Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(41)

“Okay, Dad.”

He marches across the field, me hanging on with my monkey butt in the air, and while I get the occasional twinge in my leg, it doesn’t hurt.

I can’t see Tillie Jean’s face when Wyatt marches us into the Crusty Nut, but I can hear her. “Table for two?”

“By the window if you can,” he tells her.

“How about the balcony, sugar?”

“Is it out of the sun?”

“You bet.”

“Sounds great.”

“Sorry about my butt, Tillie Jean,” I offer.

“Cutest pirate monkey butt we’ve had come in so far this morning,” she replies. “C’mon. I got a table with an umbrella and a great view of the treasure hunt.”

“You got clothes on under that?” Wyatt asks while he carries me up the stairs.

I’d argue about this, but I’m tired of arguing with him. “Enough that I can unzip,” I confirm.

“Hot dog, it’s my lucky day.”

I shouldn’t be amused, but once again, Wyatt made a joke, and now I’m laughing.

He finally puts me down next to a wrought iron patio table and lets me take my own seat under the umbrella Tillie Jean cranks up for us. After standing at the railing a minute, he waves at Tucker across the street, and then takes his own seat.

“Did Monica just set us up on a date?” I ask him. “I mean, not that she doesn’t believe we’re dating, but…like on a real date. Alone. Is that what this is supposed to be?”

“That depends. Who’s paying?”

I toss a sugar packet at him. “Very funny.”

He smiles at me, and hello, gooey insides. Wyatt Morgan is not supposed to turn me all mushy and sappy.

But he’s doing an excellent job of it.

I wave a hand at my hot face, then belatedly realize I can unzip my monkey costume. I pull my arms out, and breathe a sigh of relief when the light summer breeze touches my bare skin.

Wyatt swallows a smile and glances at the menu Tillie Jean left.

“Has Beck called you today?” I ask him, because Beck’s a safe topic.

Kind of.

He shakes his head.

“Does that make you nervous?” I ask.

He frowns slightly, like he’s puzzled, then shakes his head again. “I think he’s trying to set us up.”

“Look, we can be friends, and it’s nice of you to humor me with claiming to be my boyfriend this week, but we seriously cannot be anything more.”

He leans back in his chair and watches me while our server delivers water glasses and asks if we need another minute.

“Yes,” he says at the same time I ask for a basket of gold nuggets—aka fried pickles—and a banana pudding.

“Hush,” I say to his raised eyebrows. “Patrick’s parents make me nervous, okay?”

“Make it two, please,” he tells the server, and she scuttles away with a smile.

Like she, too, thinks we’re on a date, and she, too, thinks we’re cute.

Not good.

Because even if Wyatt was relationship material, I’m not.





Seventeen





Wyatt



When our server leaves, Ellie leans into the table. “Why would Beck be trying to set us up?” she half-whispers. She doesn’t look annoyed.

More like anxious.

“He’s worried about you,” I tell her.

“Did you…tell him?” she asks.

She doesn’t say what, but she doesn’t have to. I shake my head. “You?”

“It was none of his fucking business.” She huffs. “That didn’t come out right.”

I start to smile, but she chews on her bottom lip, which simultaneously sends blood flowing straight to my cock and puts my pulse on high alert, because the Ellie I’ve always known would’ve rolled her eyes and said she was fine.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks.

“Why me?”

“Because if you tell anyone else, I can deny it because of our history.”

That’s the Ellie I know, and for the first time in my life, I’m finding her huffiness utterly adorable. “Then absolutely.”

“I don’t know what I want to do with my life.”

“I recommend not marrying your ex-boyfriend.”

She kicks me under the table, and I feel marginally better about myself for that smart-ass comment just popping off my tongue.

“When I graduated high school, I told myself I’d have a master’s degree in five years, a husband in eight, and kids in ten,” she tells me, which isn’t a surprise in the least. “And that I’d work my ass off to earn every promotion I got with my parents, because I know they’ll leave me the company one day, but I don’t want it just because I’m their daughter. I want to fucking earn it. I’ve been saving up to buy them out five years before they think they want to retire because Beck’s right, they’re workaholics and they don’t realize how old they’re getting.”

“You should probably not use the word old when you approach them.” Fuck, I’m terrible at this. “I mean—”

She cuts me off with a flutter of her hand. “I have two years to practice. I’ll get this.”