I am angry at the delivery driver who dropped off four heavy boxes of books at the post office across the street from my store, simply because I had my Back in Five Minutes sign up and could not accept the delivery myself.
I am angry at my lungs for not responding as well to my controller inhalers as they usually do, prompting a visit to my respirologist’s clinic at Westport General Hospital and an adjustment to my medications.
Most of all, I am angry at Wyatt. For distracting my mind each night as I try to sleep, causing me to turn fitfully and not get the restful sleep I need.
It is, without question, quite pointless to be angry at all of these things, as they are mostly beyond my control and therefore not worth wasting any emotional energy on. However, the fact remains that I have been in a foul, tired mood for the last two days and I am not certain how to move forward.
My foot lands in a puddle as I cross the street for the second time, carrying one of the boxes. “Damn it,” I curse, shifting the heavy load in my arms and frowning down at the offending puddle.
“Let me take that.”
Out of nowhere, the weight is lifted away from me. I look up to see the man who is the source of so much frustration, and my frown deepens. Wyatt gives me a curious glance but keeps walking toward my shop, forcing me to follow him. I open the door, and he sets the box down on the long counter beside the first one I managed to get here.
“Thank you,” I say, somewhat begrudgingly. Wyatt dusts his hands off on dark jeans that are fitted to his strong legs in a far too appealing way.
“No problem.” We stand there, looking at each other for a moment. “Well, I guess I’ll get going,” he says, and I nod mutely. He turns to go, and suddenly, I find my voice.
“Were you at the hospital in Westport two days ago?”
Wyatt freezes midstride. Slowly he turns back to me. “Yeah.” Strange, his voice sounds hoarse.
“I…” I stumble over my words, filled with uncertainty. When I caught a glimpse of him hurrying away, I wanted to speak, to ask why he was there. But he was gone so quickly, and I had to see Doctor Sidhu. “I was there for an appointment; I thought I saw you,” I finish lamely.
He says nothing, and not knowing how to handle the tense situation, I hurry to fill the silence. “I have asthma, and my respirologist holds a clinic there.”
Wyatt’s shoulders drop, as if he is releasing a deep breath. It almost seems that my explanation has brought him relief of some sort.
“Asthma. You just have asthma,” he says, almost under his breath.
“Yes, since I was very young. For the most part, I have it under control, but occasionally, I have a flare up. Usually in relation to a virus or an environmental trigger.”
He simply nods and the awkward feeling inside of me intensifies to the point of discomfort.
“Thank you for carrying that box,” I say lamely as I pivot and take the few steps to the counter, picking up some papers there and shuffling them into a pile.
“Are there any more?” His voice comes from behind me, but closer, as if he has stepped toward me. When I peek over my shoulder at him, I see that he has, in fact, walked away from the door and over to where I’m standing.
“Any more…” I say, at a loss for what he’s talking about. His close proximity is unnerving. I can see the shadow of facial hair across his jaw, a mole on his right cheek, and I smell a deep spicy scent that is as mysterious as he is.
“Boxes.” His lips quirk up in a smile, the first one I’ve seen today, and I feel my lips turning up in response. I’ve never experienced my emotions to be so closely tied to someone else’s. It’s intriguing.
“Oh. Yes. Two more.”
My mouth goes dry as Wyatt takes off his coat, then leans in close to me. So close. Just as my breath catches, with him inches away from me, he places his coat down on the counter behind me, and turns his head slightly. I can feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek.
“I’ll go and get them for you,” he rumbles softly, and then he’s gone, taking his warmth and his spicy smell with him, and leaving me feeling far too flustered. I grab my inhaler out of my purse and take two puffs, because my breathing feels quite erratic. But deep down I know it isn’t asthma causing that. It’s Wyatt.
I busy myself with opening the boxes, checking for damaged books, and reviewing the packing order. Wyatt returns with one more box, then leaves immediately, I assume to get the last one. I don’t enjoy needing assistance, but I am glad he stepped in. The boxes are heavy, there’s no doubt.
This time when Wyatt comes back in the store, he sets the box down, and instead of leaving immediately as I assumed he would, he leans against the counter.
“What books did you order?” he asks conversationally.
I peer up at him from the floor where I’ve been stacking copies. “Most of these are the newest Jeffrey Morgan thriller. He’s coming for a signing later this month.”
He makes a sound of interest, and I say what I’m thinking without stopping to debate whether it is wise. “If you’re still in town you should come.”
He stares at me, those dark eyes burrowing into me, igniting something deep within. I feel goosebumps lift along my arms.
