I'm not going.
I lost the bet.
My phone buzzes.
Wyatt: Ready for tonight, sugar?
I stare at the screen. My thumbs hover over the keyboard, but then I drop the phone on the bed with a frustrated groan.
No, Wyatt. I'm not ready.
Not for you.
Not for your half-cocked smile and those sin-dipped eyes.
Not for the way you limp around now, like you didn't start a bar fight three days ago, and still think you can ride bulls like your body is made of Kevlar.
He shouldn't even be out of bed, let alone going anywhere.
Yet, here I am, nervously counting down the hours until I get to sneak away with him, just like the olden days.
I ignore his dozens of messages and calls. To pass the time, I spend the afternoon pretending to be busy.
I play with my nieces and nephews. Then I reorganize a perfectly organized closet. I scrub already-clean counters. I even try to make banana bread, which ends with flour everywhere and a loaf that comes out like a brick.
Jagger walks through the kitchen, lifts a brow at my failed attempt, and says, "Remind me never to piss you off if this is your idea of victory baking."
"Victory?"
"Wyatt's win," he boasts, grinning like an idiot.
I throw a towel at him just as Georgia walks in.
He dodges it and tells Georgia, "Teach her some baking skills, for the love of Texas!" and laughs his way out of the room.
Eventually, the sun sets, and I'm out of time. I dress slowly, pulling on jeans that hug my hips, boots that click confidently with every step, and a top I shouldn't be wearing. It's a deep burgundy with an open back, thin straps that whisper trouble, and a clingy fit. I throw a plaid wrap around my shoulders.
Like that will keep Wyatt from staring at me.
A soft knock rattles my door, startling me.
"Willow," Wyatt's deep, rich, unapologetic drawl calls through the wood.
I stand frozen for a second. Then, I open the door, trying to breathe normally.
It's the Wyatt I spent my teenage years obsessing over. All rugged charm and crooked temptation, dressed in dark jeans and a black button-down that he didn't bother to button all the way. His rolled sleeves show off his forearms, tattoos, and bruised knuckles. And he wears a glint in his eye that promises chaos.
"You're still limping," I say, arms crossed, the butterflies going to war inside my stomach.
He grins. "I'm just standing here."
"You shouldn't be going anywhere."
"Aw. You worried about me, sugar?" he teases.
I glare at him. "No. I'm worried about myself. If you collapse on the sidewalk, I'm not dragging your ass back here."
He chuckles, stepping into my space. "Then I guess I'll have to stay upright. For you."
