it didn’t matter. He and their mother might be attracted, but they didn’t see eye to eye about anything. Maybe it was time to step up the jewelry search and get back to Tampa?
WYATT THREW HIMSELF into the work of looking for the Scottish heirlooms in the mountain of closet boxes.
He endured the scent of sachets, billowing dust and boxes of things like panty hose—who saved old panty hose and why?—and found nothing even remotely resembling jewelry.
To break up his days, he played with Owen every morning and all three kids every afternoon, but he didn’t go anywhere near Missy.
Still, on Saturday afternoon, when she came out of the house dressed in a sunny yellow dress that showed off her shoulders and accented her curves, lugging the bottom of a cake with the babysitter, he knew he couldn’t let her go alone. Particularly since her SUV had already had trouble starting once that week.
While she brought the rest of the cake to her vehicle, he changed out of his dirty clothes into clean jeans and a T-shirt. Looking at himself in the mirror, he frowned. His hair was growing in and looked a little like Owen’s, poking out in all directions. He also needed a shave. But if he took the time to shave, she’d be gone by the time he was done.
No shave. No comb. Since he usually didn’t have hair, he didn’t really own a comb. So today he’d be doing grunge.
Once again, he didn’t say anything. Simply walked over to her SUV and got in on the passenger’s side as she got in on the driver’s side.
“Don’t even bother to tell me one person can handle this big cake. I watched you and the babysitter cart it out here. I know better. If the caterer can’t spare a waiter you’ll be in a world of trouble.”
She sighed. “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know.”
“You haven’t spoken to me since we fought on Sunday.”
He made a disgusted noise. “I know that, too.”
“So why are you going?”
He had no idea. Except that he didn’t want to see her struggle. Remembering her fierce independent streak, he knew that reply wouldn’t be greeted with a thank-you, so he said, “I like cake.”
Apparently expecting to have to fend off an answer that in some way implied she needed help, she opened her mouth, but nothing came out. After a few seconds, she said, “I could make you a cake.”
He peered over at her. In her sunny yellow dress, with her hair all done up, and wearing light pink lipstick, she was so cute his selfish inner demon returned. He’d forgotten how hard it was to want something he couldn’t have.
“Oh, then that would be charity and we can’t have that. If you can’t take my money, I can’t take your cake.”
She sighed. “Look, I know I got a little over-the-top angry on Sunday when you offered me money. But there’s a good reason I refused. I need to be independent.”
“Fantastic.”
She laughed. “It is fantastic. Wyatt, I need to be able to support myself and my kids. And I can. That’s what makes it fantastic. I can do this. You need to trust me.”
“Great. Fine. I trust you.”
“Good, because I feel I owe you for playing with the kids, and a cake would be a simple way for me to pay that back.”
He gaped at her. “Did you hear what you just said? You want to pay me for playing.”
She shoved her key into the ignition and started the SUV. “You’re an idiot.”
“True. But I’m an idiot who is going to get cake at this wedding.”
But in the car on the way to the reception venue, he stared out the window. He couldn’t remember the last time anybody had ordered him around like this. Worse, he couldn’t remember a time a woman had ordered him around like this—and he still liked her.
He sighed internally. And there it was. The truth. He still liked her.
The question was what did he do about it?
Avoiding her didn’t work. She wouldn’t take his money so he could recategorize her. And even after not seeing her all week, the minute he was in the same car with her all his feelings came tumbling back.
He was nuts.
Wrong…
Really? Wrong? They were healthy, single, attracted people. Why was liking her wrong?
Because she didn’t want to like him.
They arrived at the wedding reception more quickly than the week before because this venue was closer. As they unloaded the square layers with black lace trim, Missy gazed at each one lovingly. In high school, she’d hated having to bake fancy cakes for the diner, but now she was so glad she had. At age thirty-three she had twenty years of cake-baking experience behind her. And she was very, very good.
“The kids told me this one is yellow.”
She peeked over at Wyatt, relieved he was finally talking. “It is. It’s a yellow cake…with butter cream fondant and rolled fondant to make the black lace.”
“How do you make lace?”
His question surprised her. Most people saw the finished product and didn’t care how it got that way.
“There are patterns and forms you can buy, but I made my own.”
He studied the intricate design. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
“I do things like this when you’re playing with the kids.”
He shot her a funny look and she turned away. The little spark of attraction she’d felt when she’d seen his scruffy day-old beard and butt-hugging jeans that morning flared again. With his sexy, fingers-run-through-it-in-frustration hair and his long, lean body, he was enough to drive her to distraction.
But she wouldn’t be distracted.
Well, maybe a little. She was a normal woman and he was extremely sexy. Was it so wrong to be attracted? No. The trick would be not letting him see.
They arranged the black-and-white cake from the big square layer to the smallest layer, which had a top hat and sparkly wedding veil at the peak.
“Cute.”
She stood back. “Different. I’ll say that.”
“You act as if you didn’t know how it would turn out.”
“I didn’t. The bride is a Goth who wanted something black with hints of Victorian. She told me what she wanted and I made it.”
“Can you eat the top hat?”
“Yep. And the veil, too.”
“Amazing.”
Their gazes caught. The flare of attraction became a flicker of need. She tried to squelch it, but in four years she hadn’t felt anything like this. Oh, who was she kidding? She’d never felt anything like this. Wyatt was bold, sexy, commanding. And he liked her. The real her. Not the pretend version most men saw when they looked at her. He’d seen her stubborn streak, and still helped her—was still attracted to her.
What if there really was something going on between them? Something real. He could walk away. Hell, after she’d yelled at him on Sunday he should have walked away. But he hadn’t. Even though they’d had a fairly nasty difference of opinion—which they’d yet to get beyond—here they were. He was still attracted to her. She was still attracted to him.
The bride arrived in her