Flirting with the Frenemy (Bro Code #1)(45)

Her eyes are huge, her face mottling, lips parted and bluing at the edges as she struggles to breathe.

Wyatt thrusts his fist under her breastbone once, twice, and on the third thrust, a piece of meatball flies out of her mouth and lands square on Patrick’s plate. I don’t know where Sloane or Mr. Dixon are, but they’re not at the table.

It’s just Mrs. Dixon and Patrick, who’s now rushing toward his mother too.

She gasps and sags and makes a very unladylike expression that’s too garbled to fully be called an expletive, but I’m pretty sure she just said fuck.

Wyatt helps her to sitting. “Okay now?” he asks.

She gulps hard, panting, and nods without looking at him.

“Back up, give her space,” Patrick snaps. He shoves Wyatt out of the way and squats. “Are you okay? Is anything broken? Did he crack a rib?”

“He saved her life, you jackass,” Jason snaps, approaching quickly from the other side of the long table.

“Quit fighting,” she rasps out. “And hand me a drink.”

Adrenaline belatedly makes my veins fizz. My legs wobble while Wyatt quietly steps away from the Dixons and returns the long way to our table.

“My dad’s a hero,” Tucker whispers.

“You’re damn right,” Monica says softly, her voice thick too.

Her mother’s fanning her face, eyes bright like she’s fighting back tears. “Lordy goodness,” she murmurs. “That was scary as all dickens.”

Tucker’s eyes are huge, borderline scared, and I reach across the table to squeeze his little hand. “Hey. It’s okay.”

“Did she die?”

“No, sweetie. She’s okay.”

He glances at his plate, full of hot dog octopi and big chunks of fruit and cookies. Then back at all the grown-ups fussing and panicking belatedly at the next table.

“Just chew it good,” I tell him.

He nods and gives me a brave smile, and I suddenly don’t know how I could do it.

How do you protect someone you love so much from ever getting hurt? Or let them hurt when they have to?

How do you survive it?

My respect for Wyatt is growing by the second.

Parenthood isn’t for the weak.

Monica heads to help Jason, and her mom sinks back to her seat, but I watch Wyatt casually walk past two families at the end of the rows of tables, all gaping at him like he’s the hero Tucker knows him to be, while he keeps his head down, hands in his pockets.

He doesn’t look up until he’s back in his seat next to Tucker, and then, his focus is all on his son. “Ah-ah, I saw that. Fruit swords before treasure cookies.”

Tucker grins, his fear fading with Wyatt beside him again. “Good job, Dad.”

I could probably explain what I do next, but I don’t want to.

Let’s just say it ends with me bending across the table, grabbing Wyatt by the cheeks, and planting a kiss worthy of a hero on his lips.

And there might’ve been some belated applause.

For him being a hero, I mean.

Not for me kissing him.

Because that would be ridiculous.

And dangerous.

But two hours later, I’m grateful to be safe and sound back in Beck’s house. No deer or foxes or wolves darted in front of my car, and clearly they didn’t get Wyatt either, since he pulls up right behind me.

Neither of us has said another word about Mrs. Dixon choking.

Or about me kissing the stuffing out of him.

And I’m not planning on mentioning it.

Especially the kissing part.

Until I walk through the basement door from the garage and realize there’s a huge water stain over the bar. “What—” I start, and then I know.

“The dishwasher,” Wyatt and I say in unison.

“I started it before we left.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Davis probably didn’t notice.”

I just gape at him and continue to point at the ceiling.

“I know, I know,” he sighs. “I’ll go get towels.”

I should argue that I’ll clean it up. That this is my fault for kissing him. But I know he’ll insist on helping, and then we’ll be within looking distance of each other, and I’m really, really starting to be convinced that we probably shouldn’t ever even live in the same town. “I’m going to bed. And I’m locking the door,” I inform him.

He smirks. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Dad, can I watch baseball?” Tucker asks through a yawn.

I don’t wait to hear his answer, because I’m already starting to get attached to both of them.

The universe is being a real dick.

Or maybe I need to quit looking for what’s easy—like Wyatt just landing in my lap this week—and actually figure out what I want to do about getting my life back on track.

He was right this morning.

The doctors didn’t know if they’d be able to repair my hip and leg enough for me to ever walk again.

But here I am. Limping my stiff self up the stairs.

I am going to be physically fine again.

It’s time to figure out what the rest of me needs.





Nineteen





Wyatt



The things I do for my friends.