To Die For

He gave me a thoughtful look, as if until now he hadn’t realized that neither of us had said “I love you.” I don’t think men put as much importance into saying “I love you” as women do. For them, it was more about doing than it was about saying, but while they might not understand why it’s important, at least they get that it is important to women. The fact that I hadn’t said it to him got his attention, though, made him realize that perhaps things weren’t as cut-and-dried between us as he assumed.

“We’ll get there,” he finally said, and I was relieved that he hadn’t said “I love you” as a means of prompting me to say it too, because then I would have known he didn’t mean it. Lord, this man-woman stuff was complicated; it was like a game of chess, and we were equally matched opponents. I knew what I wanted: total reassurance that he was in this for the long haul. I hoped, but until I knew, I was holding back a little part of myself. He was having fun, I thought; I was having fun, even when we argued. At some point the chess game would be over and then we would see where we stood.

He took my hand. It was my left hand, of course, since he was driving, so I couldn’t move my arm very much. He gently slid his hand under mine, and laced our fingers. No doubt about it, he was a damn fine strategist.

That night was far different from the first two nights. He did laundry, both his and mine, and impressed me by not messing up. He cut the grass, even though it was dark by the time he got around to it. His riding lawn mower had headlights on it and he also turned on his outside spotlights. I felt as if I were Ms. Bower Bird, watching Mr. Bower Bird build his nest with all sorts of interesting sparklies to show what a good provider he was, then parading in front of it, hoping to lure Ms. Bower Bird inside. This was Domestic Wyatt in action. To be fair, though, his yard was well-maintained anyway; I could tell he regularly mowed the grass.

It was ten o’clock when he came in, shirtless and dirty, sweat gleaming on his chest because it was still hot outside even though it was dark. He went straight to the sink and downed a big glass of water, his strong throat working as he swallowed. I wanted to jump on his back and wrestle him to the ground, but my darned arm wasn’t up to the action.

He set the glass in the sink and turned to me. “You ready for your shower?”

Maybe it was a tactical error, but tonight I didn’t feel very hard to get-well, not that I’d ever been all that difficult for him anyway. Give me points for trying though. Tonight I didn’t even want to try. “Can we wash my hair tonight, too?”

“Sure.”

“Blow-drying it won’t take long.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He gave a slow smile. “I’ll enjoy the scenery while I’m working.”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out how the next hour went. We were both wet and slippery and turned on, and I said to hell with controlling myself-just this once-and threw myself into our lovemaking. It started in the shower-then a panting time-out was called while he dried my hair-and ended in the bed.

He rolled off me with a groan and lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes while he sucked in huge gulping breaths. I was breathing fast and hard myself, and I was almost limp with mingled pleasure and exhaustion. Almost. I found the energy to climb on top of him and stretch out while I kissed his jaw, his mouth, his neck, and any other place I could reach.

“Uncle,” he said weakly.

“You’re giving up before you even know what I want?”

“Whatever it is, I can’t. I’m mostly dead.” His hand settled on my bare butt, patted once, then dropped limply to the bed.

“It’s postcoital glow. I want to cuddle.”

“Cuddling I can manage.” His lips twitched in a smile. “Maybe.”

“You can just lie there and I’ll do the work.”

“Why didn’t you say that ten minutes ago?”

“Do I look stupid?” I settled my head in the hollow of his shoulder and sighed with contentment.

“No, I told you, you look like an ice cream cone.”

And he’d licked me right up, too. I shivered as I remembered. If I’d been standing up, my knees would have wobbled. His knees had wobbled, too, I thought with satisfaction. He wasn’t the only one who could play that card.

I smiled, thinking of doing it again. Not right now, though. After a while. I yawned, and the lights went out in mid-cuddle.

Mom called while we were eating breakfast the next morning. I didn’t know it was her, though. Wyatt answered the phone, said, “Yes, ma’am,” twice, then said “Seven,” and “Yes, ma’am,” again before hanging up.

“Your mother?” I asked as he returned to his food.

“No, yours.”

“My mom? What did she want? Why didn’t you let me talk to her?”

“She didn’t ask to speak to you. She invited us to supper tonight at seven. I said we’d be there.”

“We will? What if you have to work late?”

“To quote you, do I look stupid? I’ll be there. And so will you, if I have to drag you kicking and screaming out of Great Bods. Make arrangements with Lynn for her to stay until closing.”

I rolled my eyes, prompting him to say, “What?” in a testy tone.

“Before you start issuing orders, Lieutenant, you might ask what arrangements I’ve already made.”

“Okay, what arrangements have you already made?”

He was such a smart-ass. “Lynn opened, then she goes home when I get there, and I work the middle chunk of the day. She comes in again at five and stays until closing. So she’s working three hours this morning, and four tonight. That’s just until my arm is better, because there’s stuff that has to be done in the mornings and at night that would be hard to do with just one good arm. So your orders weren’t necessary.”

“Good deal.” He winked at me.

It was easy to figure out why Mom invited us. Half of it was to get in some coddling of her injured firstborn, and the other half was to check out Wyatt. She must be half mad with curiosity, and having to wait because he’d had me hidden out would have made it worse. Mom deals with frustration just fine-up to a point. Beyond that point, she causes tsunamis.

I was filled with excitement over the coming day. I was getting my car-finally!-and I was going to work, and after work, I was going to my own home. I had packed my bags and Wyatt hadn’t argued, though he hadn’t looked pleased. That morning I had managed to dress myself, even my bra. I still couldn’t twist my arm up behind my back to fasten the bra that way, but I had turned it backward so the hooks were in front, fastened it, then turned the bra around on my body and worked the straps up my arms. That method didn’t look as sexy as the other way, but it worked.

“Take it easy today,” he instructed as he drove me to my house so I could get my car. “Maybe we should stop at a medical supply store and get a sling for you, so you’ll remember not to move your arm very much.”

“I’ll remember,” I said wryly. “Trust me.” If I tried a fast movement, the stitched-together muscle reminded me in a hurry.

A few minutes later he said, “I don’t like you being away from me.”

“But you knew my staying at your house was just temporary.”

“It doesn’t have to be temporary. You could move in with me.”

“Uh-uh,” I said without hesitation. “That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Well, that’s enlightening,” he said sarcastically. “Because why?”

“A lot of reasons. That would be rushing things way too fast. I think we need to back off and