Page 19 of Almost Perfect
Wyatt
Warrick eyed me from his post at the bar overlooking the kitchen counter, where I stood placing the finishing touches on a pot roast. Chopped parsley and chives, of course, because I no longer shied away from garnish.Real men garnish.
“You’re an idiot.” He pinched his eyes closed and rubbed them. “I’m so tired. I can’t even talk to you about this. I need to eat and then hibernate. I’m going to rally and enjoy this dinner because it was my idea, but if I can do that, you need to keep your crap together tonight and not be all judgey and rude.”
My glare said everything for me since I’d already explained the situation. I’d admitted earlier today that I was concerned Ms. Rice might not show because I was fairly certain I’d made her uncomfortable or even upset. When he demanded to know why, I’d told him.
But it wasn’t simple. Because my rudeness was out of character to say the least, and perplexing to me at best. He’d simply said, “You better make it right.”
That was exactly what I’d tried to do last night. She’d nearly bit my head off for suggesting she’d been crying because of me, but in the end, she’d forgiven me. And sure, maybebit my head offwasn’t quite accurate, but she’d been irritated enough by my apology because of what it insinuated, and she’d let slip something personal. Vulnerable, even. That paired with her forgiveness, so quick and genuine… I never expected that from someone like her, so famous and privileged and larger than life. Though she hadn’t been like that any of the times I’d spoken with her, I couldn’t really forget that she was who she was.
But my judgment and suspicion of her? Probably unfounded.Maybe.I wasn’t going to hand over the deed to the ranch or anything, but War had made the point that we couldn’t believe everything we read, and I’d felt no small amount of shame when I realized that was exactly what I’d done. We’d been exposed to some of that nonsense when he’d gotten injured and his fiancée left him. The news surrounding the event had been insane and completely unfounded.
So I knew better than to believe the headlines. And yet, I’d gulped it down like an ignoramus.
Then the shoveling. She’d outright told me I’d been rude, and if I’d ever been more humiliated by my own actions, I couldn’t think of a time. Not even close.
What had she ever done to me? Nothing. Aside from being intriguing and beautiful and the antithesis to what I needed in my life, absolutely nothing.
Normally, I prided myself on being polite and gentlemanly. That was the way I did things, just like my dad had done. Mom had told us the stories of how they’d dated, and she’d always admired his insistence on being upright, honorable, and well mannered. Those things were innate, but I chose them too. Like a calling and a callback to my father at once.
Her words had been the slap upside the head I’d needed. I hadn’t realized my internal stewing had bled out and coated my words and behavior. Damn, it was shameful. I’d covered my horror with a quick and genuine apology, and she’d accepted. I hoped she meant it and hadn’t just wanted me gone.
I couldn’t have blamed her if that was the case.
“I hope she’ll come,” I said quietly, worry niggling at me.
She’d looked awful when she opened the door last night. Swollen face, that long hair a tangled mess around her, and somehow shrunken. The woman was tall and typically stood with confidence, but her whole presence felt small. That concerned me, and even though it was partly maddening, partly humorous that she’d said she was crying about other stuff, the reality had sunk in as I trudged the path back to the main house. Eventually, I’d seen past the humiliation at my own bad manners and rude words and zeroed in on what she’d admitted in those short minutes together.
She had to have been crying for hours.
She was completely isolated, had no transportation, and Warrick had mentioned she didn’t drive, which meant she couldn’t just rent a car.
I’d Googled her name—yes, I did the bad thing. And the headlines slipped by as I’d scrolled, each one worse than the next. She’d been through hell in the last few years. Even if none of them were true, her life had been upended—her mother had died.
By the time I went to bed, I couldn’t get it out of my head. Was she okay over there? Not just in a superficial way, but… was her mental health okay? Did she need help—something beyond fetching milk from town?
By midnight, I’d resolved that if she came to dinner, I’d pull her aside and apologize again for insinuating she’d been crying over me, but also see if she needed help. Make sure she knew she wasn’t alone, even if we hadn’t gotten along well so far.
I could help her. We might not be meant for each other like I’d stupidly thought before I’d realized who she was, but I could make her time here better, even if just by being someone on standby if she really got into trouble. It was what a gentleman would do.
And if she didn’t come, I’d just have to knock on her door. Because I couldn’t live with myself if I ignored someone who was clearly hurting.
“Hello, my babies!” Mom swept in with two bags full of what had to be baked goods and ingredients for a salad. “Is our guest coming?”
I pinned Warrick with a look. He was supposed to talk to her about not being too excited in case Ms. Rice didn’t come and also make sure Mom knew I’d promised our guest we wouldn’t ask her about her life.
“She remembers,” he said to me. Then he spoke to Mom, his voice raised just slightly to reach her over the rustling of bags. “You remember you’re not getting too excited, right?”
She narrowed her eyes at us.
“Boo and hiss to you and your insistence on pretending this isn’t a huge deal. I’ll be excited if I want. I can’t believe we’re going to have—” The doorbell’s chime cut her off, then she squealed quietly into her hand. “I’m calm. I’m calm.”
Warrick and I shared a look before he went to get the door. Anticipation and a twist of nerves bounced around in my empty stomach. I focused on prepping the winter salad—pears, pomegranate seeds, and orange supremes over field greens with red onions, blue cheese, and candied pecans. It was decadent but so good, though I’d kept the cheese and pecans on the side in case she had allergies or didn’t eat such things.
Because I wasn’t blind. And I had seen photos. So I knew she took care of herself.
Very, very well.
