whatever is happening between us with an outright denial, yet still too leery to agree.
“It’s okay,” he says with a conspiratorial grin. “I’ll keep that bit of info classified till you come to the same realization.” His head motions to the back yard, where my daughter is squealing with laughter, having the time of her life with Rufus. “This doesn’t have to go further than us.”
“You’re something else,” I say, finally placing my hand in his outstretched palm and allowing him to lead me from the room.
“I like you, Whit.” He gives my fingers a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going to waste another second pretending otherwise. You have every reason to be cautious.” He leans down kissing the top of my head. “I have time. I just want to be sure you know where I stand. No crossed signals. No games.”
“This feels really serious all of a sudden,” I hedge, stepping down into the massive living area behind him.
“Of course it’s serious. I’d never play games with anyone’s affections. Least of all a child’s.”
His transparency is a breath of fresh air. I can’t help but to envision us sharing the space, like he suggested, as he begins pointing out the changes he’s made thus far—stripping and staining the original wood floors, removing the wallpaper and replacing it with sheetrock, and a few coats of light caramel paint. The fireplace has been completely redone with repurposed brick that gives off just the right vibe, keeping with the age of the house. The mantle is a thick cedar plank, stained to match the beams in the ceiling.
“This is incredible” I say, running a hand over the mantle, pausing at the lone framed photograph in the center. “Is this your family?”
“Yeah,” he says, joining me. “Mimi had it framed on the one-year anniversary of the accident and hung it in my bedroom above my dresser. Stayed there til the day I left. I haven’t done much decorating in here yet,” he offers, running a thumb along my spine. “I’ll save that part for you.”
I stuff an elbow into his ribs. His responding laugh is hearty and genuine.
“That picture is the only thing I needed to make this place feel like home.”
His admission brings a smile to my face. “That’s you?” I point to the little boy with a mop of cotton white shoulder-length curls. He’s wearing a white and blue striped button down with matching navy bowtie. Cuteness overload.
He nods.
“Aww. You were adorable.”
“Were?” he mocks, smoothing a hand over his chest, standing tall and proud. “Dare I say, some things never change?”
“You really shouldn’t be so modest, Wyatt.” I wink. “You might want to consider therapy. I’d hate for your lack of self-esteem to lead to depression.”
“If I were any less depressed, I’d fart glittery rainbows.”
“Now that’s a visual,” I giggle, shaking my head.
He touches a finger to the toddler in his mother’s arms once our laughter has fizzled out. “Her name was Annie.”
She is an absolute doll, in her pink frilly dress and huge matching bow. Her hair’s a golden blonde and her skin porcelain white, but for a rosy hue on her cheeks. I can’t quite tell if it’s natural or an added affect. Either way, she’s so perfect, it’s hard to believe she was real.
The professional in me goes right to work painting the scene of the funeral, planning it all out in my head. Her little coffin on display between the two larger ones that would’ve held his parents. I’m gutted by the visual and trying desperately not to let it show.
“How old was she?”
“In this picture? Eighteen months. It was taken at my grandparents’ house the Christmas before we lost them. She’d just turned two a few weeks before the accident.”
A huge lump forms in my throat, and the urge to wrap my arms around that four-year-old little boy who lost his entire world in an instant is overwhelmingly strong. “Life can be so cruel.”
“That it can, mon chérie.” My dear.
Wyatt’s getting awful comfortable with me as of late. I can’t say the term of endearment doesn’t set off a flutter in my chest, leaving me feeling both flattered and admittedly a little uneasy. It’s been so long since I’ve truly entertained any man’s attention.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, reaching for his hand and lacing my fingers with his. The need to acknowledge his pain is so strong.
He gives me an appreciative nod before turning to face the opposite wall. “Ready to check out our room?”
“Wyatt,” I growl.
“Hey,” he