That I seem like some grumpy loser with nothing going for me other than the dirt on my knees and the paint under my fingernails?

I hate that she’s making me feel inferior. I have different goals in my life.

I hate that she’s making me second-guess myself even though I’m confident in my choices.

And I hate that she’s put a sense of panic in my heart to prove to her that I’m not the kind of person she thinks I am.

A panic so strong . . . so overwhelming that before I can stop myself, I lean back into Wyatt and say, “Already found it, with this guy.” I rap my knuckles on his thick chest.

Both Matt’s and Amanda’s eyes move up as they take in the tall, broad-shouldered Wyatt standing directly behind me.

“Oh,” Amanda says, looking startled. “I just assumed he was one of your helpers out on the farm. He’s so . . . large.”

I look up at Wyatt’s face and do not miss the scowl. But he replaces it with one of congeniality and lends out his hand to both Amanda and Matt, who shake it. “My name is Wyatt. Nice to meet you. I do help Aubree out on the farm, not that she needs it. She’s so incredibly resourceful, strong, and independent. Talented. But my main job is writing books and making sure she’s happy and satisfied.” I look up at Wyatt just in time to see him wink.

Normally, I’d roll my eyes at the comment, but given the situation, I just go along with it as his hand on my waist grows tighter.

“Well.” Amanda lets out what seems like a frustrated sigh. “I guess that’s great. Good to see you’re in a happy relationship.”

“Very happy,” I say as I scoot in even closer to Wyatt. He wraps both arms around me now and, to my utter shock, kisses my neck.

It’s two parts thrilling and one part horrifying. I shouldn’t like the feel of his lips on my skin, nor should I have chills running down my legs. My stomach shouldn’t be bursting out in a cloud of unruly butterflies. But my body reacts a certain way. My mind begs it to stop, and I wonder if he will kiss my neck again.

“Good.” Amanda awkwardly looks around. “Well, I guess we’ll let you get to your lunch. It was great catching up. We’ll see you around. Maybe we can schedule a lunch sometime.”

“Maybe,” I say, knowing full well that will never happen. I would rather sit on top of a bed of razors than share a meal with this woman, especially after this display of pettiness. I offer her a wave, and we go in different directions.

When we’re in the shop, I do an A+ job of ignoring the rather large commitment I made to a man I barely know. I quietly stare at the menu—even though I always get the same thing.

But my blatant disregard for him and his presence doesn’t stop the smarmy grin I can see from the corner of my eye.

Or the heavy drape of his arm over my shoulders.

Or the subtle bump of his hip against mine.

After a few moments of silence, he leans in close to my ear and says, “It was how I referred to your lips as flower petals that broke you, wasn’t it?”

Grinding my teeth together, I say, “Shut up, Wyatt.”