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“That seems a little harsh.”
“Not to me, it doesn’t.”
She shrugs and I look up at her, gently swatting her finger away and grabbing her sweater to pull her close to me. She lets out a little shriek that has me grinning, her hands grabbing my shoulders.
“I want to read your book, Lucy,” I confess.
“I know. And you will, I promise. Just not yet.”
“I could think of a few ways to convince you to change your mind, you know.”
She blinks rapidly a few times, her cheeks turning a brilliant shade of pink.
“Mm, yeah, I bet you could. But I would appreciate it if you didn’t.”
“But it would be so fun.”
I pull her a little closer and nuzzle her neck again, my nose grazing the spot just behind her ear and making her whole-body shiver.
“Wyatt.”
The way she says my name has every single one of my nerves feeling like an electrical wire. It’s a cross between a plea and promise, and I’ve never heard my name sound like that from her lips before. I’ve never heard my name sound like that from anyone before.
A loud knock at the door interrupts us and Lucy springs back, away from me. I grunt in frustration and walk to the door, swinging it open. The poor delivery guy jumps back about a foot and nearly drops our pizza.
“You could’ve left it there,” I accuse.
The kid can’t be more than seventeen, and I feel a little bad about being rude. Lucy laughs behind me, and I glare at her over my shoulder.
“Er, sorry. It’s company policy to knock,” he explains in a squeaky voice.
“Good lord, Wyatt, you’re scaring him.”
Lucy takes hold of one of my belt loops and pulls me back from the door, smiling sweetly at the kid and handing him some cash.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome,” the kid clears his throat.
He walks down the steps of the house and disappears while Lucy shuts the door with her foot and carries the pizza to the counter, her eyes twinkling at me as she passes.
“Come on, you brute. Time for dinner.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Lucy
Wyattturnsonsomemusic while we clean up dinner. I pick up our pizza plates while he grabs our cups, and we carry them to the sink. I rinse everything while Wyatt puts what’s left of our pizza in the fridge. I hesitate for a few seconds, looking from the dishes in the sink to the dishwasher beside me.
“You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to, Luce. I can wash the dishes,” Wyatt offers.
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I can just wash the dishes. I mean, it’s two plates and two cups. It would be a little dramatic of me to put four dishes in the dishwasher.”
Wyatt walks over and leans against the counter on my left, crossing his legs at the ankles.
“I mean, I hate doing dishes, so I would absolutely think it’s acceptable to put four dishes in the dishwasher. But I also don’t blame you for just washing them. It does seem a little wasteful to use all that water and dish detergent on four little dishes.”
I nod, considering his logic. It’s not that I’m against the dishwasher, but as odd as it sounds, washing dishes reminds me of my dad. Especially washing them in this house. Anytime we had a meal at the house, Dad and I would always clean up, while Mom went out and sat on the deck. I would wash, he’d dry. It was our unspoken routine, and I loved it. We’d talk about what movie or show we were going to watch, or he’d ask about what class I was most excited for that year. It was usually just a few minutes, but it was a few minutes of just us. I would give anything to wash dishes with him again.
