It might help that Wyatt’s mom has been happier than he’s ever seen her. Not surprising since we dragged Gran along with us, and the two of them have been coming up with all kinds of plans for our not-yet-planned wedding and the future of grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
“Will you at least lie down for a little while with me?” he asks before we reach the house.
It’s adorable the way he frets. It was like this after the fire, too. Even after I’d been home for a few weeks, he wouldn’t stop. Besides Gran and Grandpa, Wyatt’s the only one that’s ever been invested in taking care of me, and I like it.
I give him a side eye. “You gonna keep your hands to yourself?”
“Areyou?” he throws back at me with a grin. “If I recall, last night you had the wandering hands.”
The memory has me biting my lower lip. The first night we were here, there was no way I was letting him touch me, but after settling in and getting a little more comfortable, I couldn’t resist making him come in his old bedroom. Not that he did anything to stop me.
“And mouth,” I remind him.
He groans, tugging me closer to his body, his arm going around my waist. Slowly stepping towards me, I back up, and we make small progress towards the door that’ll lead inside to a mudroom-laundry room combination so we can wash up.
“That mouth,” he mumbles, kissing my jaw. “I’ve thought about that mouth a million times today.”
With a giggle, I dance away from him, calling over my shoulder, “Try not to come in your pants as you keep thinking about it.”
“B…” It’s a warning.
But I’m too far away when he goes to grab me, breaking into a jog towards the house, the nausea all but gone. He growls playfully as he tries to catch up, letting me reach the door before he finally grabs me around the waist.
I relish in his strength as we walk into the house, the warmth of his childhood home seeping into my bones even before my jacket and boots are off. It’s well taken care of, with lots of it having been redone. The boys redid it themselves as they got older. Wyatt isn’t the only handy one in the family. Beau, his oldest brother, even built his own place on the property with the help of his brothers. And Gage built two cabins for the sole purpose of renting them out for extra income. He didn’t bother building his own, preferring to stay in a fifth wheel nearby. Only Boone still lives in the main house, occupying the walkout basement which he’s turned into a full suite.
It smells like Christmas dinner in the house. Turkey, fresh bread, and spices drift through the air making me smile. It might be nearing the end of January, but since we couldn’t make it for the December holiday, Wyatt’s mom decided we’d celebrate a little later. There’s no tree or decorations up, but the company and food more than make up for it.
“Smells good in here, Mom,” Wyatt calls as we both pull off our jackets and boots.
The matriarch appears in the doorway to the mudroom, a bright smile on cherry lips, blonde curly hair piled on top of her head, a towel in her hands as she dries something. I offered to help earlier, but she and Gran shooed us out, demanding we enjoy ourtime on the ranch instead of working in the kitchen.
“That’s probably Ruby’s cookies. She’s just pulling them from the oven.” Marilyn, Wyatt’s mom, waves a hand in our direction. “Wash up and you can both have one while they’re warm.”
We do, and once we’ve both got clean hands, we find our way into the kitchen where Gran is just sliding the last of the chocolate chip cookies onto a cooling rack.
“Looks like you two have been busy,” Wyatt comments, meandering towards the island in the center of the large kitchen where Gran is with the cookies.
My feet stop when my stomach churns at the new scent that hits me. The cookies. Sickly sweet, reminding me of vanilla and caramel, and for whatever reason, whiskey. Like the very first shot I took with Wyatt. Which is usually a pleasant thought, but right now is making me want to throw up.
I walk towards the kitchen table which sits between the kitchen and open living room. A large gray sectional fills the room, along with two recliners. Wyatt’s dad, Art, sits in one of them, watching the wall-mounted big screen currently playing a hockey game.
“Bryn, sweetheart, don’t you want one?” Gran asks, and I turn back towards the island as I pull out a kitchen chair. She’s eyeing me. Almost like Wyatt eyed me outside.
Shaking my head, I sink into the chair. “No, not right now.”
“I don’t think she’s feeling one hundred percent,” Wyatt comments around a mouthful of cookie, opening his mouth into an “O” and taking a couple of open-mouthed breaths. “Hot.”
“I told you to wait,” Gran chastises.
At the same time, Marilyn says, “She warned you.”
“So good, though,” Wyatt mumbles, taking another bite. Typical.
“Big hockey fan, Art?” I ask Wyatt’s dad, who glances in my direction.
He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t scowl, either. “I enjoy it. You watch any?”
I shrug. “Not really. I’ve got a couple friends back home who are big fans.”
