My brows furrowed. Beckham didn’t know about my pregnancy until the other day, so that couldn’t be possible. Whatever Beckham was going through likely had nothing to do with me, but I didn’t offer that information to Wyatt. If Beckham wasn’t opening up to him about whatever it was, I wasn’t going to be the one to stir up drama.
“Right. So, about that job,” I went on.
That nervous look in his eyes fell away. “You can’t really lift heavy stuff, Parker.”
“I don’t know how to work on cars, so that’s not a problem. I thought maybe I could do the desk stuff?”
The corner of his mouth crooked up, playfulness lighting his face. “Desk stuff, huh?”
I nodded. “Paperwork, phone calls. I don’t know. I just need a job, Wy.”
He sighed, tossing the rag on the desk before rounding it and plopping back down in his worn swivel chair. “Sage just quit the bakery. Maybe they have a job opening for you there.”
I shook my head, approaching the desk. “I’d rather work for you.”
If I had to work with pastries and coffee, I would, but a bakery seemed like the exact opposite of the type of space I’d enjoy. The delicateness that came with pastries was not my forte. Surprisingly, I felt more comfortable in a mechanic shop.
Wyatt’s mouth pressed into a thin line before he sighed again. “I don’t have much work for you?—”
“Is that a yes?” I sounded too eager, but I didn’t care. I was hopeful.
With a subtle shake of his head, he said, “Yes.”
I smiled bigger than I had in months and rushed around the desk to wrap his shoulders in a hug. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
He patted my back somewhat awkwardly, like he couldn’t understand how I was ecstatic over a desk job. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome. But no redecorating my office.”
I pulled away, a grin still plastered to my face as I scanned the room. “This colorful place?” I ran a finger under a leaf on the drooping plant. “I could never. It’s perfect.”
He frowned. “You can start Monday.”
“Monday’s perfect. I’ll bring my paints.”
His frown deepened. “If you start drawing flowers on the walls?—”
I waved him off, heading for the door. “No flowers. Got it.”
“Or rainbows,” he added. “Nothing girly.”
I snorted. “Girly isn’t in my vocabulary, Wyatt.”
“You’re wearing a dress.”
I shrugged. “It’s cute.” I set a hand on the door, shoving it open with the ding of the bell before I glanced back at him over my shoulder. “See you Monday!”
He ran a hand down his face, mumbling something to himself.
The door swung shut behind me, and as I stopped at my truck to fish the keys out of my purse, I felt my phone buzzing. Pulling it out along with the keys, I scanned my notifications. Guilt hit me straight in the chest. I scrolled and scrolled for at least two minutes, scanning the countless comments on my last post—one that was posted months ago—of people asking numerous questions.
Where are you?
Are you okay?
Are you ever coming back?
Did you get in a horse accident?
What if someone kidnapped her?
