Page 74 of Homebound

“Sure, we can,” I lie, swiping my thumb along her bottom lip. “But just to be clear, if you want to sleep with someone, you better be knocking on my bedroom door. No one else’s. I’ll take real good care of you, honey.”

She bites her bottom lip in a challenge. “Oh, I bet you will. I already know how nice you are.”

“Damn right.” I trace my tongue along the shell of her ear, and she releases this breathy little moan that nearly destroys my self-control. “Us nice guys might always finish last, but that’s only ’cause we know our ladies get to finish first.”

30

KEEP ME CLOSE

DAKOTA

Wyatt Patterson is not acting casual.

On Tuesday, he makes me a bouquet of wildflowers filled with fiery shades of sunlight—zinnias, marigolds, Indian paintbrushes. On Wednesday, he does the same thing except, this time, it’s blue. And over the next week, I bounce out of bed, eagerly waiting to see what bouquet each new morning will bring.

Friday is different.

We load Luna-Tuna into the truck, strap a giggly Vi into her car seat, and take a drive through the back country roads with the windows rolled down. The sun-baked earth and lingering wildflowers perfume the hot breeze.

It’s my favorite drive—the Willow City Loop—and even though my favorite season, bluebonnet season, is long over, the yellow perennials coloring the pastures in waves of gold are just as lovely.

Wyatt interlaces his fingers through mine, draping one arm over the steering wheel. He doesn’t let go as we curve down windy roads, whizzing past brown longhorns grazing beneath gigantic oak trees. As I gaze out at the blur of blue sky and green grass, I try to think of the last time I drove without going anywhere.

Nothing comes to mind.

We spend the day doing all the things we used to do growing up, except this time, we’ve got a cute third wheel.

We pick the juiciest strawberries at Sweet Berry Farm while the owner writes down his secret recipe for strawberry pie (it’s the rhubarb!). We let Vi pet baby goats while sipping a 2018 Mourvèdre at a winery.

I’m surprised by how natural it all feels, but more than that, I’m surprised by how badly I don’t want him and Vi to leave at the end of the summer.

On Saturday, I tell Alanna all this at The General, and she goes off on a rant about how Texas wine isn’t on par with California, but I dig my boots in, and tell her that it’s delicious nonetheless. Eventually, after a heated debate about wine country, we get to my deconstructed feelings.

“Day one!” Lana shouts after I finish telling her about everything that’s happened with Wyatt. “Day one, I called this, and you called me crazy. I knew I was right. I’m always right. You fucking knocked boots.”

“We haven’t knocked anything yet,” I counter. “It’s surprisingly difficult to find time to have sex with a toddler in the house.”

I’m also nervous to sleep with him, if I’m being totally honest with myself. Sex and emotion rarely mix for me, but I can’t separate the two with Wyatt.

Lana wiggles her red brows, cheersing me with her glass. “Here’s to hoping the boots will be knockin’ soon.”

There’s that nervous-achy feeling again. I take a swig of my margarita.

Lana’s got her hair in braids and is wearing a silk, champagne dress that ends mid-thigh. We look like complete opposites with me in a jean skirt and cotton tank, but anything goes here. There’s a motorcycle biker gang tucked into the back corner next to a table of girls in feather boas with matching shirts that say Buy Me a Shot. I’m Tying the Knot!

I sip my margarita, ignoring the shot-shot-shot chants. “I can’t believe you were right about us.”

“I’m sorry. What?” She cups her ear, leaning on the bar counter, and drawing a few gazes from the cowboys nearby. “Could you say that again? It’s hard to hear over all the chanting.”

I bump her shoulder. “Shut it. Your hearing is just fine.”

“I know, but I like hearing I’m right.” Alanna strokes one red nail over her empty vodka soda, calling out to Willie. “Hey! Bartender! Can I get a martini this time? Three blue cheese olives. Black, not green. Thanks in advance, sweetie.”

I think Willie’s glaring at her, but I can’t be sure with all that facial hair. He gestures around the bar. “Does this look like the kind of establishment that has blue cheese olives on hand, Barbie?”

Oh, shit.

Lana’s eyes bulge. “Excuse me? Did you just call me ‘Barbie’?”