the charmer with your saggy drawers and that filthy stuffed duck you carried everywhere.”
“Her name was Gertrude Ducky,” Wyatt said with absolute seriousness. “And I was your favorite student. Admit it.”
“All my students were special to me,” Birdie replied diplomatically before returning to the crisis at hand. “Tell me honestly, do you think you’ll be able to get that old AC running again so poor Mia can sleep in her apartment tonight?”
Wyatt’s gaze landed on Mia and the glint returned to his eyes. “I promise I’ll do my best to get Mia into bed tonight.”
“Behave,” Birdie commanded, giving him a gentle slap on the arm.
“Yes, ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat at her. “I’ll just go take a look at that AC, shall I?” On his way out the back door he gifted Mia with a wink that left her feeling dizzy.
“Don’t pay him any mind,” Birdie told Mia after Wyatt had gone. “His bark is worse than his bite.”
An image popped into Mia’s head of Wyatt’s teeth biting her skin in a decidedly sexual context. Thanks for that, Birdie.
“Wyatt’s a good boy.” Birdie glanced out the kitchen window and Mia followed her gaze. They both watched Wyatt disappear into the garage apartment. “He comes on a little strong,” Birdie continued, looking down at the pastry dough she was cutting it into bite-size squares, “but it’s all for show.”
“Is it?” Wyatt’s flirting hadn’t felt like a bluff. It had felt calculated and purposeful.
“Well…” Birdie threw a wry smile over her shoulder. “No, not really. He’s full of wild oats and he likes to sow ’em. So you know, mind your heart.”
Mia appreciated the warning, but since she wasn’t looking to form any serious attachments, she thought her heart was probably safe. The rest of her, however, might be open to temptation…
Birdie began dropping squares of dough into the simmering chicken stew on the stove. “It’s a shame, because what that boy needs is to settle down with a nice girl who isn’t impressed by all his swagger. Wyatt’s mother died when he was ten—sweetest woman in the world, god rest her soul. But his father…well.” Birdie’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Let’s just say George King isn’t the nurturing type. Kids need love as much as they need a firm guiding hand, and Wyatt didn’t have much of either. Underneath all that cockiness is a little boy who’s starved for any kind of attention he can get.”
Mia hadn’t expected to find herself relating so much to someone like Wyatt. Her parents were both still living, but she’d also lacked for parental attention during her formative years. It was interesting that in Wyatt’s case it had manifested in extreme extroversion, while Mia had gone the opposite direction.
She supposed it came down to the source material. Nurture could only exert so much influence over nature. You could pound bread dough into any shape you liked, but when it came out of the oven it would still be bread.
“I often wonder how Wyatt would have turned out if Kathleen had lived.” Birdie stirred the chicken and dumplings, seeming to get lost in her memories for a moment before she shook herself out of it. “Anyway, dinner’s ready. Get out some bowls and spoons, will you?”
Mia set the table while Birdie took a tray of reheated rolls out of the oven. Then she carried the pot of chicken and dumplings to the table and they sat down to eat.
When Wyatt came back twenty minutes later, Mia was on her second helping. She looked up as the back door opened and froze with her spoon halfway to her face.
Wyatt had taken his shirt off.
It was obvious why. His naked torso—covered only by more tattoos and a small gold medallion hanging around his neck—was dripping with sweat. Of course it was, because he’d just spent the last half hour in her apartment, which was currently one zillion degrees. All that naked, glistening skin—not to mention the newly revealed rock-hard abs and chest—was a sight to behold.
“Any luck?” Birdie asked, seemingly unfazed by the sight of Wyatt’s nipples. As was to be expected, since she’d participated in his potty training.
Mia stared, unable to tear her gaze away as Wyatt set his toolbox inside the door and used his discarded shirt to wipe the excess sweat off his face and neck. He’d fastened his leather toolbelt around his waist, and both it and his jeans hung extra-low on his hips, exposing the black waistband of his underwear