“You mean pretty damn perfect?”
She smiled. “Well, that much was obvious.”
He chuckled. “True.”
“Also, I’ll be sharing that swear jar with you later.”
“Worth it,” he said.
“We should head back to the house,” she said. “For dinner and deliberation on how best to dismantle the plans of a determined, and possibly still soggy Mr. Paul Hammond.”
Wyatt grimaced and said, “Yeah, I think that soggy part is going to cost us.”
“Same.”
He expected her to slip from his arms and climb into her truck. Once she decided on a course of action, typically the Cheyenne he knew wanted to get right on it.
Only, she didn’t move. And he wasn’t all that motivated to let her go. To be honest, he didn’t want the chance to deliberate on the meaning of what had just happened, or what it might mean an hour from now, or tomorrow. Or the next day. On the very decent chance that once calmer heads and settled hormones prevailed, this was probably never going to happen again. He wasn’t ready for it to be over, quite yet.
“Dinner,” she said, not moving so much as an inch.
“We should,” he said.
“I am hungry,” she said. Then her gaze dropped to his mouth.
He groaned even as his body sent up a very enthusiastic yes vote. “Starved,” he agreed.
“Right?”
He didn’t even know who kissed whom first that time.
By the time it ended, her back was up against the truck, and neither of them were breathing particularly smoothly.
“So, I was wrong about one thing,” he said, basically panting and not ashamed of it.
“Which was?” she managed, holding his waistband in a death grip, possibly as her only means of remaining upright.
“The first kiss being perfect.” He braced one hand against the side of her truck, still sucking air. “Because that last one showed some marked improvement.”
“I don’t know,” she said, her tone musing even as she clung to him for support.
He’d ducked his chin in an effort to find oxygen and turned his head to the side. “Just me then?”
She shook her head. “Not necessarily. But more research might be in order.” She tipped her head back and blew a whistling breath through her lips. “Although that may have to wait.”
“Oh?” he said.
“I think if we go in for another round right now, I’m either going to pass out, or . . .”
His eyebrows lifted, and one corner of his mouth twitched. “Or?”
“Do something really irresponsible in the bed of this truck.”
He almost choked. “Yeah,” he managed. “Point taken.”
“Actually, point not taken. Which was my point. As it were.”
They wheeze-laughed, and she let out a raspy squeal when he opened her truck door, picked her up, and put her on the driver’s seat. He nudged her knees around so she faced the steering wheel, then closed the door. “Lock it,” he told her.
“Good idea,” she said through the glass, and he heard the locks click into place.
He turned to his truck, grinning like . . . well, like he’d never grinned before, when he heard the window power down behind him.
“Wyatt.”
That’s all she said. All she had to say. He turned, looked at her. And that’s all he had to do. Three long strides later he climbed up on the running board, slid his hand into her hair, and kissed her hard, fast, and oh so very deep.
She slumped limply back in the seat when he let her go and hopped off the running board back to the ground. He scooped up her cowboy hat and plopped it on his head, shot her a wink, then whistled as he walked back to his truck.
“I don’t think I should be driving under the influence,” she called out as he climbed into Tory’s truck. “Under the influence of Wyatt Reed.”
“I think you’re the bad influence, Cheyenne McCafferty.”
“Yeah, well, whaddya gonna do about it?” she taunted, just like she had when they were kids, only this was so very, very adult.
He climbed in and closed the door, then lowered the window, tugged the brim of her hat down low, and shot her his own devilish grin. “Why, maybe we can discuss that over dessert, ma’am,” he said in his best cowboy drawl.
“Don’t you ma’ am me,” she shot back, her giddy grin at complete odds with the stern order.
Oh, I want to do a whole lot more than ma’am you, he thought, but for once, wisely refrained. “Dessert and deliberation,” he told her. “With a side of Blue Hollow moonlight. Miz McCafferty.”
She tipped her fingers to her forehead in a brief salute. “That’s a date. Planet Wyatt.” She started to raise her window, then lowered it again. “And I’m going to want that hat back.”
Now it was his turn to taunt. “Come and get it,” he shot back, then gunned the engine and peeled out of the parking lot.
* * *
Two and a half hours later, Wyatt leaned back in his chair and carefully laid his linen napkin on the table next to his now empty plate. “Miss Ginger, I can’t recall a better meal in all my travels. Who knew supermodels had so many hidden talents.”
Vivi beamed at the teasing and the heartfelt praise. “Sometimes you have to come home to get the food that fills the belly and soothes the soul, cher,” she said, letting the New Orleans drawl of her childhood fill her voice.
Wyatt grinned. “I don’t think there’s any part of me that’s not full right now.” He was proud of himself for not looking at Chey when he said that. He was proud of her for being at the dining room table in the first place. He’d have bet the funding for his next project that between the lake and the farm, she’d have managed to talk herself into thinking what had happened between them a few hours ago had been a mistake.
Wasn’t it, though?
He refused to give his little voice a toehold. Not yet. Yes, on the surface, it had been a phenomenally bad idea to pursue something—anything—with anyone, given where his life was. And yet, every part of him was still rejoicing. Vivi was right—sometimes you just had to come home. He was quite certain it was all going to come crashing down at some point, but he’d never felt the way he did at the moment, and frankly, he simply wasn’t ready to give up on that yet.
There was still dessert and some moonlight to be attended to. Life would sort itself out. It always did. And rarely in the way he expected. One step at a time.
“Dessert?” Vivi offered.
“Did I see lavender-infused cupcakes with cream cheese frosting sitting out on the porch when I came in?” This from the fourth and final partner in the lavender farm endeavor.
She was the youngest—midtwenties, with dark hair, big, red-framed glasses—an enthusiastic, charming conversationalist with a scary-smart intellect. He thought she was the perfect addition to their mission.
“Indeed, you did,” Vivi said, then turned to him. “In all your travels, have you ever had lavender as part of the menu?”
“I can’t say that I have.” They’d yet to talk about their plans for tackling the resort issue. Vivi had made it clear there would be no business talk over one of her meals. Instead, Hannah—with an affectionate gleam in her eyes—had asked Wyatt and Tory to share some childhood stories, preferably ones that featured Chey in a less than flattering light. The two had shared a few mild anecdotes, which Chey had taken as a challenge, sharing a few of her own in return. This had delighted all three of Chey’s partners. There had been laughter, plenty of ribbing, and possibly some good-natured name calling involved.