And then he's gone, leaving me standing in my production room, heart racing and wondering what the hell I’ve agreed to.
Wyatt shows up at my house at exactly 6:30 PM, because of course he does. The man is pathologically punctual.
I spent the past hour speed-cleaning my living room, changing my outfit three times, and giving myself a stern talking-to in the mirror about how this is just about the collaboration and not to make it weird.
None of it helps.
I open the door to Wyatt, standing on my porch looking even better than he did this afternoon. He's changed his shirt again, into a dark blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up to reveal those ridiculous forearms, and he's holding a small bouquet of flowers.
"You brought flowers?" I blurt out, horrified.
"They're from Mrs. Marshall's garden. She saw me leaving and insisted." But there's a slight flush on his cheeks that suggests maybe he's not being entirely truthful.
I accept them with more reluctance than they deserve, the stems still warm from his hand. "Come in while I put these in water."
Admiral wanders over to greet him and get a few pets before meandering to his bed in the corner.
The wildflowers are bright and cheerful, and I set them in a vase on my kitchen counter. "Thanks. They're beautiful."
"You're welcome." His eyes do a quick scan of my house, taking in the cozy living room with its beach-themed decor and the framed photos of my family. "Nice place."
"It's small, but it's mine."
"That's what matters." His gaze meets mine, and there’s excitement twinkling in his eyes that I’m afraid to know about.
The drive to Sal's takes less than ten minutes. We make small talk about the weather and the brewery, carefully avoiding anything too personal. I'm painfully aware of how close he is in the truck's cabin, of the clean scent of his soap, of the way his hand rests casually on the gearshift.
But when we walk into the restaurant, the low hum of conversation dies. Forks pause in mid-air and all heads swivel in our direction.
Great. It’sexactlylike Heather said. By tomorrow morning, most of the town will think we're dating and the other half will be placing bets on when the fistfight breaks out.
Our waitress, Rosa, who's worked at Sal's for as long as I can remember, seats us at a corner booth and hands us menus with barely concealed glee.
"Well, well, well," she says, grinning. "Merri Gallagher and Wyatt Dalton. Sitting together at the same table without visible weapons. This is a historic moment."
"We're very evolved," Wyatt says dryly.
"Clearly." Rosa pulls out her notepad. "What can I get you to drink?" We order, and Rosa disappears, leaving us alone in our fishbowl of a booth.
"Why is everyone staring?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.
"Because we're the entertainment," Wyatt says. "The whole town has witnessed our feud. Now they're waiting to see if we'll start throwing pizza at each other."
"Maybe we should." I shrug. "You know, give them a show."
Wyatt plants his arms on the table and leans in, his mouth slanted at a mischievous angle. "Or we could really blow their minds and have a pleasant dinner."
I snort. "What a radical concept."
Rosa returns with our drinks and takes our food order, and I’m shocked that Wyatt and I have the same taste in pizza—a large pepperoni and mushroom. Of course we do.
Once she's gone, Wyatt relaxes in the booth, studying me with those hypnotic blue eyes that never miss a thing. "So. What do you want to know?"
"About what?"
"About me. This is a getting-to-know-you dinner, right? So ask me something."
I consider this, taking a sip of beer. There are a thousand things I could ask, but there’s one particular question I’ve been curious about.
