Page 72 of I'll Keep Her Safe

“Thanks for understanding,” I say, my voice thick. “But to be completely honest, I’m not sure if I want to keep going with it.”

Bailey’s brow dips. “Why not?”

I gnaw on my lip, hesitating. I don’t want to say it’s no fun without her. That will only make her feel worse, but before I can think of what to say, Wyatt finally pipes up from across the pool.

“She’s starting another business instead.”

I glance at him, wondering for a moment what he’s talking about. Bailey looks from me to her dad, intrigued.

“It’s a catering company,” Wyatt explains.

Oh,that. Well, it’s hardly a business yet; I don’t have anything I need. At best, it’s me cooking for a few of the guys from Wyatt’s team to see if they like my food.

“It’s not…” I shake my head, my cheeks heating for some reason. “It’s not a business, really, just…”

“Yes, it is,” he says. I open my mouth to protest again, and he adds, “People are going to pay you to cater their lunches. What else would you call it?”

Well. He’s become very chatty all of a sudden.

“That’s awesome!” Bailey holds up a hand to high-five me, and I reluctantly press my palm to hers.

“I don’t have a license yet, and I need to find a commercial kitchen I can afford—”

“We’re working on the details,” Wyatt interjects. “Taking it slowly, but it’s going to do well.”

“About damn time, Pops,” Dean calls from the pool, beaming.

A laugh huffs out of me as I glance back at Wyatt, a warm smile on his mouth, and suddenly I understand. He’s… he’s excited for me. He’s proud.

“I agree,” he murmurs. We hold each other’s gaze across the pool, my heart glowing in my chest, until Bailey tugs me into her arms.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says, squeezing me tight.

And I look from my friend to her dad, wishing everything could be different.

Wyattand I don’t talk for the entire car ride to the airport. The tension between us is thick and uneasy, and I can’t find the words to say what I want to say. Honestly, I don’t even know what I want to say. I know what I want from him, but it feels so far from what Ishouldwant.

And I think he feels the same.

I figure we just need to get home, maybe get a good night’s sleep, then see how we feel. I resolve not to say anything to him until tomorrow, until we’re back into our usual routine, but as we prepare for takeoff again, my nerves get the better of me, and I fiddle anxiously with the safety instructions in the seat back in front of me. Wyatt notices, and despite the uncertainty between us, he reaches for my hand again, holding it tight.

I press my eyes shut and focus on the warmth of his palm against mine, the rough, calloused feeling of his skin, the way his fingers thread between my fingers, more intimate than the last time we did this. And he’s stroking his thumb over the back of my hand, too, a gesture that instantly calms me. I know this man cares for me, and that makes this situation so much more complicated.

I cast my mind back to the start of this trip, which, despite being only yesterday, feels like a week ago. How hopeful I was that he’d get his award and feel good, but his words from beside the pool earlier today come back to me:I don’t care about that. When I think of his response last night, of what he said, it’s clear it wasn’t the award bothering him at all. He didn’t even want to go to the awards in the first place.

But why?

The plane levels out as we reach cruising altitude, but Wyatt doesn’t remove his hand from mine. He’s resting his head against the seat, eyes closed, and I take a moment to stare at him, at his sheer beauty—the fullness of his lips, the indecently long eyelashes that fan over his cheeks, the gray on his temples that somehow only makes him sexier. It’s a struggle not to lean across and press my lips to his.

“Why don’t you care about not winning the award?” I ask.

He blinks, turning his head to look at me. After a moment of contemplation, he says, “Because it doesn’t really mean anything.”

“You don’t feel good about being recognized for your work?”

“I did, once, but not anymore.” He closes his eyes again. His hand is still in mine, and I squeeze, pressing for more from him.

“Why?”

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