Page 18 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
Wyatt smiles then, and I like the look of it. It’s strange, though—it’s almost as though he’s unused to smiling, or if it’s been a long time since he smiled and actually meant it. I’m probably projecting, looking for further kinship in one of the few people I’ve ever met who doesn’t think I’m absolutely bonkers.
“I suppose fair is fair,” he says with a shrug. Then he’s sliding out of his jacket, and I realize I’ve made a grave mistake. Becauseit’s much harder to keep my attention on my actual goals when I’m assailed by the way his flannel clings to his broad shoulders, how his t-shirt—bearing some vintage advertisement so faded I can no longer read it—stretches across his muscular chest.
Wyatt lays his jacket down on the edge of a big vintage desk and then takes up residence in the seat I’ve just vacated. I chew on my lower lip, tossing my braid over my shoulder.
“Well, don’t keep me waiting, Blythe,” he murmurs as he rolls up the sleeve of his flannel. I swallow, my mouth gone dry. Christ, I didn’t realize how pathetically lonely I was. That’s a lie; I knew it, I think, somewhere in the back of my head. I just didn’t realize what aweaknessit is.
“What exactly am I looking for?” I ask, stepping forward. I don’t need to kneel; with him seated, I’m only a head or so taller than him. Instead, I lean over the arm of the chair, desperately trying to keep my legs from bumping into his.
“Feels almost like a coin under the skin,” he tells me, offering me his forearm. “It’s good for you to know this, considering you’re going ’round like a dog on a bone.”
“I’ve been called worse things,” I tell him, reaching forward to wrap my hand around the top of his forearm, like he did to me. My fingers aren’t long enough to meet on either side like his did, though.
“Wasn’t an insult,” he says. I can feel his eyes on me, but I refuse to meet his gaze, instead keeping mine trained on the expanse of his forearm—a map of thick veins and tendons, tan skin and white scars. “You’ll need to press down harder than you think. Try to almost get your thumb between my tendons, if you can.”
I do as he instructs, but it feels like trying to dig my fingertips into a rock.
“Harder than that, Miss Blythe,” Wyatt says. “You won’t hurt me. Promise.”
“Not more than you’ve been hurt before, I’m sure,” I reply, eyeing two long scars that bisect his forearm.
Wyatt recoils like I’ve burned him, yanking his arm out of my grasp.
I stumble back, head snapping up to look at him. “I’m sorry,” I stammer, bumping into his desk. “What did I do?”
I’m surprised and slightly terrified by how much I actually care about his answer.
“Nothing,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, leaving it mussed in a way Aston and his friends would’ve paid an unseemly amount of money to achieve. “Static shock, maybe. Just wasn’t expecting it.”
I frown. I didn’t feel any static. I almost open my mouth to tell him so, but there’s something in his eyes—something desperate—and I decide to let it go. All at once, thereissome kind of a charge, like electricity coursing between us, so strong that my fingers and toes seem to tingle.
“Let’s try that again,” Wyatt says, business-like now, and the charge disappears in a moment, a storm passing through. “Like I said, good thing for you to know. Unless you’re willing to bury that bone and run home.”
I smile at him, though I suppose it’s more baring my teeth than anything. “Not gonna happen,” I reply. “So, tell me exactly how to do this again. Also, how the hell do you get close enough to a possible Sector agent to even look for a tag?”
“Oh,” Wyatt says with a mischievous smile. “That’s usually Fallon’s territory.” He pauses, his mouth parted, his gaze capturing mine.
All of a sudden, I can feel the collar of my sweater brushing the nape of my neck, the stitching on the waistband of my jeans, the weight of my braid down my back. My breath catches.
“I suppose,” he continues, “that I got pretty close toyoureal quick, now didn’t I?”
Chapter 10
Wyatt
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Alice’s cheeks pink up, and something base stirs in me. I draw my arm back. I overcompensated when she commented on the scars. Went too far in one direction, and now we’re both backed into corners we’ll have to fight our way out of if someone doesn’t turn this boat around.
This isn’t the kind of thing I’m any good at, but since I’m the one who took things too far, I’ll have to shift direction. I clear my throat. “By which I mean, you should be a little more careful. I’m guessing you’ve had run-ins with Sector before?”
The wheels in her head are turning. That much is clear. She’s trying to get her footing back, too. Finally, after a long moment, she nods. “Yeah. I have a baking blog they don’t like.”
I’ve heard plenty about this kind of thing, but never had occasion to make use of it myself. That’s more Cade’s area—computers and codes, people using the internet to bring back old-style blogs that communicate secret messages with out-of-print books as a key. Still, I’m pleased I knowsomethingabout what she’s talking about. “Joy of CookingorThe Candy Cookbook?”
Alice’s left eyebrow quirks upward, a glimmer in her eyes. “Joy of Cooking.The Candy Cookbook’srare.”
I feel the smirk crawl over my face as I reach for the bookshelf without looking. I know right where it is and pull a stained copy of the 1924 edition ofThe Candy Cookbookfrom my shelf.
Alice’s eyes light up like a Solstice tree. “Can I see it?”
