“He’ll definitely notice.” Wyatt shifts slightly, and I have to bite back a gasp as his body presses more firmly against mine.
“Great. So now I have to explain where I got the materials and the tools to do a professional-quality repair job at midnight.”
“Just tell him the truth.” His hand tightens on my hip.
“That a McCoy fixed our fence? He’ll have a stroke.”
“Better than him thinking you’re sneaking around with some other guy.” There’s something possessive in his voice that makes heat pool in my belly.
“Who says I’m not?”
Wyatt’s body goes rigid against mine, his hand tightening almost painfully. “Are you?”
“No. But Dad doesn’t know that.”
“Right.” He relaxes slightly, but pulls me closer.
We fall silent, listening to the sound of Dad’s truck idling in the driveway. I’m hyperaware of every point of contact between us—Wyatt’s chest against my back, his arm around my waist, his thigh pressed between mine because of how we’re positioned. The kiss we just shared is still tingling on my lips, and being this close to him in the dark is making me dizzy with want.
Every time one of us breathes, we create a friction that’s driving me insane. When I shift slightly to see betterthrough the crack, I feel exactly how affected he is by our position.
“Sorry,” he whispers, but he doesn’t move away.
“Don’t be,” I breathe back, and I feel him inhale.
“Callie—”
“Shh.”
Dad’s truck door finally opens, and we both freeze. Footsteps crunch across the gravel, slow and deliberate. He’s checking on something.
Through the crack in the door, I can see him walking back toward the fence, a flashlight in his hand. The beam of light sweeps dangerously close to the barn.
“He’s looking at your handiwork,” I breathe.
“Good or bad?”
“Can’t tell.” I lean forward slightly to see better, which presses my ass directly against Wyatt. His sharp intake of breath makes me realize what I’ve done, but when I try to shift away, his arm tightens around my waist.
Dad plays the flashlight beam along the new rail, then steps closer to examine it. He runs his hand along the wood, testing its stability the same way Wyatt did.
“He knows it’s new,” I whisper.
“Obviously.” Wyatt’s voice is strained, and I realize I’m unconsciously rocking against him with each breath.
“What’s he going to think?”
“That someone fixed his fence.” His hand slides from my waist to my stomach.
“That’s not helpful.”
“You asked.” His lips brush my ear as he speaks, and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
Dad stands there for what feels like an hour but isprobably only a few minutes. Then he turns off the flashlight and heads toward the house.
We wait until we hear the front door close before either of us moves.
“Coast is clear,” I say, but neither of us steps apart.
