By the time I step onto the deck, he’s set the table, and the smell of grilled sirloin fills my nostrils. My stomach rumbles in response. I got a lot of sun today and didn’t eat much, so I’m ravenous.
“Can we talk about the puzzle now?” I ask as I cut off a piece of steak. “I have some constructive criticism.”
“No.”
“I checked out your sorting trays, and you’re putting pieces that belong to the moon into the tray with the swans.”
“Logan,” he says. “Go find your own puzzle.”
“You know what? Maybe I will. Then you can watch me puzzle circles around your sorry ass.”
“Oh wow. I keep forgetting how competitive you are.”
“I’m not competitive,” I object.
“Remember when you were a kid and used to challenge Gigi to foot races and then cried each time she beat you?”
“I didn’t cry. I just teared up.”
“That’s crying.”
“Crying occurs when the tears exit your eyes. If they’re still contained, it doesn’t count.”
“It totally counts.”
We spend the rest of dinner bickering about literally everything. Whether ketchup belongs on steak. If humans could ever live on the moon. The correct orientation of the toilet paper roll. At first, I think maybe he’s picking the wrong answers just to annoy me.
But then I realize what’s happening.
“The dynamic is off,” I announce, cutting him off midsentence as he tries to explain why I’m wrong about mosquitoes. Mr. Naive over hereactuallybelieves we can eradicate them without it affecting the food chain. I can’t even.
“What do you mean?” Wyatt says. “What dynamic?”
“That’s why we keep arguing. Because we’ve never spent any time alone together, and it’s a shock to the system. Like, I don’t know what your personality is without your sister here.”
“Well, I don’t know what your personality is without your dad standing there glaring at anyone who talks to you.”
I snicker. “Not anyone. Just the Golden Boys.”
The Golden Boys refers to three of the more entertaining hockey kids in our circle—Beau, AJ, and Gray. A year younger than I am, they’re a hell-raising, heartbreaking trio of budding hockey stars. I’ve never met a straight woman who didn’t fall over backward for one of the Golden Boys.
I finish my prosecco, which I’m surprised Wyatt didn’t try to confiscate. But he didn’t say a word when I pulled the bottle out of the wine fridge. I’m on my second glass now, and it’s loosening my tongue.
“God, imagine if he knew I lost my virginity to one of them?” I giggle as I picture my dad’s reaction.
Wyatt’s surprised gaze flies to mine. “Which one?”
“Beau,” I confess.
“Ah, the goldenest of the Golden Boys.”
He’s not wrong. Beau Di Laurentis is the definition of golden. I’m talking blond hair, bright green eyes, dazzling smile. The worst part? He’s also a genuinely good guy. The all-American sweetheart.
“How was it?” Intrigue flickers in Wyatt’s eyes. And I swear I see a spark of heat too.
But that’s probably wishful thinking. I don’t make Wyatt hot. For a moment there, when we were on the boat today, I thought maybe I was actually affecting him. He seemed so flustered at the sight of my boobs that it gave me a little ego boost. But then he informed me they “weren’t anything special,” so who the fuck knows. He’s too difficult to pin down.
“I’m not telling you that,” I reply.
