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“Okay, but I didn’t order this,” I repeat again, nervous that I’m going to get slapped with a big bill that I absolutely will not be able to pay.
“The order is under a Wyatt Fletcher,” the younger delivery guy at the top says. “It’s all paid for.”
My head lowers in submission. Of course it’s from psycho Wyatt. I’m actually shocked it didn’t come with a new sofa and end tables.
“We already got the base set up and fully operating, so we’ll be out of your hair real soon.”
“Fully operating?” I growl in frustration as I follow them up into my apartment and watch as they finish setting up the giant monstrosity that looks crazy expensive. Which is why this mountain man has officially lost his damn mind if he thinks this is how friends interact.
When the deliverymen leave, I hear a crack of wood splitting off in the distance and decide it’s time for me to have another chat with my new “friend.”
I trudge my way through the mud up toward Wyatt’s house. It’s rained a lot this past week, which would normally depress me if I were still living in the city. But rain on the mountain? It’s too beautiful to hate. It stirs up something special in the atmosphere, so maybe it’s stirred up something in him, and that’s why he’s acting like a maniac with the gifts.
Another crack of wood echoes, and I spot Wyatt up the hill behind his house. He’s dressed in his standard flannel and jeans, chopping wood like it’s his job.And I hate how good he looks doing that job.
My breath quickens as I take a moment to admire the view. Clearly, I’m extremely hormonal because that’s the only excuse that makes sense for me not having more self-control than this. Because while my mind is raging mad at him, my body just wants a hug from him. But like…the vagina kind of hug. I want his mountain-rain scent all over me.
His large hands grip the ax as his broad shoulders twist and rotate to descend upon the unsuspecting wood. My God, how did this man ever doubt that I found him attractive? What I wouldn’t do to be that tree stump right now.
A twig snaps under my foot, and Wyatt looks up from the piecesof wood that have just dropped to the ground to find me approaching. “Hey,” he calls out, slightly out of breath while tossing the wood into a wheelbarrow.
“Hey,” I repeat sharply, telling my hormones and crotch hugs to get lost as I come to a stop on the other side of his wood-chopping station.
“You feeling okay? Need anything?” Concern is etched in his eyebrows as he inspects every part of my body. He’s been doing that a lot this past week. Watching me. And he has an uncanny way of making me feel uneasy and turned on all at the same time.
Fuck you, hormones!
“I feel great, and I need nothing,” I state firmly for the fifth time this week, wishing like hell he didn’t have to see me praying to the porcelain gods because it’s clearly unearthed some sort of caveman protection mode that I cannot seem to turn off.
“Good.” Wyatt nods and rests the sharp part of his ax on the stump while lazily propping his elbow on it.
I tear my eyes away from his body and add, “I especially don’t need that expensive-looking bed that just got delivered to my apartment.”
“Oh, it came?” Wyatt squints down the mountain toward the barn and nods like he hasn’t been the biggest pain in my ass lately. “Good. It’s adjustable, so if they didn’t get it hooked up right, let me know, and I’ll come take a look.”
“I don’t need an adjustable bed.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not geriatric, for one!”
He frowns. “It’s supposed to be great for pregnancy. Once you get further along, I think you’ll really like it. You know you’re not supposed to sleep on your back, right?”
“Wyatt,” I hiss, my hands firm on my hips. “People have been pregnant for centuries without memory foam hydraulic-lift mattresses. Women had babies in caves, for God’s sake.”
“I know, but all the baby books say that sleep is important in the first trimester, and that mattress up there is old. It needed an upgrade.”
“You could have bought a mattress from Goodwill, and it still would have been the nicest thing I ever slept on!”
He scowls at that response.
“And your daily breakfast deliveries have to stop. We talked about this.” I press my hands to my belly, which is definitely more carbs than baby at only ten weeks pregnant. The changes in my body aren’t yet obvious to the naked eye, except for the intense veins in my engorged boobs. Those puppies are practically pornographic. “I am perfectly capable of feeding myself.” My voice is venturing on shrill because I’m sad to see the food delivery stop, but it’s necessary for my sanity.
“I thought about it, and the breakfast is nonnegotiable,” he answers stiffly, his gaze lingering on where my hand is on my stomach before snapping up to meet my eyes. “If you want something specific, just let me know because I’m going to continue dropping breakfast off at your door every morning until that baby is born.”
“But I don’t want it.”
“I don’t care. I’ll try to stop everything else, but I’m not stopping that.”
