Page 185 of The Reason I Married Him
“I can understand that,” he replies. “When I first started writing, I was trying to prove my creative writing teacher wrong. He told me that my ideas were predictable and barely researched. That my sentences were juvenile, and my vocabulary was immature. I set out to prove him wrong and the C he gave me in class. I told myself that if I could become successful all on my own, I could prove to him I’m much better than the C grade he gave me. And when I first started, boy, did I fucking fail. It wasn’t until I started asking for assistance, interviewing crime analysts and forming a group of like-minded author friends, that I found some success. It takes a visionary to start a project and a village to complete it.” He lifts my chin with his finger. “Don’t be caught digging a ditch by yourself with a spoon. Take the help from the person with the excavator.”
Then he steps out of the SUV and moves around to my side. When he opens the door, he leans over my lap and unbuckles my seat before taking my hand in his. I’m tense at first, but I relax when he gently squeezes it.
He starts to tug me, but I don’t move.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I . . . I think I need help,” I say, his words running through my head.
It takes a visionary to start a project—that visionary being Cassidy. It takes a village to complete it—that village being me and my siblings and this town.
He’s right, I can attempt to do this myself, but it would be so much easier with help. I told myself at a very young age that I would never be like the cold, distant, horrible man that my father was. A man who would spend his nights in front of the television drinking. A man who thought of his children as his servants, not his loved ones. A man who thought the world owed him something from the misfortunes he suffered. He neverdid anything to fix his life. He relied on bitterness and booze to propel him from day to day.
And here I am . . . bitter, resentful, not letting anyone help out.
That was what my dad would have done. He would have sat back, not letting a soul offer him a hand. The only help he took was from his own children.
Help in raising his own children.
Help in making him meals.
Help in carrying him up the stairs when he was too damn drunk to do it himself.
I don’t want to be like him.
I refuse to be like him.
“Okay, then let’s get you some help,” Wyatt says. “Want to work while we eat? Talk it out?”
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I think I’d like that.”
“Okay.” He clutches my computer to his chest. “I got you, babe. Come on.”
He takes my hand in his and then helps me out of the SUV. When he shuts my door behind him, I stop him and say, “I’m sorry that I’m so stubborn. I appreciate you sticking around, even when I push you away.”
His expression softens as he says, “I’m here for you, Aubree. I’m like a boomerang. You keep tossing me away, and I keep coming back.”
“One day, I’m sure that string will break,” I answer, feeling far too insecure and inefficient. Not worthy of his time.
He grips my chin and shakes his head. “No, that string tying us together, it’s unbreakable. Nothing you can say or do to me, Aubree, will make me snap. This is forever, this bond. Even after a year of marriage, we will still be tied together when we go our separate ways.”
“You might be regretting that sooner rather than never.”
“Impossible,” he says as he guides me toward The Cliffs.
Given his special parking spot, it’s not much of a walk, but from the car to the restaurant, Wyatt waves high to a few people, shakes two hands, and compliments someone I’ve never met before on how adorable their baby is. He came here to immerse himself in the town and find a bride—well, he’s impressively done both. Oddly, I think one of the reasons I find myself drawn toward this man is because he’s so friendly, kind, and understanding.
Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of understanding in our house. Cassidy did her best, as did Ryland, but at the end of the day, we were all kids and should not have had to act like adults at such a young age. Dad didn’t have patience with us, he was never kind, and he was not one to walk around town, shaking hands.
Wyatt . . . he’s the complete opposite, and I find that immensely attractive.
When we reach The Cliffs, he holds the door open for me and immediately says hi to Hank at the register.
“Wyatt, how are you?” Hank says in a greeting.
“Great now that I got my girl to take a break for a second to eat lunch with me.”
Hank smiles at me. “She’s always been one of the hardest workers I know.”
