I rang the doorbell and a thundering of footsteps and voices followed.
“I’ll get it!”
“Robby, wait for me.”
The door sprung open and I was met with the chocolate-covered face of a blue-eyed little boy. “Hello,” he greeted.
“Hi,” I said. “Is, er, Layne here?”
The little boy gave me an impish grin then turned around, leaving me standing in the open doorway as he ran back into the house, his sing-songy voice trailing behind him. “Layyy-ne! Your boyyy-friend is here!”
Layne’s face popped out of the room where the little boy had disappeared. Her mouth fell open and she dropped the red dishtowel she’d been holding.
“Morning,” I said, still standing in the doorway.
Layne’s mouth clamped shut and she marched toward me. “Wyatt, what are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you, too,” I teased, but Layne didn’t seem to be in the mood for my humor.
Instead of inviting me in, she put a hand on my chest and pushed me back onto the porch, pulling the door half shut behind her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked again, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill.
“I figured I’d give you a ride to school.”
“School doesn’t start for another hour,” she argued.
“Right, but I didn’t know what time you caught the bus and I didn’t want to miss you.”
She cocked her head, frowning as though she sensed an ulterior motive.
I huffed a dry laugh. “You’re really not a morning person, are you?”
“I like mornings just fine. I just don’t like surprises.”
“Ah, I think what you mean to say is, ‘oh Wyatt how thoughtful of you to offer me a ride to school. Please won’t you come in’?”
She scowled at me. “I don’t need your pity.”
“I didn’t say you did. Now are you going to invite me in, or not? It’s freezing out here.”
Layne sighed and finally stepped back inside, opening the door to let me in. She appraised my thin leather jacket with wary eyes. “Why don’t guys ever wear proper jackets?”
I shrugged. “Why don’t women ever wear practical shoes? The world is full of mysteries.”
“I wear practical shoes,” she muttered looking down at her red Converse.
Just then the little boy burst back into the foyer, even more chocolate covering his face. “Layyy-ne has a boyyy-friend!”
“Robby!” Layne snapped. “Go finish your breakfast.”
Robby retreated, his laughter following him.
“I didn’t know you had a brother,” I said.
“I don’t. He’s my neighbor. I babysit him.”
“I’m not a baby,” Robby called, poking his head back in the hall.
Layne sighed. “You’re certainly acting like one,” she called back. “Come on,” she said to me. “If I don’t supervise him, he’ll eat a whole bottle of chocolate syrup.”
I followed Layne through the living room into the kitchen, where Robby was perched on a barstool, reaching for something on the counter.
“Robby!” Layne warned. “No more hot chocolate.”
“But I only had one cup,” he whined.
She ruffled his hair and scooped him off the stool. “Yeah and you’re wearing half of it. Sit down and I’ll make bananas and waffles.”
“Yuck!” Robby yelled, sticking out his tongue. “No bananas.”
“I have to agree with Robby,” I said. “Bananas are the worst.”
Robby giggled. “You talk funny.”
I wagged my eyebrows at him. “I think you talk funny.” I realized I was still holding both cups of coffee and held one out to Layne once she put Robby down. “I brought you a coffee.”
“Layne hates coffee,” Robby replied, taking a seat at the counter.
I met Layne’s eyes with curiosity. “Really?”
“She only drinks tea.” Robby said, proudly. “Right, Layne?”
I watched her cheeks pink, suddenly wondering what her coffee shop diversion had really been about last night. “That’s alright,” I said, giving Robby a wink. “More for me.”
Chapter Seventeen
Layne
I could feel Wyatt’s eyes following me as I moved about my tiny kitchen preparing Robby’s breakfast. Wyatt’s gaze was flustering enough in a normal setting, but in my house . . . it was downright debilitating.
I was completely distracted as I glanced around my kitchen, trying to see it through Wyatt’s eyes. The pile of dishes in the sink, past due bills clipped to the refrigerator next to Robby’s colorful artwork, the hideous grade school portraits of me lining the cluttered shelves next to the table, marks on the doorjamb charting my unimpressive height. It was like the place had been designed to humiliate me.
I hissed as I dropped a glass in the sink, nearly cutting myself in the process.
Wyatt was there in an instant. “You okay?” he asked, inspecting my hand.
“Fine.”
“Good. I’ll take over,” he said, placing his hands on my hips and pulling me away from the sink. I watched him collect the broken pieces of the glass and toss them in the trash can by the fridge. Then, he completely shocked me by returning to the sink, rolling up his sleeves and starting on the dishes.
“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that,” I said, trying to pry the dingy dish sponge from his hands, my fingers tangling with his in the soapy water.
“Nonsense. You’re the songwriter. We’ve got to protect these beauties,” Wyatt replied, his eyes dancing with insinuations that made my heart race as he squeezed my fingers.
The waffles popped out of the toaster, snapping me back to reality. I quickly untangled myself from Wyatt, dried my hands and started preparing Robby’s breakfast.
“I want clown waffles!” Robby yelled when I put his buttered waffles in front of him.
I inhaled slowly begging for patience. “You’re killing me, Robby. Can’t you just eat plain waffles today?”
“Clown waffles! Clown waffles! Clown waffles!”
“Okay! Okay!” I groaned, rummaging around in the fridge for the can of whipped cream.
“Do you want clown waffles, too?” Robby asked Wyatt.
I wanted to shut my head in the fridge door!
Wyatt probably had a butler that brought him posh breakfasts like fresh baked croissants with smoked salmon and smashed avocado, or whatever it was rich people ate in the morning. He most definitely didn’t eat clown waffles.
But to my surprise, Wyatt said yes.
I pulled my head out of the fridge to make sure I’d heard him right. He’d finished loading the dishwasher and was sitting next to Robby now, the two of them conversing about clown waffles.
“You’ve really never had one?” Robby asked.
“Never, but now I feel I must try one.”
“They’re the best!” Robby replied. “Wanna know a secret?”
Wyatt’s eyes sparkled. “Always.”
“Layne makes the best clown waffles in the world,” Robby whispered.