We both know I have no right to say this, at least to him, but yet in that moment, it’s my truth.
Something dangerous flickers in his eyes. "I don't run from anything."
The air between us crackles.
"Who are you, Wyatt?" I challenge. "Really? Because I see two sides to one man and I can’t help thinking you don’t even know yourself.”
Something raw and hurt flashes across his features. "I'm someone who knows better than to make promises I can't keep," he says quietly. "Someone who's learned that wantingsomething and being able to have it are two very different things."
His gaze drops to my mouth, and for a heartbeat I think he might kiss me—despite the anger, despite everything.
"Your mom's smart," he says, and there's something almost gentle in his voice now. "Teaching you not to trust cowboys."
I hate that. Because he's right—Mom did teach me that. She showed me in a thousand small ways that a man is free to leave while the woman is left to pick up the pieces. I know she left Ford, but the effect was the same. She had me to take care of and he got off scott-free.
"Yeah," I whisper. "She is."
The silence stretches between us like a taut wire, vibrating with everything we've said and everything we haven't. Wyatt's sitting there with that careful distance he just put between us.
I hate it.
"So, what is this?" I motion to the dinner plates and then around the cottage. The words tumble out before I can stop them, raw and reckless. "Were you just going to start something you have no intention of finishing?"
His jaw tightens. "That's not what this is."
"Isn't it?" I stand up and he does too. I’ve got anger and hurt and want all tangled up in my chest until I can't tell them apart. "You flirt, you charm, you bring me caramel apples and look at me like—like you want me—” Oh my gosh! Did I just say that out loud? “—and then casually mention you'll be gone in a week?"
"Kinsley—"
"No." I step closer, his breathing shifts, and heat radiates off him. "I'm not some buckle bunny you can sweet-talk for a weekend. I'm not going to fall for your act just because—"
"Because what?" His voice is rough, demanding.
"Because I'm stupid enough to think this could be different, that I'm not just like every other woman to you." The admission tears out of me. The worst part is that I care what he thinks. I shouldn't, but I do. I'm here for six months and then I'm moving on to my next client. His leaving shouldn't matter at all.
But it does. And I hate myself for it.
He narrows his eyes. "You think this is an act?"
"I think you've perfected the art of making a woman feel special right up until you ride off into the sunset." I wrap my arms around myself. "And I'm mad at myself for falling for it." I’m throwing all my mother’s damage at him, using her words like walls to keep him out.
"You're wrong." His hands come up to frame my face. "You're so dang wrong."
"Then what is this?" I whisper.
For a heartbeat, we just stand there, breathing hard, staring at each other like we're standing at the edge of a cliff.
"This," he says roughly, "is me losing my mind over a woman I can't stop thinking about."
His mouth crashes against mine, hard and desperate. This is pure need, raw and honest, and overwhelming. His hands gently tangle in my hair, tilting my head back so he can deepen the kiss, and I respond without thinking, my arms wrapping around his neck.
He tastes like sweet tea and promises, like everything I'vebeen trying not to want. When his tongue sweeps across my lower lip, I open for him with a sound that should embarrass me but doesn't—not when he groans low in his throat and presses me back against the kitchen counter. The granite is cool against my back, but Wyatt is all heat and strength caging me in, while his mouth works magic against mine.
Every rational thought scatters like sparks off a forge. I thought telling him about Ford would leave me raw, but his kiss is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. My soul reaches for him. It’s unnerving how deep he has gotten, how far I’ve let him in already. I have walls for good reasons, and he crashed right through them.
When we finally break apart, we stare at each other like we can't quite believe what just happened. I feel the unsteady beat of his heart where our chests are pressed together.
"That," he says roughly, "is what you do to me."