Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(18)

“I’m not limping.”

“You will be when I kick you out of this car so I can go back to town and break into Jason’s room for crazy parrot sex.”

“Crazy parrot sex?”

“Huh. I was going for monkey sex with a pirate theme. That didn’t quite work, did it?”

I give her one last hug before I swing the door open. “I love you, you goober. Go seduce your fiancé until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

“Well, if I must.” She winks. “Help you to the door?”

“No. I’ve got this. You go.”

“And you go have crazy parrot sex too. Understand me? And call me if you need a ride tomorrow. I mean, if Wyatt’s willing to let you out of his sight again.”

I lift the bag of two burner phones I grabbed to keep here, because no guest should ever be without access to a phone. “I should be fine, and my phone will be all dried out by tomorrow night. But thank you.”

After I assure her that yes, I also now have her phone number, Jason’s phone number, and Grady’s phone number written on a piece of paper to give to Wyatt and program into both of the burner phones I picked up at Peg Legs and Planks—yes, the hardware store here sells burner phones—I climb out of her car.

I make it to the front door without limping despite the pain shooting from my knee to my tailbone, but I refuse to let Monica see me hurting. It’s her wedding week, and she doesn’t need to worry over me.

I wave as I push open the door. She reverses in the darkness to head back down the mountain to town, and as soon as I’m inside, I crumple to a heap against the wall beside the door and let out a soft groan.

The bedroom is a long fucking way away. Past at least seven massive floor tiles in the foyer, then down a hallway the length of six football fields, through the door, and a walk from here to China to get to the bed.

Or so it feels.

Five minutes.

I just need five minutes to sit here, kneading my twisted thigh muscle and resting my achy hip joint, and then I’ll be fine.

“Need help?”

I shriek in surprise at the voice coming out of the semi-darkness, and I realize I’m not alone.

Wyatt’s up.

Dammit.

“Just wondering the last time Beck’s maids dusted the floorboards. Plus, you get a totally different angle on that artwork.” I point to a row of prints on the wall outside the kitchen.

“The three-piece selfie of Beck’s nostril?”

“Most people think it’s a cave.”

“Most people don’t know Beck very well.”

He’s barefoot, in cargo shorts and a polo with a military-looking logo on his breast pocket, and when he tucks his thumbs in his belt loops and leans against the wall, my ovaries do a backflip, because yes, Wyatt Morgan is quite the handsome man.

And possibly I shouldn’t have had that glass of wine three hours ago. Clearly it’s still affecting my judgment.

“Overdid it?” he asks.

My eyes narrow and I start to scowl, and then the oddest thing happens.

Instead of narrowing his eyes right back at me, his lips twitch like he’s holding in a smile, he lifts his eyes to the ceiling, mutters, “Dammit, Beck,” and suddenly I’m more curious than I am irritated.

Until he squats down and picks me up, that is.

I yelp and try to twist, but I jolt my leg wrong and I end up gasping for breath and gripping him around the neck instead. “What are you doing?” I grit out.

“Annoying you,” he says as he straightens and moves toward the hall.

He hasn’t shaved. I could try to count his short whiskers if I wanted to. He’s always clean-shaven. Maybe he’s being a pirate this week too.

“You are not welcome in my bedroom.”

“That’s seventy miles away or so, isn’t it? Which part of Copper Valley is your house in again?”

“Quit being a smart-ass.”

“There’s no shame in taking help when you need it.”

“I don’t need help.”

I am such a liar. Every step he takes closer to the bedroom is like a weight being lifted off my shoulders. One less step I have to take…two less…three…

“It’s your boyfriend’s duty to carry you to the bedroom.”

“Don’t even—” I start.

His lips twitch again.

Right there. Right in front of my face. His lips are twitching.

Like I amuse him.

I don’t amuse anyone. Annoy them, yes. It was one of the reasons Patrick broke up with me. Ellie, you’re just…so perfectionist, it’s annoying. I’m well aware that my project managers back home at work are relieved as hell that I’m on vacation, but I also know that having high standards is the only way I’m going to continue my parents’ legacy and grow their business when they retire in a few years.

Which is in a few years.

Not right here.

Tonight.

With Wyatt not even breaking a sweat or straining while he carries me into the master bedroom, despite the weight I’ve gained since the accident.

“Thank you,” I grumble when he sets me gently on the bed.

“You’re not really welcome.”

I gasp in surprise.

He purses his lips together and turns, but not before I see his gray eyes twinkling.