I wince, turning my head to see the anger in his face. “That’s awful. What’d you do?”

  “What I should have done was throw a punch right to his smug smirk, but I was so shocked, I waited, talked to Dad,” Wyatt says. “I thought he’d support me, but instead, he was annoyed. According to him, Jed was paying for school as a gift, and I shouldn’t be rude about his kind gesture. He told me I didn’t know what I wanted to do anyway, so what was the harm in getting the business degree Jed wanted me to get? ‘It’ll be good no matter what you do,’ he said. But that wasn’t the point. He didn’t get that Jed didn’t see us as family, but as things, servants . . . or worse.”

  I shiver, and Wyatt squeezes me comfortingly, his arms around me warm and strong. He understands what he’s saying, and knows that it sucks . . . but that I want to hear it. “Dad just didn’t see it, didn’t believe that being beholden to Jed would be bad. He figured it was family, and family is everything. I think Dad truly thought Jed was doing it out of real generosity, like he cared about us the way Dad always did for him. I wanted to believe that, too, even though my gut was telling me something else entirely. So I went back to school, finished the semester, telling myself it’d be okay. But the next time I came home, Jed wanted to know what progress I’d made—not my grades but in the connections. I was such a dumbass. I told him I wasn’t going to be used like some trained monkey to do his bidding. We fought, and I fought with Dad. Hell, Dad and Jed fought, about the only time I’ve seen them actually fight. That was it for me. I dropped out of school, left home, left Cold Springs, and went to hide.” He goes quiet for a moment before I feel him shaking his head. “I was such a dumbass, thinking I was making some grand, rebellious gesture. I spent two years fucking about with wood simply because I liked woodshop in high school, and it was . . . it was pure. I could put everything aside and just meditate on the wood.”

  “I get that.”

  “I was still licking the wounds of my ego when Jed showed up, told me I would never amount to anything without him. After that, I got a job working for a carpenter who was willing to train me even though I had no idea what I was doing and was basically a spoiled brat. But I practiced and worked. I got better and better. I’ve got a successful business now.”

  He sounds proud of himself, for making himself into something no one else thought he could. I’m proud for him. “Good for you. Double birds to Jed Ford, the asshole.”

  I hold up my middle fingers to the ceiling, imagining it has Jed Ford’s face on it or, even better, that he’s actually right in front of me so I could tell him exactly what I think about him taking advantage of Wyatt. He was just a kid, with his whole future ahead of him, and Jed wanted to steal that.

  Wyatt laughs quietly, and I feel his chest vibrate against my back, his arms tightening around my chest. “Yeah, that’d be cool. How about you, with Etta and your mom? You work with your family.”

  I hum thoughtfully. “No, it’s a lot different for me. Truth is, I never considered anything else. I never planned to leave Cold Springs for college or dreamed I’d be something crazy like an astronaut. Even as a little girl, I’d sit right here on this couch and tell Gran that I was going to work at the restaurant and the bakery when I was old enough. She’d laugh and tell me I might have to pick one. But I started working for both of them as soon as I could, and here I am. We are family, but we treat each other right. There’s bitching and name-calling sometimes, and there’s Lester, of course. But I know they’d do anything for me. And vice versa.”

  “Even Lester?” Wyatt teases softly, and I chuckle, nodding.

  “He’s a trained home-protection attack parrot,” I assure Wyatt. “He’s got a black belt in bird-jitsu.”

  Wyatt sighs wistfully. “You’re fortunate.”

  “I am,” I admit. “I’m happy here, with my life. It might not be a lot to some people, but it’s enough for me.”

  I look around my home, still filled with memories of Gran but equally mine now, with my own knickknacks and things. I work for Mom and Aunt Etta, jobs I got because of our relationships, but ones I keep because I’m damn good at them. I honestly enjoy my simple existence of work, pool, family, and friends.

