Page 25 of Live, Ranch, Love

He scowls. “I was in the shower.”

“I can see.” I give him a toothy grin, still holding the folded paper behind me. “Can I come in?”

Wyatt regards me for a second, jaw ticking. I know the other night doesn’t make us best friends now, but the last couple of days since have been amicable. He’s even not scowled at me when we’ve crossed paths, so I feel like we’ve moved forward.

Eventually, Wyatt concedes. “Sure.”

I’ve never been in Wyatt’s place properly before, only caught a glimpse the other night before going to the bar, so I’m intrigued to see what it’s like. The interior mimics the rustic parts of the main house, thick wooden floorboards, and beams, despite it only being on one level. There’s an open plan kitchen-diner and living room, with three bar stools that look custom-made beside the counter, and a long forest-green sofa on the other side opposite the television.

“I’m going to get dressed, hold on,” Wyatt says, already heading down the corridor where I assume his bedroom is.

It gives me the perfect view of the rest of the tattoos down his back—five rows of Roman numerals, birds soaring across his shoulders like my butterflies, and a muscled man with wings falling. My fingers itch to trace them, find out what they mean.

But I get the vibe that Wyatt’s confessions the other night were out of the ordinary for him, and I don’t think he’s likely going to be opening up to me again. He was only trying to make me feel better anyway.

Whilst Wyatt changes, I decide to snoop, placing the paper I brought with me on the sofa for later. Three big dark bookcases take up most of the wall space around the living area, filled to the brim with history books. Why does it make me smile knowing he loves to read?

I call out, “Did you study history at college?”

A grunt of confirmation echoes into the room.

In between the piles of books and on other surfaces, there’s little ornaments, bowls, and vases with large colourful patterns on them or wolves and eagles. There’s an eclectic vibe to his place, but it’s clearly curated, with the odd pop of brighter colours dotted amongst the more natural and toned down ones.

Next to a red bowl is the only photo frame in the whole room, which has a picture of what I assume is his family, because there’s a younger version of him and Cherry, and a boy that looks like a mix of the two of them, who must be the rockstar brother. They’re standing between an older woman with long dark hair, and an older man with grey hair and a thick moustache. And they’re all smiling, hugging. Even Wyatt. The way he’s looking at his two younger siblings like they’re so precious makes my heart melt.

“Did you do that on purpose?” I ask loudly, running my fingers over more books, inspecting the spines. There’s books on everything—the American Civil War, the French Revolution, Ancient Greece, even the Battle of Hastings. I try to pretend I’m not embarrassed that he probably knows more about British history than me.

Sofia would be ashamed.

“What?” Wyatt responds, his voice closer now as he saunters back into the room, finishing pulling a white T-shirt over his head. Dark, faded jeans hug his thick, corded legs, whilst the T-shirt complements his darker skin and does nothing to help me dispel the image of his body from my mind.

My stomach feels like it’s filled with butterflies.

God, finding Wyatt annoying is going to be much more difficult now I also find him hot.

Licking my lips, I throw on a smirk. “Studying history? So you’d struggle to get a job and then you could just come back to the ranch.”

Wyatt leans his hip against one of the bookcases and crosses his arms, looking at me pointedly. It gives me that weird rush of nerves like when you get in trouble with a teacher. Maybe if he’d been my History teacher I would’ve paid more attention.

“If I’d known you were running over here just to insult me, I’d have stayed in the shower.”

I wave him off. “Yeah, well you didn’t, so go cry about it to someone else.” He sucks his teeth, the scowl returning. “I’m actually here because I have something exciting to tell you.”

“You’re leaving?” His eyes prick with amusement, and now I’m the one scowling.

“Hilarious, but no. Quite the opposite.” At that, Wyatt stands up straighter, unfolding his arms. I perch on the arm of the sofa. “After our DMC the other night—”

“What the hell is a DMC?”

“Deep and meaningful conversation.”

“Fucking hell,” he mumbles, wiping his face.

“Don’t worry, your secrets are safe with me.” I sign crossing my heart over my chest, grinning whilst Wyatt just shakes his head. “Anyway, our DMC really got me thinking a lot about life and inspired me so much that I managed to actually write an article! It wasn’t as positive as my usual ones, but I gave it a happy spin at the end.”

The relief I felt sending that off to my boss at Thrive Magazine was unparalleled. I even posted about it on my Instagram, discussing creativity block and what might be causing it. The post didn’t get as many likes as usual, but the comments suggested people really appreciated it.

“Well done—what was it about?”

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