Page 164 of Shy Girls Can't Date Celebrities
Wyatt tilts his head, taking in the stairs. “Savanna would not beimpressed with those steps.”
I gesture to the right hand side. “There’s a hallway. Maybe there’s a first floor bedroom.”
Wyatt wiggles his eyebrows. “But that loft does look pretty swanky.”
I giggle. “Yeah, it does.”
Wyatt takes my hand and shuffles toward the hallway on the right. “Let’s check downstairs first.”
We move through the hallway and find a guest bedroom, a bathroom, a home office, and a home gym.
“Okay, this has Savanna written all over it,” Wyatt says, smiling as he sighs with gratitude.
“She definitely wanted you to be supported with a good setup when you left the clinic.”
I fiddle with the strap of my handbag as we wander through the industrial-chic kitchen. The exposed brick and stainless steel mix has a very alluring, masculine vibe. Everything has a place and is well-organized. This leaves me to believe, Wyatt has someone who cooks for him.
We move back into the living area and Wyatt gazes up at the loft space. “I want to brave it and go upstairs.”
“Are you sure you want to exert the energy before leaving for the recording studio?”
He swings my hand. “Come on. Aren’t you curious?”
I melt, thinking back to all the videos I’ve watched on social media, filmed in this apartment. “Of course, I am.”
Wyatt tugs me toward the stairs. “Then let’s go.”
Despite his budding enthusiasm, I make Wyatt take every step up the timber-stacked staircase with caution. The carefulness pays off when we’re awestruck by the open-planned space. It’s a huge master bedroom, with a computer and recording equipment piled on a desk, and a walk-incloset that leads into the ensuite bathroom. Unlike the spaces below, upstairs looks untouched by Circle 8’s health team.
“This must be exactly how you left it,” I say, edging my way through the space, feeling Wyatt’s authenticity highlighted in every aspect.
Wyatt gasps, moving past the cluttered desk. “It’s my guitar.”
Wyatt picks it up, and I’m goo. It’s his guitar he played back in Victoria Falls. At all the talent shows. All the times we spent in his basement. All the escapes in my treehouse.
Seeing him hold it against himself, this is the real-deal Wyatt Hayes.
“I knew you’d still have it,” I gush.
He strums the strings. “I’m so relieved I still have this.”
Wyatt places the guitar back on its stand and moves further around the space. We look at the books sitting on his nightstand, the large abstract painting on the wall, and the general untidiness of the space.
“Geez, Wyatt, I thought you’d have a housekeeper.”
Wyatt crooks an eyebrow. “Did you notice how insanely neat downstairs was? If I didn’t know better, I’d guess I told whoever cleans for me to leave this space alone.”
“It must be where you’re most creative.”
Wyatt moves his fingers and thumb in a snapping motion, but due to the numbness he’s still dealing with, he misses. His eyes still wander with purpose.
“What are you looking for?”
He intently takes in the large space. “Somewhere there has to be...” He zeros in on a shelving unit and plucks out a black vinyl notebook. “Got it.”
I move over to him. “Got what?”
He flicks through the pages. “If this is where I’m creative, there had to be someplace I was working out lyrics.”