  Even Lester, though I won’t tell him that or he’d repeat it until the day I die. I can hear him now: “Bawk! You love me, you weally wuv me!”

  A yawn I’ve been fighting back demands release, and Wyatt laughs as I cover my wide-stretched mouth with my hands. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Wyatt says. “You’re a very busy woman.”

  “I’m not that tired,” I protest, but he kisses the top of my head.

  “You need some rest, Miss Working Two Jobs,” Wyatt says. “It means you’re human.”

  “Basically three,” I correct him. “I made as much playing pool a few nights ago as I did waiting tables all day. Hell of a lot more fun, too, but not nearly as important as helping Etta.”

  I feel the thread of tension shoot through him and hate that my good relationship with my family only amplifies the bad one he has with his dad and uncle. “Three, then. Glad I didn’t play you for cash,” he says after a moment. “I should tuck you in.”

  “Not getting off this couch unless you’re in bed with me,” I tell him firmly but quietly. “It’s too late to drive home.”

  Talk about a piss-poor excuse. But the truth is, feeling Wyatt here with me, the way he’s holding me, strong but at the same time willing to be emotionally vulnerable and share himself with me . . . things have changed.

  Last night, I could tell myself it was just lust, attraction, and the fantastical romance of a wedding. I mean, Wyatt is a gorgeous man. But this is something different now. Wyatt led a seemingly charmed life, but he’s got trust issues from a betrayal by the people who should never have wronged him. When a man doesn’t trust easily, it means something when he shares his baggage. I know that, and I want to be someone who doesn’t let him down. I’ll carry those heavy suitcases of drama on my strong shoulders with him, letting him take a break from them, if only for a little while.

  “One promise,” Wyatt says in my ear. “We don’t need to . . .”

  “I know,” I tell him.

  He gives me a gentle push to help guide me up, and I lead him to my bedroom, where Wyatt strips down to his T-shirt and underwear. I let him pull back the covers, arranging myself best so that he can join me, tucking us both in as he spoons up against me.

  It’s glorious. His warmth surrounds me, his chest pressed to my back and his hand splayed on the bare skin of my belly beneath my shirt. I wiggle my hips, arching my back to entice him.

  “Hazel,” he says warningly.

  I yawn, even as I place his hand on my breast encouragingly. “I am tired, but I . . .”

  My voice falters. I don’t want to remind either of us that he’s going to leave, not after everything we shared tonight. But I also don’t want to waste this time with him.

  He understands without me saying a word. Instead, his hand cups my breast as his lips find my neck, kissing and nibbling up to my ear. The hand trapped under my neck twists to reach down, stroking my nipples as his tongue licks my ear.

  “Mmmm,” I whimper softly, pressing back against him. “Wyatt . . .”

  “This isn’t for me,” he whispers. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  I don’t think he realizes the layers of what he says, but it hits me hard. So when his free hand traces down my stomach, my knees part as he runs his fingers over my panties, stroking me through the slick nylon I put on after my shower.

  “So soft,” he whispers, his fingers moving up and down over my lips so gently it makes electricity crackle through my nerves. “So beautiful.”

  “Wyatt,” I whimper again, and he slides my panties aside to dip his fingers into my wet honey. There are no more words, nothing but the sound of his fingers slipping in and out of me as his thumb strokes my clit in slow, soft circles, his other hand pinching and tugging lightly on my nipples.

  I can feel him bulging against my ass, but he never moves his hips, holding me secure in his arms as his thumb speeds up until my orgasm breaks and I freeze, gasping and crying out softly. I’m 100 percent safe in his arms, and he stops, holding me close as he lets me ride it out.

  When it’s over I’m boneless, sagging in his arms. Slowly, Wyatt withdraws his fingers, lifting them to his mouth and licking them clean.

  “What about you?” I ask, feeling him still hard against the cleft of my ass.

  “Told you,” he says, humming happily even though I’m the one who came. “This was about you.”

  I think I argue, but maybe not as I drift off to sleep.

