Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 112903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 376(@300wpm)
“No wonder you brought that.” He nods at the thermos cradled in the crook of my arm. “You deserve a drink. Hell, I do too. I am your biggest cheerleader.”
“Thirsty work for sure.”
“There’s a lot about me that’s thirsty, yeah.”
I lift my elbow and nudge him in the ribs. “Gross.”
“I am as God made me.”
“And God will most certainly not bless the broken road that led us to your thirst traps.”
“What thirst traps? You need to be on social media to post those.”
“Not having an Instagram account doesn’t make you any hotter, Wy.”
Except it does. It most definitely, definitely does.
His face splits into a smile. “Then why you blushin’, Sal?”
I decide to ignore that question. “I’m just talking about you. The way you walk into The Rattler like you own it. The way you talk to women. You’re like a live-action thirst trap—”
“It’s actually cute how red you get.”
“It’s the sun, okay? And being up at three.”
Have we always been this flirty? I feel like we’re usually playful, and yet—
I don’t know, something feels different between us right now. I could be imagining it on account of my extreme, extreme nervousness. But I wonder if our little not-so-fake flirting routine on the dance floor last night amped up the, er, energy between us today.
Then again, I am in the midst of a very long, very serious sexual drought. Maybe I’ve just reached a critical level of dire need that makes me hyperaware of any male in the vicinity.
Wyatt turns his attention back to the windshield. “You said, we got a call. You’re talking about you and your dad, right? Like y’all were, well, together? When the call came? Like in the same house?”
I furrow my brow, my stomach flipping.
Wait a second. Wait. Does Wyatt think I left The Rattler with Beck last night?
Why would Wyatt care? And why won’t my stomach stop flipping at the idea of Wyatt being jealous? That’s just ridiculous.
“Of course we were in the same house. Thanks for the lovely reminder that I live with my parents and sleep in the same twin bed I’ve had since I was three.”
“Welcome,” Wyatt says, his expression relaxing.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he almost looks relieved.
The scent of the air changes, a clean earthiness filling my head. We climb one last hill, and the Colorado River comes into view, a broad stretch of blue-green water that cuts a meandering path through the arid countryside. The strong afternoon light glints off its rippled surface, and I can just hear the quiet, gurgling rush of the water above the sound of the ATV’s engine.
I inhale a lungful of the familiar smells. For a split second, my exhaustion and nervousness lift. I’m fifteen again, and my best friend, Wyatt Rivers, is beside me. There’s no weird energy. No looming moves thousands of miles away. I don’t have a care in the world other than filling the hours of a crisp November afternoon with more of this: fresh air, family. Familiar rituals that are simple but satisfying.
I really don’t want to leave.
Being with Wyatt always feels like coming home.
Heat hits the back of my eyes, my chest squeezing. I look out the open window as Wyatt parks the ATV on the crest of the ridge overlooking the river.
He kills the engine. Without a word, he reaches for the thermos and unscrews the blue plastic cap. The scent of cinnamon, along with a hint of fiery whiskey, fills my head as he turns the cap upside down and fills it with cider.
He holds out the cap to me, steam rising off the cider’s surface. His eyes flick over my face, and his smirk disappears, a pair of indents appearing between his brows.
“What’s on your mind, Sal?”
I hate how easily this man reads me. Knows me.
I love it so much it hurts.
Wyatt’s fingers brush against mine as I take the makeshift cup from him. The heat between my legs blares to new life at the quick, casual, and yet somehow hot-as-hell contact. I remind myself that Wyatt’s like this with everyone.
Still can’t help but feel special. Singled out.
Wanted.
I gingerly hold the cup, heat stinging the pads of my fingers. “Nothing. Everything.”
“Lucky for you, we got all day.” He rests his bent elbow on the doorframe, his hand gripping the ATV’s roof. “Talk to me.”
“I had a really good morning.” I blow on the cider. “And it’s making me not want to go back to New York.”
It’s the first time I’ve said that out loud. Feels…nice, if I’m being honest.
Wyatt’s chest rises on an inhale. “Well, yeah. It’s heaven out here right now.” He gestures out the windshield. “No one in their right mind would wanna leave. You’d feel different if it was the dead of July, a hundred ten degrees, and you were stuck doing preg checks all day. Much as you love sticking your arm up cow butts.”