Page 15 of Summer with My Sexy Ex
I take a deep breath to calm myself.
I hate him.
Blanche:But damn, he looks good.
Another car pulls in beside us, blocking my door. I’m forced to scoot across the seat and exit on Wyatt’s same side. By the time I’m out, he’s got our bags and is waiting for me, looking impatient.
I hold out my hand for my suitcase. He turns and walks toward the large glass door entryway.
“Can I have my bag, please?”
He doesn’t respond.
He also doesn’t hand over my suitcase.
An attendant holds the door open for us, and I have to run to catch up with Wyatt. He’s almost to the escalators leading to the lobby by the time I do.
And I thought I walked fast.
“Wyatt, give me my suitcase.” I grab at the handle from behind him.
“I’ve got it,” he says.
I tug at it again, harder this time.
“Just let me carry it, Brie.” He sounds annoyed.
Good, that makes two of us.
“No,” I say.
He turns to face me, straddling two of the moving stairs. “Why?”
“Because I don’t need you to.”
“Not good enough.” He shrugs his broad shoulders again, bringing my attention to them before he turns to step off onto the main lobby floor. He’s filled out since I saw him last. I’d swear he’s twice as big as he used to be. I know how much my suitcase weighs, I packed it. (Forty-two pounds, if you’re wondering.) And he lifts it like it’s nothing.
I was hoping he’d be hideous by now, with thinning hair that’s going gray. And one of those bald patches on the top of his head that he has to comb other hair over to cover.
Or stricken with some grotesque skin-eating virus that has left his face and arms pock-holed and inflamed.
I would have settled for a beer belly.
And some early-onset osteoarthritis that has gnarled his fingers into ginger roots. Maybe some T-Rex arms that could barely touch across his big-ass chest as the icing on the Wyatt-hasn’t-aged-well cake.
But, no, he’s got those tree trunks hanging from his shoulders. With his muscles all out on display thanks to his tight navy-blue t-shirt—the same blue as his eyes.
He looks like he should be on the cover of GQ Magazine. Or a Ralph Lauren billboard. Even the next Calvin Klein underwear model.
It’s not fair!
I follow him toward the registration desk, feeling like a little girl trailing reluctantly after her daddy.
Blanche:I’ll call him Daddy.Yum. Yum.
Ahem.
Let me rephrase—feeling like a little girl trailing reluctantly after herparents. And only because I’m taking almost two steps for his one. And I’m tall. At least, I think I’m tall at five feet, eight inches. But he’s taller—a good six inches taller.
