taking this all wrong. I’m trying to help you.”
“So this is charity?” She looked away, then quickly looked back again. “Get out.”
“No. I…” Confused, he ran his hand along the back of his neck. What had just happened?
“Get out. Now. Or I won’t even send Owen out to play with you.”
Wyatt headed for the door, so baffled he turned to face her, but she’d already left the room.
She sent Owen out to play after his nap, but she didn’t even peek out the window. Confusion made Wyatt sigh as he trudged up the steps at suppertime. He opened another can of the soup he’d found in the pantry. Seeing the sludgelike paste, he checked the expiration date and with a groan of disgust threw it out.
What the hell was going on? Not only was he eating junk, things that had been in cupboards for God knew how long, but he was attracted to a woman who seemed equally attracted but kept rebuffing him. So he’d offered her money, to give them a logical reason to keep their relationship platonic, and instead of making her happy, he’d made her mad. Mad. Most people would jump for joy when they’d been offered money.
She should have jumped for joy.
Maybe what he needed was to get out of this house? He hadn’t really cared to see a lot of the people from his high school days, but he was changing his mind. A conversation about anything other than Missy Johnson and her wedding cakes and her cute kids might be just what he needed to remind him he wasn’t an eighteen-year-old sap anymore, pining over a pretty girl who didn’t want him. When it came to women, he could have his pick. He didn’t need one Missy Johnson.
He straddled his motorcycle and headed for the diner. He ambled inside and found the place almost empty. Considering that it was a sunny Sunday afternoon, Wyatt suspected everybody was outside doing something physical. A waitress in a pink uniform strolled over. He ordered a hot roast beef sandwich and mashed potatoes smothered in brown gravy. For dessert he ate pie.
After a good meal, he felt a hundred percent better. He hadn’t seen anybody he recognized or who recognized him, but it didn’t matter. All he’d needed to get himself back to normal was some real food.
He paid the bill, but curiosity stopped him from heading for the door. Instead, he peeked into the kitchen. “Hey, Monty. It’s me. Wyatt McKenzie.”
Missy’s dad set his spatula on the wood-topped island in the center of the diner kitchen. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Tall, balding and wearing a big apron over jeans and a white T-shirt, he walked over and slapped Wyatt on the back. “How the hell are you, kid?”
“I’m fine. Great.” He looked around. “Wow. The place hasn’t changed one iota in fifteen years.”
“People like consistency.”
“Yep.” He knew that from running his own company, but there was a difference between consistent and rundown. Still, it wasn’t his place to mention that. “I’m surprised you don’t have any of Missy’s cakes in here.”
Monty stepped back. Returning to the wood-topped island, he picked up his spatula. “Oh, she doesn’t bake for me anymore.”
“Too busy with her own cakes, I guess.”
Monty glanced up. “Is she doing good? I mean, one businessman to another?”
Wyatt laughed. Having seen a bit of her pride that morning, he guessed she probably hadn’t told her father anything about her business beyond the basics. Maybe he’d also made the mistake of offering her money?
“She’s doing great. Three future brides corralled her when she tried to leave yesterday’s wedding reception.”
“Wow. She is doing well.”
“Exceptionally well. She’s a bit stubborn, though, about some things.”
“Are you helping her?”
He winced. “She’s not much on taking help.”
Monty snorted. “Never was.”
Well, okay. That pushed his mood even further up the imaginary scale. If she wouldn’t take help from her dad, why should Wyatt be surprised she wouldn’t take help from him?
The outing got him back to normal, but not so much that he braved going into Missy’s house the next morning. He went to the sandbox and five minutes later Owen, Lainie and Claire came racing out of the house.
While playing Wiffle ball with the kids, he ascertained that their mom was working on a new cake.
“This one will be yellow,” Lainie said.
Not knowing what else to do, he smiled. “Yellow. That’s nice. I like yellow.”
“I like yellow, too.”
“Me, too.”
“Me, too.”
He laughed. He didn’t for one minute think yellow was that important to any one of the triplets, but he did see how much they enjoyed being included, involved. His heart swelled. He liked them a lot more than he ever thought he could like kids. But 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
