“I answered it because I needed a place to stay,” I snap.
“And you got it.”
“And you get…” I wave a hand at him. “What do you get out of this, Wyatt? You still haven’t told me why you posted it.”
His jaw shifts. He looks away for half a second, like he’s deciding how much truth to give me.
Then he looks back, steady and unapologetic. “I needed a wife on paper.”
My pulse kicks.
“Why?” I press.
He steps closer again, slow, controlled. “Because I don’t like being cornered.”
That’s not an answer. It’s an admission.
I swallow. “Who’s cornering you?”
Wyatt’s eyes hold mine. “Not you.”
A beat passes.
Then he says, “Put the shirt on, Ellie.”
I blink. “Or what?”
His gaze drops to the flannel in my hands. “Or you keep smelling like chocolate and panic, and I keep thinking about what you’d taste like if I put my mouth on you.”
My body goes hot, fast.
I stare at him, stunned.
He doesn’t look embarrassed. He doesn’t look like he regrets saying it. He looks like a man who’s done pretending he doesn’t want what he wants.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
Wyatt’s voice stays calm. “You wanted honesty. There it is.”
“Wyatt,” I manage, and my voice is thin. “You’re… you’re not supposed to say things like that.”
He tilts his head. “Why not?”
“Because you’re Wade’s best friend.”
His eyes narrow. “And?”
“And I’m—” I stop, because the real answer is: because it makes me want to do reckless things.
Wyatt steps close enough that the flannel presses between us. His gaze locks on my face like he’s pinning me in place without touching me.
“You’re here,” he says. “In my cabin. In my shirt. Off a bride ad. You want to keep pretending this is polite?”
My breath stutters. “I’m not in your shirt.”
He nods at the flannel. “Yet.”
The air between us hums, tight and hot. I can hear the tick of the old clock on the wall, the soft crackle of wood settling, the rush of my own blood.
