Just to let you know, we’re doing fantastic. Champ is a perfect dog. And a black cat came by, and I fed her. Hope you don’t mind, but she was purring and I couldn’t resist. She’s really cute. I wonder if her owner’s going to get mad if paint her little crown pink. Pink is definitely prettier than white, if you ask me, and i
t goes well with black fur. Anyway, have fun. Take as much time as you need. Don’t forget to bang the best man, assuming he’s hot. I understand that’s an American tradition.
Ah, Yuna. If you only knew.
To be honest, even without her text, I would’ve found some excuse to make a detour. I really want to see Wyatt’s place. I’m curious what it looks like…what it might reveal about him. Although we talked about what happened before, and I realize he’s not the jerk I thought he was, it’s been a long time since we had any nonprofessional interaction. Who knows how he’s changed in the last decade?
I’m pretty sure he wasn’t planning on asking me into his apartment when we left this morning. And that means he considers it presentable enough, but nothing’s staged to sway my opinion one way or the other.
The first thing I note is the tidiness. Everything is exactly where it should be and set just so. No clutter, no knickknacks except for a dog-earned young adult paranormal romance novel Vi must’ve left on a side table by the leather couch. No hint of the statue anywhere, either, but I doubt he’d keep that kind of thing at home with a young kid around. Besides, the apartment is too small for Wife, which is reportedly life-sized. And while our complex is nice, the building doesn’t have good enough security for such a valuable item.
The organized part of him hasn’t changed. He was neat in high school as well. I doubt he has somebody coming over to clean for him, because I would’ve noticed in the last few weeks I’ve been home.
The place doesn’t feel sterile or cold. Splashes of burgundy and cream add to the décor, and a comfy-looking afghan is draped over the back of the couch. I run my hand over it, feeling the softness against my skin.
“This is nice,” I say.
“My mom made that for Vi,” Wyatt says as he heads to the kitchen. “She likes to wrap it around herself and curl up to read or watch TV.”
The mental picture that creates is lovely. A longing for something I can’t quite put my finger on pulses through me. My mom’s gift ideas tend to run to self-improvement, with particular emphasis on enhancing physical assets. She used to worry about the scar along my jaw, but right now she’s obsessed with the perkiness of my breasts. She sends me reviews or her own thoughts after having used plastic surgeons and spas, but has never offered to pay. When I point out they’re far too expensive for someone on an assistant’s salary, she says she didn’t get enough alimony to afford to help out.
I take a seat on the couch. It faces a huge, top-of-the-line TV—something every man on earth seems to have. I gaze at the blank screen and let my mind wander.
I always thought Wyatt couldn’t say sorry enough times to make up for what he’d done. I vowed I’d never forgive him. Or at least make him kneel and grovel before I accepted an apology. And I was certain that any apology would only be a pathetic balm over my old, painful memories.
But our conversation about what happened somehow soothed the decade-old wound. And when he said he was sorry, I actually felt better—calmer and happier. Like the words really did have the power to heal.
How weird. No other guy I ever dated was able to do that. Their sorrys always felt empty, like they were only saying it to get forgiveness for what they’d done.
But I shouldn’t have compared Wyatt to them. He’s one of a kind.
The realization is startling and uncomfortable, mainly because I’m not sure what to do about it. We really liked each other before Geneva engineered our breakup. Even so, a lot of time’s passed and a lot of things have happened, including the kiss.
That makes me think maybe there’s still something. But where do we go from here? I’m in unfamiliar territory, and that’s weird. I’m all about pre-planning—careful and deliberate. Otherwise I wouldn’t have lasted so long as Salazar’s assistant.
Needing something to distract myself, I look around some more and see nails sticking out from the wall Wyatt and I share. What Vi said in the car pops into my head and I smother a laugh.
“So… That’s where you’re going to hang the pictures you don’t have yet?”
“Yeah.” Wyatt comes over and hands me the scotch, then parks himself next to me on the sofa. Our legs brush, and I suppress a shiver at the contact, even through the fabric of his slacks. And my fingertips tingle where we touched.
To hide my reaction, I murmur thanks and take a sip. Lots of smooth heat and a hint of oak. It’s a really good scotch. Something my boss would love.
“So you thought you could just hammer Nate out of the building?” I tease.
Wyatt shrugs, although he looks vaguely guilty. “Something like that. Most people don’t like noisy neighbors. Figured you probably didn’t disclose that fact.”
“Because you weren’t noisy until yesterday.”
He clears his throat, then hides his face behind the crystal tumbler as he knocks his drink back.
“Thankfully, my real roommate is very understanding.” Yuna said she’d put up with the noise for the greater cause of staying hidden from her mother’s spies.
“I was…” He pauses for a moment, as though gathering himself. “I hated the idea of you living with another man. I thought maybe he was like that other guy.”
“What other guy?”
“The one you hugged in the hall.” His voice is tight, and his expression is tense enough to make me wonder if he’s actually pissed off about that rather anemic embrace.