Page 40
Eventually, Wyatt sets down his beer on the wooden coffee table. “Yeah, I always thought he was all wrong for you.”
“You should’ve told me.”
He gives me a grin that seems a bit sad. “You wouldn’t have listened.”
I salute him with my bottle. “That’s the truth. Once I get something in my head, there’s no reverse, only mistakes.”
Our lips hitch up at the corners, and we’re quiet, just staring for a moment. I always liked the girl I was around Wyatt. She was more carefree. Really, all she did was smile more, but it made a world of difference. Bull riding is such an intense career that I could use more wispy smiles.
“So, how about that bet?” he asks.
I face all challenges head-on, no matter how small, but I pretend to take a slow swig of my empty beer like I’m debating, just to keep Patterson on his toes. “Okay, let’s hear it. What’s the bet?”
He grins as if he knew I’d say that. “We arm wrestle. Like old times when we used to have to decide who had to shovel horse shi—” He glances at the bedroom where his daughter’s sleeping, quickly correcting his choice of words. “Shovel the stalls. If I win, I get to train you. If you win, you don’t have to spend any more time with me.”
The thought of spending less time with Wyatt isn’t all that appealing, and now I’m contemplating throwing the match, but I know myself. I’m too competitive, so I can’t do that.
“You sure you want to do that?” I drawl. “Don’t you remember who always won growing up? Me.”
His eyes flick over my body, and the corners of his lips lift even more. “Yeah. You’re a lot stronger than you look but give me some credit. I bet I could take you now.”
“Not a chance,” I say on reflex.
He arcs a brow. “You sure about that?”
I scan his broad chest, covered only in a white T-shirt that’s straining against his defined muscles, and continue my perusal up to the strong column of his neck, all the way to his wide shoulders. He’s got veins in his biceps now, and he’s not even flexing.
Maybe there’s a slight chance he’ll win.
“Damn, Patterson. All those hockey workouts have really worked to your benefit. It’s no wonder you got someone pregnant.”
Blood rushes to his face at the compliment, but I rest my elbow on the coffee table, wiggling my fingers. “Alright, sugar. You’re on. Let’s arm wrestle.”
His face scrunches in a frown. “One more thing… If I win, you have to stop calling me ‘sugar.’”
“Why?” I ask, confused. “I call everyone that.”
“Exactly. I’m not everyone.” There’s a note to his voice I can’t quite unravel. “So, do we have a deal?”
It’s getting harder and harder to keep my distance from Wyatt, and I’m also practical. He’s one of the best players in the NHL, so if anyone can motivate me, push me to be better, it’s him. I should just throw the match and accept his offer, but I like winning.
I set my beer on the coffee table with a clink. “Fine. You’ve got yourself a deal. Should we do this here in the living room?”
He nods to the front porch. “Let’s go outside so we don’t wake up Vi.”
“Good call. She needs her sleep.”
He checks the baby monitor app on his phone, and we step into the heat of the night. Sweat instantly prickles on my skin as the door closes behind us with a creak. The summer air hums with the serenade of cicadas, vibrating loud enough to ripple the twinkling blanket of stars.
Wyatt steps onto the front porch, eyeing the rickety patio table. He gives it a wary shake. “Think it’s sturdy enough?”
I drop my elbow on the wood. “Guess we’ll find out.”
He wraps his hand around mine, and the familiar brush of his calluses sparks years of rivalry in me. Bets, gambles, games—that used to be how we’d settle any argument, and right now, all I’m thinking about is winning this one.
I grip his hand, determined to beat him, but he only brushes his thumb on the back of my skin. I freeze at the unfamiliar contact. That’s something he never used to do growing up. We would hold hands, but we never interlaced fingers, never let our touches linger. It feels new, exciting, and my heart starts beating a bit harder.
“On three,” Wyatt says, arm flexing. Thumb brushing. Touch lingering. “One.”
