His voice is calm.
His hands are not.
The bag shifts slightly as his grip tightens, and I realize, with a sudden, jolting clarity…
Wyatt Tucker is nervous.
The fact is so unexpected that I almost laugh out loud. Instead, I blink at him as if I’ve never seen a man before.
“Hi,” I manage, because my brain has apparently reduced itself to a single syllable.
Wyatt clears his throat. “I… uh.” He glances past my shoulder into my kitchen, where the frenzy is visible from the doorway. “Are you busy?”
“No,” I say too fast.
Then, because I’m apparently committed to embarrassing myself today, I add, “Yes. I mean. I’m… busy, but notbusybusy. Like… productive busy.”
Wyatt’s mouth twitches. It’s not a full smile, but it’s close.
“I know exactly what you mean,” he says, and somehow that makes my chest ache a little, offering me a quiet understanding in the middle of my frantic, buzzing life.
I’m suddenly very aware that I’m wearing leggings with a smear of honey on my thigh and an oversized sweatshirt that saysSWEET HAVEN HONEY CO.in faded letters.
Wyatt’s gaze flicks briefly to my sweatshirt, then back to my face, and he looks fond. Like it’s exactly what he expected to find me in.
Which is unfair.
“Can I come in?” he asks, then immediately adds, “Or we can talk out here. I just… I didn’t want to… I mean, I can leave if you’re in the middle of something?—”
“Come in,” I blurt.
Then I step aside so fast I nearly trip.
Wyatt ducks in, careful not to bump the doorframe, and the scent of outside comes with him. Clean damp air, pine, the faint sharp edge of echoing smoke the valley still wears.
He pauses just inside, not sure where to put himself.
I’m not sure where to put myself either.
I shut the door behind him and immediately regret the choice, because now he’s trapped in my house with me, and my heartbeat is in my throat.
Wyatt looks toward the table again.
The journals. The letters. The jars.
The whole mess.
His brows lift slightly. “Market prep?”
“Yes,” I say, relieved to have something normal to cling to. “And an order for Maeve. She stocks my soaps and candles and?—”
“I know,” he says softly.
Heat rises into my cheeks.
Wyatt shifts the paper bag in his hand, clears his throat again, and suddenly looks like he’s bracing himself to walk into a storm.
“I brought you something,” he says, holding it out.
