Wyatt goes still.
A man who has just been shot with a memory.
“That’s hers,” he says.
I glance back at it, then at him. “Yeah.”
His shoulders lift and drop in a sharp breath. “When did you get that?”
“I didn’t get it. It was justhereearlier.”
Wyatt lets out this short, humorless laugh, which makes my stomach do a weird little flip.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Talk to me.”
Wyatt starts pacing again, hands flexing at his sides, trying not to punch the air. He stops near the table and stares at the candle in horror.
“You should’ve told me,” he says.
I blink. “Told you what?”
His head snaps toward me, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “That something was going on between you and Abilene.”
The words hit me fast as a bucket of cold water.
“What?” I bark out a laugh, because if I don’t laugh, I might panic. “Hold on. What are you talking about?”
Wyatt looks at me as if I’m the one being ridiculous. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” I ask, still stuck on the fact that Wyatt, Wyatt Tucker, who treats horses for a living and keeps his feelings folded up in a carefully labeled file, just accused me of withholding information as if I’m running some secret romance scheme.
“Pretend,” he says tightly. “Pretend like you don’t know.”
My chest tightens. “Wyatt, I… care about her. We’ve been… close.”
Wyatt’s gaze flicks to the living room, where the twins are now whisper arguing about whether haunted people can still eat spaghetti.
He lowers his voice. “I went to her house today.”
My pulse stutters. “You… what?”
“I asked her out,” he says.
The room tilts.
Not because I’m mad. Because I suddenly understand why he’s walking around my kitchen like a bomb with legs.
“You asked her out,” I repeat dumbly.
Wyatt nods once.
“And…?” I swallow, throat tight. “What did she say?”
He huffs out another laugh, but this one has pain in it. “She said no.”
My heart drops into my gut.
“She said no because she’s kinda dating you.”
