Heat flashes in my cheeks. “Excuse me?”
He steps close enough that I have to tilt my head back. His voice drops, low and unapologetic. “You came to my cabin off a bride ad. You’re wearing my shirt. You’ve been arguing with me since you walked in, and your pulse jumps every time I get close.”
My breath catches. “You don’t know what my pulse does.”
Wyatt’s gaze flicks to my throat. “I do.”
I hate him. I hate that he’s right. I hate that I want to bite him just to see if he flinches.
I force my voice steady. “We’re doing this for protection.”
Wyatt’s eyes hold mine, dark and unfiltered. “We’re doing this because I said you’re not going to be touched.”
My stomach flips again.
Saxon clears his throat. “Cooper. Tone.”
Wyatt doesn’t look away from me. “I’m controlled.”
Saxon’s eyes narrow like he’s not buying it. “Don’t make me regret letting you walk out of here.”
Wyatt finally turns his head slightly. “You won’t.”
Maddie steps closer to me, lowering her voice again. “You sure?”
I swallow. “No.”
Maddie nods like that’s the honest answer. “Good. Do it anyway.”
That’s the thing about Maddie—she doesn’t coddle. She just plants steel in your spine and expects you to stand.
Wyatt’s hand closes around my wrist. Not tight. Firm. Possessive in a way that makes my skin heat.
“You’re coming,” he says.
I glare at him. “I have legs.”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I’ve noticed.”
My breath stutters.
I yank my wrist free just to prove I can, then walk toward the bay doors with my head up, like I’m not about to marry my brother’s best friend in a courthouse because my ex won’t let me breathe.
Wyatt falls into step beside me like he owns the sidewalk.
We opens the passenger door of his truck and waits, watching me like he’s daring me to argue.
I climb in anyway, flannel riding up my thighs, and I refuse to think about the fact that I have nothing under it but underwear because my clothes are locked inside my shop.
Wyatt’s gaze flicks down once when I swing my legs in.
His jaw tightens.
He says nothing.
Which is worse.
The courthouse is small-town bland—linoleum floors, beige walls, a bored clerk behind thick glass. The kind of place where lives get changed between lunch breaks.