  The music’s soft, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. The sunlight filters through the trees, illuminating me as I look down at my dress.

  My wedding dress. It’s nothing fancy, nothing like what Avery wore, but that’s okay. If anything, it’s better, because it’s meant for me. The ceremony’s perfect for me too. There’s only a small group. Mom, of course, Aunt Etta with Lester on her shoulder, the minister, myself . . .

  And Wyatt. Under the draping branches of the willow tree we’re gathered under, he holds my hands, his smile wide and happy.

  “Everything about you was wrong—you were the wrong bridesmaid, you lived in the wrong town, and you had all these wrong assumptions about me. But somehow, you and I were meant to be together, today and forever, right here in our hometown. And that is right. I love you, Hazel Sullivan.”

  I blink away the tears, speechless for once in my life. Finally, I find words, not the traditional vows, but ones from my heart . . .

  “I was wrong. About everything. But most of all, about you. You’re more than I ever dreamed, and I’ve never been so happy to be wrong. Yeah, I’ll admit it . . . this one time, so listen close . . . I was wrong. I love you, William Wyatt Ford the third.”

  I startle awake, the dark night still surrounding us. Wyatt is asleep but must sense my movement because he pulls me in, cuddling me. We’ve moved, and he’s on his back, but instinctively I curl into him, laying my head on his shoulder to stare at his profile in the moonlit darkness. He’s beautiful, inside and out.

  My dream tickles at the edges of my brain, feeling surprisingly warm.

  I’ve heard that dreams are the brain’s way of processing the minutiae of daily life, but it’s an imprecise process. Like the time I ate cotton candy at the zoo and dreamed of hippos dressed in fluffy pink candy tutus doing ballet through the water. Your brain takes the information of the day and doodles with it, making funky collages of the whole thing.

  So it would make sense that getting closer to Wyatt on the tail of Avery’s wedding is probably what made my brain put that little movie-style love scene together. I shouldn’t read more into it. It doesn’t mean anything.

  Even so, as I fall asleep, I hope my brain cues up a sequel, or maybe an encore performance. Because if I remember right . . . Wyatt wasn’t wearing pants in my dream.

  Chapter 18

  WYATT

  Home. It’s a strange thought, because my parents’ house hasn’t been home in what feels like forever. For a long time, I vowed that I’d never consider this place home again, and that if it burned down, I’d come back only to piss on the ashes.

  But walking in after being at Hazel’s makes it feel even less so. There’s no warmth, no desire to curl up and relax. It’s just walls surrounding people who happen to be related to one another.

  Okay, that might be a bit harsh. I do care about Wren, Winston, Mom, and fine . . . even Dad. But it’s a different kind of care. More than anything, I worry about my sister, hope for my brother . . . and my parents are more complicated.

  It’s a contrast between us and the lengths Hazel’s family go to take care of each other. I’m quite sure that if I were to hurt Hazel’s feelings, her mother and aunt know quite a few places my body would never be discovered.

  “Bill, is that you?” Mom’s voice comes from the back living room, and I freeze in my tracks.

  For a telling moment, I consider dodging her, and glance up the stairs at the escape they offer, but ultimately call back, “No, Mom. It’s me.”

  I regret my response approximately two seconds later, when I walk in to see Mom holding court. There’s a group of women politely perched on the edges of chairs and couches, matching books with mugs of coffee in front of them. Going by the matching covers, it seems I’ve walked in on book club time. Mr. Puddles is lying on the rug in a beam of sunlight, watching the tray of veggies that looks to be untouched.

  “Didn’t realize you had company, Mom.”

  I can see the eager, curious looks of the women, and Mom beams. “Oh, it’s fine! Come in and let me show you off a bit.” She closes her book, using a notepad as a bookmark, and waves me in.

  Begrudgingly, I take a few steps into the shitshow circus. “Reading anything interesting?” I say, trying to keep the focus off me.

