Good for You: A Novel (18)

This was going to be harder than she thought.

“I was hoping we could talk about the house,” she said, staring up at him. Aside from a pair of wedge sandals, she hadn’t packed heels, and at once she understood what a mistake that had been; he made her feel impossibly small. And Aly hated feeling small.

“Huh,” he said, turning to retrieve a mug from the cupboard. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Coffee?”

“Always.”

He nodded, poured some into one mug, then handed it to her. “Cream’s in the fridge.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Is it in date?”

He shrugged.

Same team, Aly, she told herself, pulling the carton from the back of the fridge. Miraculously, the half-and-half was potable. She tried not to feel self-conscious as she poured some, but the burning sensation on the back of her neck told her that Wyatt was still watching her—probably studying her for weaknesses and devising ways to get rid of her so he could go back to turning the house into a hoarding hut.

She took a sip of her coffee, which was warm and strong and so good that she loathed Wyatt at least 3 percent less than she had a minute ago. “So as I was saying, I’d like to talk to you about this place.”

“Why?”

She cocked her head, instantly on edge but also sort of confused. “What do you mean?”

“Why are you here now?” he said bluntly.

“Why are you?” she volleyed back.

“Asked you first,” he said from behind his mug.

He was nothing if not direct, and while she normally would’ve respected that, the irritation she’d felt yesterday was starting to simmer again. “Because . . . I realized I’d put this off long enough.” But her cheeks burned from the lie, and even though Wyatt seemed preoccupied with pouring coffee down his gullet, she suspected he could tell she was fibbing. “I had a break from work and decided to take advantage of it.” There. That was better.

He set the mug on the counter. “You could’ve given me a heads-up. Then maybe I wouldn’t have made you pee yourself yesterday.”

Without thinking, she glanced down at her crotch, as though it could tell her if she’d had a tiny accident right before fainting and, as with her outburst at the salad place, had immediately forgotten about it.

“I’m kidding,” he said.

Not funny, she thought, even though some demented part of her was threatening to mirror the smile he’d just cracked. “I had no idea you’d be here—and before you mention it, I’m aware that that’s on me. Don’t worry, I won’t be here long.”

“I’m not worried,” he said, reaching for the carafe again.

“That’s a lot of coffee,” she said as he refilled his mug.

He arched an eyebrow. “I had a late night.”

She flushed. She didn’t need to know, nor did she care, what Wyatt did after dark. Or maybe she should, actually. “I hope you locked the door when you came in,” she said, tilting her chin with indignation. “It was wide open when I got here yesterday.”

“Wide open?” he questioned. “Or just unlocked? Because this isn’t Manhattan. It’s pretty darn safe here.”

Ugh, he was the absolute worst! “Whatever. The point is . . .” What was the point, again? Oh, right. “I want to sell the house,” she said, folding her arms over her chest.

Wyatt’s eyes met hers. “No.”

“Pardon me?” she said, willing herself not to break his gaze. Why wasn’t he blinking? Was this some sort of negotiation power play that men in finance liked to use?

“I’m not interested in selling.”

“But I need to,” she said.

“No, you don’t.”

How dare he make assumptions about her! “Yes, I do. I’m kind of in a situation.”

“Whatever it is, you don’t have to sell,” he said evenly.

“I do,” she said. Uh-oh—she needed to calm down, lest her brain decide to go and bury its memories in her mental backyard again.

“No one has to do anything,” he said calmly. “And selling when you’ve been here one whole day is reactive, if not borderline impulsive.”

Now she turned away, fast, so he wouldn’t see the tears that had just sprung to her eyes. Reactive! Impulsive! How she hated him. “Nothing about me is reactive or impulsive,” she said in a low voice. “And if you knew me at all, you’d understand that.”

“Maybe so,” he conceded. “But I know Luke. And he didn’t leave you this place so you could immediately sell it.”

Knew, thought Aly. You knew him. But as she turned back around, she had the weird urge to hug Wyatt . . . because she made the same mistake all the time. Fortunately, her urge passed as quickly as it had appeared.

“So what do you propose we do? Because I’m broke, and you—” She glanced at the counter. “You’re turning my brother’s dream home into a giant petri dish. And I’d prefer not to spend the next nine days dealing with the havoc you’ve been wreaking.”

If he registered her insult, he didn’t let on. “First of all, you’re not broke.”

Just because her wardrobe was no longer secondhand didn’t mean she wasn’t right up against the edge of being unable to feed herself. But of course, Wyatt had probably been diapered in hundred-dollar bills as an infant; he wouldn’t know a struggle if it socked him in the stomach. “Okay, you just keep thinking that,” she spat.