Her eyes narrow. "Wyatt?—"
"You made a deal. I held up my end. Hold up yours."
"I never said I agreed." She fights a smile, but the shimmer in her eyes tells me another story.
"You didn't say no," I remind her, grinning bigger, and knowing she'll follow through.
And for the first time in a long while, I know I'm back in the game, but not just with my career.
19
Willow
New Year's Eve
The morning of New Year's Eve hits like a sledgehammer. I'm jittery. Not from coffee or lack of sleep but from something worse.
Anticipation and dread mix with more than a touch of desire, which I keep trying to shove down so far it gets tangled in my rib cage.
Today is the day.
Why the hell did I agree to Wyatt's stupid bet?
I didn't.
Well, not technically…
I pace my bedroom, my feet lightly slapping against the hardwood floor as I try to figure out what to wear. It's not like we're going to a gala or even some wild New Year's bash.
But knowing Wyatt? He could say we're grabbing dinner and then end up stealing a plane and flying us to Mexico.
Which, to be fair, almost happened once.
I can't help but smile at the memory.
It was right after Wyatt's first big win in Montana. Sponsors were sniffing around, and he hadn't yet learned how to say no to anything or anyone.
I was almost eighteen, and giddy in love.
He'd come home and told me to pack a bag, add my bikini, sunscreen, and passport, and meet him by the truck.
I'd felt the rush of excitement I always got whenever he'd surprise me with secret getaways. I'd asked where we were going.
He'd winked and said,"Trust me. And tell your parents you're staying the weekend at Ginny's."
Ginny had become my excuse when I'd wanted to go places with Wyatt overnight.
The next thing I knew, we'd been on a puddle jumper to San Diego, where a new buddy of his had a pilot license, a questionable plane, and a taste for adventure. Two hours later, Wyatt's hand had been wrapped around mine as we'd crossed the border in a rental car with no GPS, two bottles of tequila, and no real plan besides "find a beach and get lost."
We'd ended up in some sleepy fishing village on the Baja coast, eating grilled octopus from a vendor on the pier, barefoot and drunk on each other. He'd danced with me under a string of lights and kissed me so hard, I'd forgotten my name. That night,he'd made love to me in a bed with no frame, in a room that'd smelled like salt and citrus, with crashing waves as our only witnesses.
The next morning, we'd gotten caught in a rainstorm on the way back. The rental car had gotten stuck in the mud, as did our shoes. We'd had to hike barefoot up the road while laughing so hard, I'd nearly peed my shorts. It was the stupidest, most reckless trip I've ever taken.
To this day, it's still the best weekend of my life.
I curse under my breath and yank my robe tighter around my waist.
Stop taking trips down memory lane.
