Page 33 of Homebound

“Patterson can’t help his manners,” I say, tugging Luna away from him. She’s obsessed with him, and waits, curled up in a black ball by his bedroom door until he comes out every morning, and I let her because he makes her happy.

“He calls everyone ma’am,” I continue. “Doesn’t matter if they’re one or a hundred. I’ve never met a door Patterson hasn’t held open either, and don’t get me started on sidewalks. He never lets a woman walk on the side closest to the street.”

Lana laughs. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say more than one sentence about a man.”

I’m stumped for a second, and no comebacks come to mind. Like always.

Wyatt seems a little smug at that, and it’s throwing me off, so I clear my throat. All our history spills out with him since I’ve known him for so long. “I’m just speaking the truth. Isn’t that right, sugar?”

He frowns when I say sugar but seems to force a grin after.

“Sure is,” he says, pressing a series of three little smooch-kisses to Vienna’s cheek until she giggles. “Right, ma’am? We like our Southern manners. Yes, we do.”

Vienna laughs her high-pitched giggle-squeal, and I can’t help the smile that peeks through my lips. Wyatt’s an amazing father, and watching them, I’m reminded of me and my dad.

Colt Cutler doesn’t hug a lot of people, but I’ve seen old pictures of us curled up together on my canopy cowgirl bed with him reading me to sleep. I’ve caught Wyatt doing the same thing on our couch a couple of times, and I always drape a quilt over them.

There are some guys built to be girl dads, and Wyatt’s one of those sweethearts—like my grumpy father.

He gestures down to the brown bag with leafy vegetables poking out the top. “Will you be back for dinner tonight? I’m making tilapia tinga tacos. You’re still a pescatarian, right?”

I freeze. “You remembered?”

His lips turn down, and he looks a little hurt by my question. “Of course I remembered.”

“And he cooks?” Alanna interjects. “And not just tacos. Tilapia tinga tacos. The men I’ve dated think ordering takeout is the equivalent of cooking.”

I roll my eyes before focusing on Wyatt’s eager expression. “No, I can’t. I’ve got a date tonight, so I’ll be back late.”

The conversation dries up.

Alanna suddenly finds her ombre French manicure enthralling.

“Oh.” He opens his mouth like he’s about to ask a question but shuts it just as fast. “Another time then. Guess I’ll… see you at the barn when you get back from your, uh, date.”

“Guess so,” I say, digging around my bag to give myself something to do. I can feel Wyatt’s stare on my cheek, and now I’m questioning this date.

I’m not all that excited, but the guy was pretty insistent at the bar last week, so I figured why not? I’m single. He’s single. I’m hot. He’s hot. I’ve got a 1971 Ford Bronco, and he’s got… a lifted F150 with custom airbrushed flames on the side.

Maybe we’ll take my Bronco, Daisy Blue.

And it’s been a while since I’ve had sex, so I deserve a good orgasm. I think the last time was before Wyatt came back into town, and the guy at the bar was nice enough. We had a lukewarm conversation, but I’m not looking to marry the man.

Plus, I’m a pro at shutting off my emotions during sex and remaining detached. I might not be particular about who I let into my bed, but I’m pretty damn particular about who I let into my heart.

I pull out a package of blueberries from my bag and hand them to Wyatt. “I got these for Vi, by the way. She always eats the blueberries I put on her highchair, so I figured she likes them. She’s a blueberry-eating fiend.”

He stares at the package before taking it, and when our hands brush, he rubs his calloused thumb on the back of my palm, sending sparks shooting up my arm. “Thanks. She loves blueberries, almost as much as she loves the longhorn you got her.”

“I’m glad she likes it,” I say, meaning every word. I’m determined to win over the little devil by the end of the summer.

There’s a pause, and they both look at me. Alanna jams her lips together. When I don’t add anything else, Wyatt picks up Vienna’s tiny hand and waves at us. “Say thank you to Dakota, baby.”

She shouts a garbled noise instead, nuzzling into his scruff, and butchers my name so it sounds more like Dee-Dee. I’m not even sure she’s saying my name, but I like her version better. Goodness, that’s cute, and a pang of yearning for motherhood hits me.

“Of course.” I wiggle my fingers at her, tugging on her baby boots. “Bye, little devil. I’ll see you later.”

Wyatt watches us with quirked lips. “You do realize that you smile at her more than you smile at me, right?”