One Foot in the Grave (Carly Moore #3) - Denise Grover Swank Page 0,28
me an expectant look.
Shaking my head, I went back inside and grabbed my messenger bag and my purse, snatching my keys out of the latter as I walked through the door. I clicked the fob as I descended the steps. “I’ll follow you.”
Wyatt frowned, but he shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side as I headed to my own small car.
“Carly,” Hank called out.
I turned back to him and gave him a soft smile. “I’m as stubborn as the day is long, Hank. Just like you. I’ll be fine.”
He gave me slight nod, then shoved a bite of his breakfast into his mouth before calling out, “She ain’t had her breakfast yet. Make sure she’s fed.”
I snorted as I got into my car. I was perfectly capable of feeding myself, but I also knew it was one thing Hank felt he could control. He was worried I wouldn’t be safe, but at least he could make sure I didn’t go hungry. It was the fact that he had put Wyatt in charge of it that raised my hackles.
Wyatt pulled out onto the county road and I followed, turning toward town. We drove a short way before he turned right onto another county road, this one in rougher shape than the one that ran by Hank’s house. We drove a couple of miles before he turned onto a private road that disappeared into the trees. Branches with leaf buds scraped the top of his truck cab, and I realized the entire road would be engulfed by leaves once they unfurled.
We drove about a quarter mile before the road opened to a clearing at the edge of a cliff, a log cabin to one side. His property overlooked a valley on the North Carolina side of the mountain range.
Wyatt parked on a wide gravel driveway and I pulled in next to him, ignoring him as I got out and walked around the side of his house to see the view.
Storm clouds were dark purple in the horizon, but rays of sun shot through openings, the rays creating spotlights on the pasture below.
“I knew you’d like it,” he said beside me, his tone neutral.
I turned to look up at him. “And yet you never once brought me here.”
A sheepish look filled his eyes. “The inside was still a work in progress.”
I nearly told him he was full of bullshit. The fact was he hadn’t trusted me, and while I partially understood why he wouldn’t tell me his secrets, his reluctance to bring me to his home was another matter altogether.
“Whatever,” I said, my weariness bleeding through. “Let’s get started. I have to be at work by three.”
He led me to the front door, pushing it open after he unlocked it and letting me enter first. I had no idea what to expect, but the house was more put-together than Wyatt had implied, suggesting he was indeed a liar.
The inside walls were composed of logs, and a smooth rock fireplace extended to the top of the two-story ceiling. Windows at the back of the space overlooked the view. A worn sofa and two chairs had been set up in a conversation area around the fireplace, and a kitchen with maple cabinets filled the opposite wall. A loft extended over the kitchen, with a set of open stairs leading up to it.
I headed to the kitchen island and sat on a stool, pulling my notebook out of my messenger bag and setting it on the counter. “Let’s get started.”
Wyatt walked around the counter and pulled the pot from the coffee maker. “Let me get a pot of coffee started.”
I didn’t respond and fought hard to keep my gaze on my notebook and away from the incredible view out of those back windows. Seeing it was like a stab to my heart, one more piece of evidence of how little I’d meant to him.
He was silent as he quickly got to work brewing a new pot, but then he opened a cabinet and pulled out a box of pancake mix.
“What are you doing?” I asked in exasperation.
He glanced at me without missing a beat. “Making you breakfast.”
“I never asked you to do that. I’d rather get to work.”
“Contrary to what you might think, I’m capable of multitasking,” Wyatt said as he got out a glass mixing bowl. “Ask me questions while I cook.”
“You’re only making breakfast because Hank told you to feed me.”