“Listen, when you know, you know.”
I grip the arms of my chair and stare up at him. “And what is it you think you know?”
“We fit.” He says it like it’s a matter of fact while reaching for my hand.
The sky is blue. The grass is green. Wyatt and Whitney are meant to be.
His declaration has me frozen in place, unsure of how to respond—too smitten to ruin whatever is happening between us with an outright denial, yet still too leery to agree.
“It’s okay,” he says with a conspiratorial grin. “I’ll keep that bit of info classified till you come to the same realization.” His head motions to the back yard, where my daughter is squealing with laughter, having the time of her life with Rufus. “This doesn’t have to go further than us.”
“You’re something else,” I say, finally placing my hand in his outstretched palm and allowing him to lead me from the room.
“I like you, Whit.” He gives my fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going to waste another second pretending otherwise. You have every reason to be cautious.” He leans down kissing the top of my head. “I have time. I just want to be sure you know where I stand. No crossed signals. No games.”
“This feels really serious all of a sudden,” I hedge, stepping down into the massive living area behind him.
“Of course it’s serious. I’d never play games with anyone’s affections. Least of all a child’s.”
His transparency is a breath of fresh air. I can’t help but to envision us sharing the space, like he suggested, as he begins pointing out the changes he’s made thus far—stripping and staining the original wood floors, removing the wallpaper and replacing it with sheetrock, and a few coats of light caramel paint. The fireplace has been completely redone with repurposed brick that gives off just the right vibe, keeping with the age of the house. The mantle is a thick cedar plank, stained to match the beams in the ceiling.
“This is incredible” I say, running a hand over the mantle, pausing at the lone framed photograph in the center. “Is this your family?”
“Yeah,” he says, joining me. “Mimi had it framed on the one-year anniversary of the accident and hung it in my bedroom above my dresser. Stayed there til the day I left. I haven’t done much decorating in here yet,” he offers, running a thumb along my spine. “I’ll save that part for you.”
I stuff an elbow into his ribs. His responding laugh is hearty and genuine.
“That picture is the only thing I needed to make this place feel like home.”
His admission brings a smile to my face. “That’s you?” I point to the little boy with a mop of cotton white shoulder-length curls. He’s wearing a white and blue striped button down with matching navy bowtie. Cuteness overload.
He nods.
“Aww. You were adorable.”
“Were?” he mocks, smoothing a hand over his chest, standing tall and proud. “Dare I say, some things never change?”
“You really shouldn’t be so modest, Wyatt.” I wink. “You might want to consider therapy. I’d hate for your lack of self-esteem to lead to depression.”
“If I were any less depressed, I’d fart glittery rainbows.”
“Now that’s a visual,” I giggle, shaking my head.
He touches a finger to the toddler in his mother’s arms once our laughter has fizzled out. “Her name was Annie.”
She is an absolute doll, in her pink frilly dress and huge matching bow. Her hair’s a golden blonde and her skin porcelain white, but for a rosy hue on her cheeks. I can’t quite tell if it’s natural or an added affect. Either way, she’s so perfect, it’s hard to believe she was real.
The professional in me goes right to work painting the scene of the funeral, planning it all out in my head. Her little coffin on display between the two larger ones that would’ve held his parents. I’m gutted by the visual and trying desperately not to let it show.
“How old was she?”
“In this picture? Eighteen months. It was taken at my grandparents’ house the Christmas before we lost them. She’d just turned two a few weeks before the accident.”
A huge lump forms in my throat, and the urge to wrap my arms around that four-year-old little boy who lost his entire world in an instant is overwhelmingly strong. “Life can be so cruel.”
“That it can, mon chérie.” My dear.
Wyatt’s getting awful comfortable with me as of late. I can’t say the term of endearment doesn’t set off a flutter in my chest, leaving me feeling both flattered and admittedly a little uneasy. It’s been so long since I’ve truly entertained any man’s attention.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching for his hand and lacing my fingers with his. The need to acknowledge his pain is so strong.
He gives me an appreciative nod before turning to face the opposite wall. “Ready to check out our room?”
“Wyatt,” I growl.
“Hey,” he says, tugging me along, “a guy is nothing without his dreams.”
“Show me the damn master.”
He guides me to his room where he points out the newly refurbished floors and shiplapped walls. The king-sized bed has a simple wood frame that really fits the feel of the space. The adjoining master bath features a clawfoot tub that appears to be the original, if the green patina on the copper feet is any indication.
“There’s no way you fit in that thing.” I peer around the cramped room, looking for a standing shower, finding none. The state of disrepair makes it clear he hasn’t started renovating in here yet.
“I’m really good at squeezing myself into tight spaces.”
I bite my lip and shake my head. “I can’t…I don’t even know what to say to you.”
“Allow me to demonstrate?” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, pointing it toward the bed looming ten feet behind us.
“My kid is here.”
“Oh, yeah…next time, then.”
I neither accept nor decline his shameless offer, shaking my head to myself at how forward he’s become while inwardly chastising myself for liking it so much.
“This is my next project,” he says. “I’m going to extend the room, add in a walk-in shower fit for a king, and an enormous closet for my queen.”
Once again, I decide it best not to respond, instead moving on to the next room, knowing he’ll follow.
“This’ll be the nursery, since it’s closest to the master.”
“Will it?” My mind starts filling the space with furniture—a crib on the far wall, a round braided rug with a little wooden rocking horse in the center. Model planes hanging from the ceiling. Lord, my imagination is running wild today. “So, you’re planning on multiple kids?”
“Maybe.” His shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “With the right woman.” He restates his position from Thanksgiving dinner while his eyes not so subtly journey over my form.
Heat radiates from my ears and my heart squeezes. I feel myself softening to the idea a little more with each brazen proposition being thrown at me. Before I can do anything foolish, my flight response kicks into overdrive.