Page 53 of I'll Keep Her Safe

I’ve looked into commercial kitchens, and while there’s nothing I can afford right now, that hasn’t killed my hope. In fact, it’s easy to remain positive with Wyatt’s encouragement, especially when he pitched the idea to his team a few days ago. Over half the guys are on board—I think sending samples of my cookies really helped—and Wyatt spent two nights helping me plan menus he thinks they’ll like.

The more time we spend together, the more I wonder if he feels the same as I do. I mean, look at the way he cared for me when I had my period cramps, the way he got so angry when I told him about Kurt ruining my job, the way he came up with the perfect solution to help me.

But it’s more than those things. That’s what any friend would do, what anyfatherwould do, which is initially what I thought was going on—that he was just being fatherly and protective. But that doesn’t explain the way the atmosphere changed when he rubbed my feet, the way he held me tight when I told him about the plane tickets to this awards show. It’s hard to put my finger on what, exactly, it is, but there’s something. Something that tells me he feels this too.

And now I’m going to die, without ever getting a chance to find out.

I search through the back of the seat in front of me, looking for something else to distract me. Anything to stop me from blurting my feelings to Wyatt in a moment of panic.

He notices my agitation, turning to me with concern. “Wow, you really weren’t kidding.”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to suck in a deep breath. Heat washes over my face, adding embarrassment to the mix. As if my spiraling anxiety wasn’t enough.

“Hey, Poppy. It’s fine.” Wyatt’s large, warm hand slides into mine, and the sensation is enough to capture my attention. The roughness of his palm against mine, calloused and worn from hours of working with his hands. The very fact that he’s holding my hand.Fuck.

And somehow, my pulse slows.

I look at him, studying the amber of his eyes, those beautiful eyelashes of his. I’ve never been this close to him, close enough to see the gold flecks in his irises, to study the gray sprinkled through his dark beard, to really notice the creases beside his eyes as he regards me with care. I’m close enough to peek below the collar of his T-shirt, where I can see the beginning of the tattoo on his chest, the hint of dark hair I know is there from that time I rubbed Deep Heat into his back. Close enough to smell the earthy, rich scent of his cologne, that note of sage, the faintest intoxicating trace of his sweat.

It’s not until he squeezes my hand that I notice we’re in the air. He distracted me enough to miss takeoff, and I’m so grateful I want to lean forward and press my lips to his, to see if they’re really as soft as they look, nestled in that beard.

Hell, I want to do alotmore than that.

“You’re safe with me,” he murmurs.

A tiny laugh huffs from me. As if he could actually stop the plane from going down. As if he could actually protect me from all the bad things in the world, from the pain that’s a natural part of life, pain I’ll inevitably have to face one day.

But there’s also a rightness to his words. Idofeel safe with him—safer than I’ve felt with anyone. There’s something about his presence that makes my nervous system calm, makes me feel like I can breathe. And I realize that it doesn’t matter where I am, if he’s there, I’ll be okay. Bad things can still happen—like Kurt showing up at our house, or getting me fired from my job—but with Wyatt, I have a soft place to land. With him, I feel protected.

“Thank you, Wyatt.” His nostrils flare as I say his name. “You always make me feel…” My words die as lightning flashes in his eyes, his gaze holding mine as if daring me to tell him the truth.

And what is the truth? He makes me feel safe, yes, but it’s more than that. He makes me believe my cooking is good. That it matters that I do it. He makes me feel good about who I am, in a way that no man ever has.

And that’s before we even get to the physical. The way he makes me feel hot. Restless. Horny. And so fucking desperate for him to kiss me.

I look down at his hand, still gripping mine. Electricity dances, crackling and alive between us. He must be able to feel this, surely? He must know what it does to me when his skin meets mine, the way it makes every nerve ending in my body tingle, lighting me up with need.

When I glance back at him, there’s no mistaking it. His eyes are piercing, simmering with desire, and heat curls through me.

“Safe,” I finally whisper.

He looks like he’s going to turn away, and I’m desperate to draw this moment out, to make it last. I stroke a finger on the inside of his wrist, over a tattoo of a butterfly, provoking a visible, visceral reaction. His pupils dilate, his breath falters, and I watch as he swallows hard, shifting in his seat.

I knew it. He feels what I feel.

I stroke the spot again, watching for his reaction, but with an agonized expression, he pulls his hand away.

Say it, I beg silently.Say you feel this, too.

When he shoves his AirPods into his ears, I know the moment is over. Of course he won’t say it. I’m his daughter’s best friend, for fuck’s sake. He’d never do anything to make me uncomfortable, and he’d never want to hurt Bailey. I don’t want to hurt her either.

But I also can’t deny I have feelings for her dad that I’ve never had for anyone.

The house is un-freaking-believable.It’s a massive five-bedroom home with four bathrooms, a gym, a pool, a movie room, and a view across the vineyards of Napa Valley. When our Uber pulls up, the sun is already high in the sky, the air hot and thick, and I pause on the paved driveway, taking in the terracotta stucco exterior, the red tile roof, and the wrought-iron railings.

Bailey and Dean aren’t there when we arrive, but we have instructions to get the key from a lockbox and let ourselves in. The interior is like something out of a magazine, with cream-colored walls, high ceilings, and enormous windows framing the sweeping view of the vineyards. We find our way to the kitchen, which boasts an eight-burner stove, a separate wine fridge, and black marble countertops, and Wyatt and I glance at each other, wide-eyed.

“Wow,” I breathe.

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