  A woman holds up her copy of a self-help bestseller and explains, “It’s for our book club.”

  Another teases, “Don’t you dare think us boring, though. We’ve read some spicier things too.”

  “I’m sure,” I agree, praying she doesn’t spell out their group thoughts on any bodice-ripper or ass-smacking romances. Some of these women are eligible for AARP. I don’t need to know if they want handprints on their asses.

  “This one is good,” Mom says, and I pay attention to hopefully get these images out of my head. “My favorite quote so far is”—she closes her eyes—“‘Restore your spirit by authentically representing yourself. You are reinvented each day by the priorities you focus on.’” She opens her eyes and smiles. The group hums along in agreement, virtually saying amen to the quote.

  I blink, letting that sink in. It sounds like a bunch of word-salad bullshit if I’m being honest, but if it helps Mom, I’m not going to point out how much it smells. “What’s the priority for today then?” I ask, playing along. “You know, priorities and such?”

  Mom levels her eyes at me. “You are.”

  Her blunt answer surprises me. “Me? Mom . . .”

  She shakes her head, and I swear this group of women just morphed into the Spanish Inquisition. “Don’t Mom me. This is the first time you’ve been home in years, and I want it to happen more often. Anything I can do to make it happen, I’ll darn well do.”

  She glares at me, and every woman nods along with her. Me against the tide, or maybe a firing squad, judging by the looks I’m getting? I could turn and walk away, dismissing her interference, especially when this group of society-sucking biddies just doesn’t understand. But the pain lurking in Mom’s eyes gives me pause.

  I sigh and sit down in the chair next to her. “I’m sorry for not coming home sooner. I’ve missed you.”

  “Awww,” the women coo.

  The admission softens Mom’s ire. “I’ve missed you too.” Tears threaten to spill, and more like her usual self, she daintily pats at them as she says, “And now, Winston is married and moving out. Wren will be next.”

  “My Alex too.”

  “Brayden and Brylie too.”

  I roll my eyes at the women’s whines and tell them all, “You make it sound like we’re abandoning you.”

  “No, you’re all doing what you should,” Mom says, wringing her hands. “I know it might not seem like it, but I’m proud of you, Wyatt.”

  Those are words I never expected to hear, or at least, not from my family.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Mom continues, giving me a reproachful look. “You left with no plan, no safety net, and I worried. Oh, how I worried.”

  One of the women murmurs, “It’s what moms do.”

  “But I shouldn’t have. You did well, thriving and creating a new you.” Mom smiles. “I see you, the new you. And I like him very much.”

  I don’t really know what to say. This just went from awkward to humiliating. “Uh, thanks?”

  “So,” Mom says primly, “tell me about you.”

  “Mom . . .” She gives me a sharp look, and resigned, I figure out what to say. “I have my own business, my own place, both of which I enjoy.”

  One of the women leans forward, greedy for more. “Friends? Girlfriends? A grand-dog for your mother, for goodness’ sakes?”

  “No, no, and no,” I answer in rapid-fire fashion. “But I’m happy.”

  Mom wants to argue, I can see that, but she doesn’t. I’m not sure if it’s in deference to me or to save face in front of the women. Instead, her eyes lower, and I think she’s looking at her self-help book. Fidgeting with the edge of her notepad, she says quietly, “That’s what I want—you to be happy. I just wish it was here . . . with us.”

  What to say? Finally, I decide to offer up some truth. “It’s not all bad here. I’ll give you that.” Her eyes lift to mine, hopefully. “I’ll come back to visit, I promise. Maybe you and Wren could even come to Newport?”

  She claps her hands happily, clearly wanting to be part of my life still. “I would love that, honey. Maybe when things are less busy here?”

  Busy? I don’t think that’s what’s keeping Mom here, worried each day. That would be Dad. But she’s not going to say that in front of everyone. That would ruin the appearance of everything being fine. Just fine.