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“In my spare time.” He arched an eyebrow, a hint of a smile touching his mouth. “Dig in. I guarantee it’s the best salsa you’ve ever had.”
And it was.
They ate breakfast and chatted about pretty much anything that didn’t matter. The weather. Restaurants. Favorite television shows. Regan? Game of Thrones. Wyatt? The Voice. That one surprised Regan, but then she couldn’t help but think he’d been constantly surprising her since coming back to Crystal Lake.
Wyatt Blackwell was funny, charming as hell, had a great sense of humor, and with that sexy-ass grin, he could melt any woman’s heart without even trying.
I want him.
Her mouth went dry at the thought, and she pushed away her juice, jumping to her feet and heading for the coffee machine. Once she had the brew going, she leaned against the counter, unnerved to find his dark gaze on her. The air was thick between them. Thick and heavy with things they’d been skirting for the last week or so.
She wasn’t so sure that a casual hookup with Wyatt Blackwell was a smart move. The sex would be good. How could it not? But was good sex worth the fallout? Because there would be fallout. She stifled a groan and crossed her legs, suddenly aware of the heaviness between them. The friction and the ache.
In that moment, Regan did what she always did when she was confused and feeling up against the wall. She changed course and opted for new subject matter. One that would deflect.
“So, how come you’re not racing?”
Wyatt froze, fork halfway to his mouth. He took a moment and then casually chewed the last of his breakfast before putting down his fork and settling back in his chair.
“I’m sure you know about the crash.”
His tone was off, and that told Regan her instincts were correct. Something was up. Was she really going to open this can of worms with him? Get inside his head and deep into his personal shit?
She cleared her throat.
Guess so.
She picked at the edge of her T-shirt and watched him carefully. “The press is saying you have a concussion, or at least that’s what they’re guessing is the reason you’re not driving. No one is really saying anything.”
His mouth tightened, and gone was the lightness they’d shared moments earlier.
“I didn’t know you were so interested in NASCAR,” he replied.
“I’m not. I’m just saying you’re not concussed.”
“Really.” He got to his feet and shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “You an expert on racing related injuries?”
“I’m just saying you’re not concussed, and if you had the type of concussion that’s been reported in the media, for one thing, you wouldn’t be driving at all. You’d have double vision and a bunch of other things that would make it dangerous to be on the road, and they would have taken your license.” She shrugged. “From what I can see, you’re not presenting with any symptoms of the like.”
“That’s your expert opinion?” His voice was like silk, and it slid over her, soft and dangerous like.
“I already told you,” she replied, watching him warily as he made his way toward her. “I’m not your doctor. I’m just observing.”
He stopped a few inches from her, and she held her breath. “Do you know what I think?”
Regan barely mouthed a reply before his lips were near hers, his warm breath sending shivers dancing along her skin.
“I think that right now, talking about my racing career is the last thing we want to be doing.” His tongue snaked out and left a line of fire along her collarbone.
“You’re trying to change the subject,” she managed on a gasp.
“Caught me.” Again with the tongue, and just like that, she was on fire. “Is it working?”
Working? Understatement. Of the year. Regan’s hands crept up to his shoulders. “Totally.”
“Good,” he murmured against her mouth before claiming it in an exquisite kiss that left her body limp like a noodle. Wyatt Blackwell kissed her until her head spun. Until all her brain emptied and her body took over. This was primal. Hot. Sexual.
His hands were under her shirt, fingers caressing, palms applying pressure. But, dammit, he wasn’t going fast enough. Impatient, she knocked them away, ripped at the edge of her T-shirt, and tossed the damn thing on the floor.
