Page 119 of The Reason I Married Him
“How?” I ask. “How did you even know this was happening?”
“Had a hunch that you were going to like murder, so I texted around for some help. In that bag are fixings for a sundae, the perfect sundae defined by you.” He rolls down his window and speaks to the attendant to purchase a parking spot for us.
I’m shocked, stunned, completely caught off guard that someone who isn’t romantically interested in me has put so much thought into something so nice for me.
I’m honestly surprised I was so wrong about Wyatt. I learned at a very young age to be watchful of people. Watchful of their behavior and how it can change within a second. But I feel confident that he won’t make changes to the farm that Cassidy wouldn’t have wanted.
He’s been helpful, patient, kind, and . . . sweet.
I don’t get it.What is the catch? Why is he so kind to me?
He backs up into a parking spot that’s not too close but not too far away either, and then hops out of the truck, only to jump into the back. I glance behind me to see him arranging the blankets and pillows Ethel let him borrow. When he’s done, he knocks on the window and waves for me to come out.
With the bag of sundae fixings in my hand, I hop out of the truck as well and hand him the bag. He holds out his hand to help me up, but I step up onto the tire and then into the bed of the truck.
“Take your shoes off,” he says as he does the same. So I follow suit because honestly, I’m so stunned and confused as to why he’s being so kind to me when I’ve been, well, guarded at times, that I just listen. “Now, come back here. I’ve tried to make it as comfortable as possible. Let me know if you need me to move pillows or blankets around.”
“No, this is fine,” I say and then look him in his eyes. “This was really nice of you, Wyatt. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know, but I wanted to.”
“Why, though?” I ask before I can stop myself. In front of us is a commercial of a talking drink and pretzel singing a song about concessions, but I ignore it as I look for an answer from Wyatt.
“Why did I want to do this?”
“Yes,” I say. “You’re being so nice, and I’m not sure I deserve your kindness.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says. “You deserve it and so much more. That’s why I’m doing this, because I feel like you’re someone who hasn’t experienced kindness in the past, and well, you’re due for it.”
“My past isn’t of your concern,” I say, the words registering in my head just as they fall out of my mouth. I hate myself for saying it, especially since he’s been so thoughtful. I blow out a frustrated breath. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m just . . .” I drag my hand over my forehead.
“Guarded,” he finishes for me. “I get it, Aubree. I really do. You don’t need to apologize.”
“I do because I shouldn’t be so snappy with my responses. I see that you’re trying to be my friend. I notice you trying, and I’m, fuck . . .” I look away.
“Not good with emotions, having a hard time opening up, not fully trusting of me yet,” he says as if he can read my mind.
“Once again, I get it. It takes time, and hopefully, I can earn that trust as we move forward. Just remember, I’m here for you. I’m your partner in this, not your enemy. What we do with each other, what we say to each other, it’s sacred. You don’t have to worry about me spreading any truth or lies about you. This right here”—he motions between us—“this is a vault. Just you and me. Got it?”
I hate that I feel emotional, that if I fully let down my guard, I could possibly see myself with watery eyes and a grateful posture of relief. But I hold back. I just nod and whisper, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome even though you don’t have to thank me.” He squeezes my leg in reassurance, then opens the bag from Dee Dee. “Look at what this angel did for us. She provided us with a bowl and a spoon as well.” He takes out the whipped cream can and pops it open only to tilt his head back and squirt some into his mouth. When he looks at me, his mouth is full, cheeks puffed, whipped cream ready to fall out of his mouth.
I chuckle. “That’s a great look.”
He swallows. “Yeah? Should I make it my new signature? Maybe it’s my next influence on the town. Tomorrow, you’ll see everyone walking around town with a whipped cream can in their pocket, mouths and cheeks puffed.”
“If I do, we are no longer going through with this arrangement. No way in hell will I be able to deal with such an idiotic influencer.”
“Then I better put the can down. I can’t lose you, not now,” he says dramatically. “Not when you’re about to make my taste buds scream with delight over this perfect sundae.”
“Once again, with the dramatics.”
“I’m an author, babe. It’s what we do.” He winks and then hands me a bowl.
We split the pint of vanilla ice cream, divvy out the hot fudge, which Dee Dee also warmed up for us—seriously, he must be really good friends with these people for them to go to this trouble—and then we top it off with chopped peanuts, whipped cream, cherries, and chocolate sprinkles.
As I lean back with my bowl in hand against the pillows that Wyatt propped up, Wyatt grabs the speaker from the docking station and sets it between us just as the movie begins.
