Page 3 of One Pucking Secret
“Not a problem,” Wyatt says, flashing that smile again—the one that makes my heart do ridiculous things. “Besides, I wouldn’t want you crashing into any more pedestrians tonight.”
I laugh, the tension easing slightly. “Hey, I didn’t crash into you. I’m the one with the injuries.”
“True,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes. “But I was close.”
With my bike locked up, I take a deep breath and glance up at the stairs leading to my dorm. They seem impossibly steep now that I’m sore and scraped up.
Before I can figure out how to navigate the steps, Wyatt swoops in, scooping me up into his arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Wait—what are you doing?” I yelp, my arms instinctively wrapping around his neck.
“Just hold on tight,” he says, his voice light but firm. “I’m getting you to your door without any more accidents.”
My heart races, and not just from the surprise of being lifted off the ground. Being this close to Wyatt—feeling his strength, his warmth—it’s overwhelming. But in a good way. A very good way.
As he carries me up the stairs, I try to ignore the butterflies in my stomach, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear. It’s strangely comforting, like this moment between us is more than just a random encounter.
We reach my dorm room far too quickly for my liking.
“Which bed is yours?” he asks, glancing around.
I point to the one on the left, a mess of blankets and pillows I never got around to fixing after last night’s late study session. “That one.”
Wyatt sets me down gently, his arms lingering around me for just a second too long before he steps back, leaving me breathless.
“Do you have any antiseptic and bandages?” Wyatt asks, glancing around the room.
“Yeah, I’ve got a first aid kit under my desk,” I reply.
He raises an eyebrow, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Ah, so this isn’t an isolated incident for you, huh?”
“I like to be prepared, okay?”
He chuckles. “Always prepared, huh? You’re either a lifesaver or just really clumsy.”
“Maybe a bit of both,” I tease back, feeling more at ease.
As I reach for the kit, his gaze locks onto mine—steady, heated, and impossible to ignore. There’s a smoldering intensity in his eyes, like he knows exactly the effect he’s having on me.
“Sit,” he says, his voice low but firm, sending a thrill through me. The way he looks atme makes it impossible to argue. My pulse quickens under the weight of his attention. I sink back onto the bed, trying to stay calm, but I’m failing miserably.
He kneels beside me and starts cleaning my scrapes, his touch gentle, almost electric. I can’t help but notice how close we are, the way his strong hands move with surprising care. When he finishes, he looks up at me with a smirk.
“All done,” he says.
“Thanks again,” I reply, my voice softer than intended. “I owe you one. How about I treat you to coffee? Deal?”
“Coffee sounds good. Deal.”
My heart flutters at his agreement and I can’t help but smile at him.
I rest back on my bed when suddenly, my favorite song that I left on pause begins playing from my phone’s streaming app.
“Oh, jeez,” I say, grabbing my phone to turn it off.
Wyatt stands and chuckles. “Didn’t take you for that type.” He points to my phone, the melancholy ballad from my favorite indie pop group still filling the room.
“Hey, this band is good,” I retort. “Three Angry Ladies may be a tacky name, but their music speaks to me.”
