“Thank you, Dolly, for everything. For being patient with me while I figured it out.”
“Well, that’s what family does.” She releases me and steps back. “Now, go get some sleep. You look like death warmed over. Tonight we’re celebrating. I’m telling everybody.”
“Wyatt said the same thing,” I say, laughing.
“Great minds think alike.” She winks. “See you tonight, sugar.”
She walks back to her car, already pulling out her phone, probably to start the gossip chain that will have the entire town informed by lunchtime. I watch her go, then turn back to The Rusty Spur.
My bar. My home. My life.
I climb the stairs to my apartment, collapse on my sofa, and fall asleep within seconds. I don’t dream about Switzerland or my mother or impossible choices. I dream about mountains and music and a man with blue eyes who loves me.
CHAPTER 20
I sleep until four in the afternoon. When I finally wake up, my phone is full of messages.
From Presley: OMG Dolly told me! I’m so happy you’re staying!
From Boone: Good news travels fast. Glad you’re sticking around!
From Meredith: I knew you’d make the right choice. See you Saturday for gardening. Bring your appetite, I’m making pie!
And from Wyatt: Hope you slept well. Still picking you up at seven. Wear something comfortable.
I smile at the phone and type back. Slept great. See you at seven. Can I have a hint about the surprise?
His response is immediate. No.
Then another message pops up. But you’ll like it, I promise.
At seven o’clock sharp, his truck pulls up into the parking lot. I’m waiting on the porch in jeans and a soft green t-shirt, comfortable like he said, but nice enough that I don’t feel underdressed for whatever it is he’s planning. My hair is down, still a little damp from the shower, and I’m using just enough makeup to hide evidence of my sleepless night.
He gets out of the truck and stops when he sees me.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“I look like a woman who slept for twelve hours.”
“You look beautiful,” he repeats.
He opens the passenger door for me, as he always does, and I climb in. The cab smells like him, cologne and something underneath that’s just Wyatt.
“So where are we going?” I ask as he pulls out of the parking lot.
“You’ll see.”
“You know I hate surprises.”
“No, you don’t. You hate not being in control. There’s a difference.”
He’s not wrong.
We drive through town, past Dixie Diner and the Sweet Tea Bakery and Grits and Grind, past the town square with its white gazebo and towering oaks, past the church where Pastor Dale preaches on Sundays. And then Wyatt turns onto a road I haven’t been on before, a very narrow one that winds up into the hills behind town.
“Wyatt, where?—”
“Patience.”
