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She slipped out of her coat. “Blackwell?”
“Is there any other?” He flashed a smile. “He’s been real good to Patrick.”
She waited until Brad disappeared down the hall and then headed upstairs. The landing was large, and she knew Patrick’s room was the last one on the right. Bella ran ahead of her, and she pasted a smile to her face as she followed the dog inside.
Her smile faltered and fell away at about the same time her heart lurched and broke open. Wyatt’s large body took up nearly all of Patrick’s bed. He was asleep—they both were—his arms around the slight boy, whose head lay on his chest.
Bella barked, and Regan jumped, skin going hot and cold as Wyatt’s eyes slowly opened.
“Hey,” he said, carefully sitting up. He smiled at her then. The crooked, sexy-as-hell half smile that was enough to make any woman lose her mind.
It made her feel things, and that wasn’t a good thing. Her mother was right. Wyatt Blackwell wasn’t the kind of man she should be tangling with.
Patrick woke up, and Bella did her best to scramble onto the bed, but with her limited skills, it wasn’t easy.
“How ya feeling, bud?”
“I feel good,” Patrick replied with a yawn. “Wyatt came to play NASCAR with me. He’s on the cover of the new game.” The boy’s voice was weak and a bit raspy, most likely because he’d been intubated a few days earlier for surgery. But his eyes were bright, and the look he gave Wyatt was filled with a healthy dose of hero worship.
She felt Wyatt’s dark eyes on her. “Dinner’s ready. Can you…”
“I got him.” Wyatt swung off the bed and scooped the youngster into his arms.
Regan turned back toward the stairs, heart thudding painfully in her chest. For the third time in less than an hour, she felt as if she were on the verge of tears. What the hell was wrong with her?
But then she knew…didn’t she?
Of course she did. The answer was six foot four inches of male perfection that would cause a lot of trouble for her if she wasn’t careful. It was excitement and temptation and trepidation rolled into one. It was two words.
Wyatt. Effing. Blackwell.
Okay. Three words.
Chapter 17
Something was off. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. Wyatt watched Regan as she chatted with Gwen. The women were in the family room, cuddled up on the sofa with Bella and Patrick. She was warm and open with them. All of them. But every time she’d been forced to interact with Wyatt, she’d been polite. Too polite. Plastic.
He didn’t like it.
Something had happened between Sunday and now. He just had no idea what the hell it was. And until he got Regan alone, there was no way for him to find out.
“I’ll take this out.” Wyatt grabbed two garbage bags from the kitchen and headed to the garage. He tossed them into the large can and nearly tripped over Patrick when he turned back.
The kid’s big eyes were wide and shiny, and there was color in his pale cheeks, which was nice to see. But there was also fatigue. Wyatt saw it just under the skin, paper-thin bruises beneath his eyes.
“Hey,” he said, tousling the kid’s hair. “It’s cold out here.” He was dressed in flannel pajamas and socks, but still…
“I’m not cold.” But Patrick’s teeth were starting to chatter. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Sounds serious.” Wyatt pointed to the door. “Why don’t we talk inside?”
Patrick was visibly shaking now. But he shook his head and looked around, whispering, “I don’t want anyone to hear.”
“Huh.” Wyatt scratched his chin. “This sounds like a man-to-man talk.”
Patrick nodded. “It is.”
“What say we head inside? Your parents and Regan are in the family room. We can have our man-to-man in the laundry room, like all real men do.”
