Doing It Over (Most Likely To #1)(42)

“I don’t wanna go back there again ever. I like it here.”

Melanie glanced down at Wyatt, who had heard her daughter’s words. “I like it here, too.”

They listened to the wind in the treetops for a few minutes, and pointed out things they couldn’t see from the ground. “We should probably get back and help with the dishes.”

Hope offered a small protest but didn’t whine for long.

Climbing down from the tree was a little harder for Hope than ascending.

Wyatt guided her from under, and Melanie stayed a foot above.

Wyatt reached the ground first and lifted Hope from the last few branches before setting her on her feet.

With her daughter safe, Melanie stopped watching the activity on the ground and concentrated on her own descent. The feel of Wyatt’s hand on her ankle made her grin and look.

Watching the mischief behind his eyes, she took another step and felt his other hand reach her thigh. “I think I have—”

“Gotta keep the Bartlett girls safe,” he said.

And then both his hands were on her ass and sliding to her waist, where he plucked her off the tree as if she were a fly.

“There you are.” Only he didn’t let go.

When Melanie turned around, he was snug inside her personal space, reminding her how lonely it was without him there.

For a minute, she thought maybe he’d lean in a little closer. His eyes were already traveling to her lips.

A small voice stole the moment. “We should climb trees every day.”

Wyatt lifted one eyebrow without breaking eye contact with her.

“Mommy?”

Melanie had to turn away from the tractor beams of Wyatt’s gaze. “Yeah?”

Hope was studying the two of them . . . her eyes shifting back and forth.

Melanie took a tiny step back and Wyatt let go.

Hope pushed in between them and grasped one of their hands in each of hers. “Can we climb another one?”

“Sure, sweetie. But not today.”

Melanie noticed the shadow of the three of them once they left the crush of trees. The song in Hope’s voice as she talked Wyatt’s ear off about tree climbing and sticky fingers followed them all the way back to the inn.





CHAPTER TWELVE




Wyatt opened his refrigerator door, took one sniff, and shut it. He really should do something about the smell in the icebox, but not tonight.

Exhaustion wasn’t going to allow him the chore of cleaning out the fuzz growing in the vegetable drawer or the unmentionables tucked in rubber containers.

Hunger drove him to his pantry, which wasn’t better than an oversize cupboard with canned and boxed food. The standby go-to box of mac and cheese sat beside a jar of peanut butter.

He reached for the peanut butter and made sure there wasn’t any green growing on the bread sitting on the counter before making himself a quick sandwich. He wasn’t halfway through the first one and he was making a second.

He leaned against the kitchen counter and hummed.

Nothing better than a PB&J.

The past week had been a blur. Between the drama at Miss Gina’s and the week of reunion chaos . . . and Melanie, Wyatt was beat.

It didn’t help that when he finally closed his eyes at night, his thoughts of Melanie kept him tossing and turning. And if he was honest with himself, he’d acknowledge the soreness in his shoulders after climbing up after her and Hope in the tree.

He might climb on a house a couple of times a week, but tree climbing used a few muscles his body forgot he had.

Wyatt took his second half-eaten sandwich into his living room and sank into his couch.

The coffee table was nothing more than two milk crates holding up a piece of glass, but it worked to suit his needs. He’d started the remodel on his own house the minute he’d moved into the place five years before. Once each room was completely redone he would go through the effort of furnishing it before moving on to the next. To date he had his bedroom and master bathroom along with the kitchen completed. The living room was still a shell that needed masonry work around the fireplace, completed flooring—hardwood was his preference—and new lighting throughout. That didn’t mean he didn’t have a big screen hung on a half-finished wall and a couch . . . but he drew the line at tables and occasional chairs. The only real visitors he had were friends like Luke, and they couldn’t give two shits about the decor in his home. They would continue to crack jokes about the plumber’s faucet leaking . . . or in his case, his half-finished house when he could fix just about anything.

Problem was, he’d been working continually since he moved to River Bend. Between the odd-end jobs and handyman needs of the widowed and divorced . . . and the full-time needs of the businesses in town, Gibson Construction was booming. On occasion he would hire a few men to help with bigger jobs, like the one Miss Gina wanted him to do. There was no way he was going to be able to do that solo with the timeline she’d measured out. Why the woman wanted a guest house when the inn sat half full at best most of the year was the question. He wondered if Melanie had given her the excuse to go into an early retirement. The woman had always been eccentric and outspoken, but she was like a comet lighting up the northern sky since the reunion.

He flipped through the channels and kicked his feet up on his hillbilly coffee table and managed maybe three deep breaths before his phone rang. Thankfully the handset was sitting next to his feet and he didn’t need to pick his sore ass up off the couch to answer it.