I’d sat there listening to Wyatt share memories and I all I wanted was for him to keep talking—about anything and everything. From our first meeting, I’d never dreamed that he used to be a shy, insecure kid. I enjoyed listening to him talk about how facing his insecurities shaped who he was as a man, a teacher and a coach.
We drank—he another beer and me another can of wine, which was surprisingly delicious—and we swapped stories about childhood family vacations, our time in high school and his first day in the NFL.
He told me that he got his ass handed to him in his debut game. The press was harsh. I particularly enjoyed his tidbit about his one perfect spiral that’d he’d thrown over the middle of the field which resulted in a sixty-yard touchdown. Focusing on that one good thing changed his entire perspective and playing strategy.
“I was a serious student in high school. I volunteered at the library because I loved the smell of books and I could sneak in reading time. I also helped my favorite teacher grade math papers after school. Mister Baldwin was so hot.”
“So you had a crush on your math teacher?” he asked.
I nodded, the rim of the wine can brushing against my bottom lip.
“And now you’re hot for this teacher,” he commented, his voice was low and husky. If he asked me to grade papers in that voice, I would do it willingly.
I laughed. “I guess that I am.”
There were no sad stories during the hour and a half of conversation, just two people reliving some parts of our younger selves. Before we realized it, eleven o’clock was fast approaching. We tossed our stuff into the trash and Wyatt led me out of the press box. He threaded his fingers with mine, chills spreading up my arm despite the warmth of the evening breeze.
When we landed at the bottom of the stairs, Wyatt’s hands dug into my waist and he pushed me against the metal fence. He covered my mouth with his and desire pooled between my legs. My arms snaked around his neck as I dove in kissing him hard.
Wyatt’s hands inched up my ribcage, cupping my breasts. “Think of me tonight, before you go to sleep,” he murmured, his mouth brushing against the shell of my ear. His lips brushed across the nape of my neck.
“Wyatt,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut. “I might.”
He pulled me against him, his hands skimmed up my arms and over my shoulders to tangle in my hair. Wyatt’s head dipped and I fisted my hands in his shirt as his lips connected with mine once more.
A distant voice in the back of my mind reminded me that he was my son’s teacher. It was so hard to care when he felt so good against me. He caught my tongue between his teeth, and I squealed at the tiny bite.
“Hamilton,” I heard a voice call out. “Is that you?”
Wyatt and I pulled away from one another. He turned around slowly shielding me from whomever the voice belonged to. I peered over his thick shoulder to see a man wearing a Creswell High Eagles jacket leaning against a red Jeep Cherokee.
“Van Horn,” Wyatt’s deep voice sounded impatient as shit.
There was something familiar about the man standing in front of us, who looked relaxed and smug. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
He pulled a cigar from his pocket and clipped the end. “Oh, I have another, would you like to share a smoke with me?”
“There’s no smoking on school grounds,” Wyatt pointed out, disdain laced in his voice.
“Don’t be a spoilsport,” he chided and lit the end of the cigar.
The song “Bad Blood” snapped into my head. It was apparent that these two men did not like one another.
“And don’t be rude, Hamilton. Introduce me to your lady friend.” His chin jutted before bringing the cigar to his mouth for a long puff.
My stomach rolled recognizing the man—Clive. Birthday Clive, from my night out with Sharon at The Silver Saloon. The man who just wouldn’t take no for an answer was without that beard.
“She’s none of your concern,” he shot out. “I’m taking her home.”
And with no further words, Wyatt grabbed my hand pulling me across the parking lot to his car.
“I’ve met him before,” I commented. “He hit on me and I turned him down.”
Wyatt stopped head in his tracks. “Where?”
“One night at The Silver Saloon.”
“Stay away from him,” Wyatt bit out as he opened the passenger door.
“Didn’t plan on hanging out with him,” I assured, wondering why the hell he was barking out orders.
Wyatt slid into the driver’s seat.
“So, Clive Van Horn, he’s the head coach at Creswell High?”
“Yes, and he’s a smug bastard who loves pushing my buttons.”
Wyatt maneuvered his car out of the parking lot and onto Main Street. Would this guy use me against Wyatt? What if he found out who I was?
“This is too dangerous. What if he recognized me?”
Wyatt turned down a road that was not in the direction of my house.
“What . . . what are you doing? Do you want my son to catch us?”
“I’m taking the long road home so that I can talk to you. We’ve got a good ten minutes.” He pointed to the time on the popup screen.
“That guy could make trouble for you, Wyatt.” My hands wrung together.
“Van Horn enjoys taunting me,” he said, grasping my hand. “He’s an asshole, but he’s not malicious.”
“Maybe not, but some people get off on ruining people’s lives,” I maintained. “He hit on me at the bar and I rejected him. What if he remembers and turns this into some kind of revenge thing?”
“Wow, okay, you have a wild imagination.”
“Wild, maybe,” I mused. “I read a lot of books and this is a definite plotline.”
“If Van Horn took me down, then he’d have no one else to play his dick swinging games with,” Wyatt pointed out. “He’s so damn smug.”
I waved my hands in front of me. “I still don’t feel good about this.”
“Van Horn is a nonfactor and a rival. I promise there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Right now, I’m a little worried that I won’t beat my son home.”
“Do you doubt my abilities?”
I lifted a shoulder studying the mountains and wide open spaces forcing the negative thoughts from my mind. Instead, I soaked up the conversation and the time I spent with Wyatt. My eyes closed for a brief moment and I just drifted letting everything roll off me. A friend of mine is into clearing the mind and body of all negativity. She told me you can feel the exact moment when all the tension just evaporates.
My eyes refocused. The car had stopped moving and the slow realization of where were crashed into me—my driveway.
Wyatt’s finger tugged at my chin forcing me to look up at him. “You better get inside.” He captured my lips with his, kissing me hard and stealing my breath.
“Thank you for tonight,” I said, pulling back and reaching for the door.
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Sweet dreams.”
I exited the car and practically skipped up the stairs to my deck. Once inside, I allowed myself to peek out the window watching Wyatt’s taillights disappear into the night.