Love Song(22)

I snap out of it. “Are you doing a puzzle?”

“No, I’m just putting these pieces in place for no reason. They don’t form an image at all.”

“Wyatt Graham is doing a puzzle.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Fuckboys don’t puzzle.”

“I’m not a boy. I’m a man.”

“Got it. So you’re a fuckman.”

With a sigh, he leans forward again, abs tightening. I gulp down a flood of saliva. Oh my God. His abs are lickable too. So are his pecs. They’re just defined enough to be sexy but not bulky enough to look like gym boobs.

I can’t handle him like this. Bare-chested, hair messed, sweatpants low. It should be illegal for someone to be this hot while doing a puzzle.

“Why aren’t you putting together the frame first?” I ask him.

“That’s not how I roll.”

“That’s the only way to puzzle,” I argue.

“I have a system, okay? The Graham system.”

“It’s inefficient.”

“Can you please go away? This is my activity. Go find your own.”

I pluck a few edge pieces out of the box and start making a pile.

“No,” Wyatt growls. “I told you, I don’t go by edges. I go by colors.”

“It’s all black and white!”

“And red,” he says smugly, pointing to the canoe.

“You know what? Fine. Do your stupid puzzle without my help. It’s only, what…” I check the box. “Four thousand pieces? I’m sure your system will have you finishing this in no time. Fucking asshole.”

His snort tickles my shoulder blades as I go to prep dinner.

I soon discover that Wyatt is a kitchen nuisance. Abandoning his puzzle, he wanders over and gets in the way constantly. Bumping into me. Jostling me with his elbow. Swiping a cherry tomato from the bowl when I’m in the middle of tossing the salad. When I open the fridge, he’s randomly standing there, even though he’s not getting anything.

“You need to get out of here,” I blurt out. “You’re in my way! Go prep the grill.”

“The grill is heating up.”

“I don’t care. You’re being intrusive.”

“You’re being intrusive. You intruded on my summer.”

“Oh my God, just go and stand silently outside and wait for the barbecue to heat up and get out of my life.”

“You’re very bossy,” he says, smiling faintly. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m digging it.”

“Oh really. You enjoy being bossed around.”

“Outside the bedroom? Sure,” he says, then saunters off and leaves me battling a jolt of desire.

The idea of Wyatt being commanding in the bedroom sends a tiny thrill down my spine and— Nope.

I’m not allowed to think about what he enjoys in bed.

Through the glass doors, I watch him pull on a long-sleeved shirt. His sweatpants ride lower on his hips as he lifts his arms, and I gulp because I don’t think he’s wearing anything underneath those pants. My eyes instinctively focus on his ass. I sort of want him to turn around so I can search for the outline of his dick, and oh my God, that is the perviest thing I’ve ever thought, and I should be ashamed of myself.

I force my gaze away and focus on the salad and roasted potatoes.

By the time I step onto the deck, he’s set the table, and the smell of grilled sirloin fills my nostrils. My stomach rumbles in response. I got a lot of sun today and didn’t eat much, so I’m ravenous.

“Can we talk about the puzzle now?” I ask as I cut off a piece of steak. “I have some constructive criticism.”

“No.”

“I checked out your sorting trays, and you’re putting pieces that belong to the moon into the tray with the swans.”

“Logan,” he says. “Go find your own puzzle.”

“You know what? Maybe I will. Then you can watch me puzzle circles around your sorry ass.”

“Oh wow. I keep forgetting how competitive you are.”

“I’m not competitive,” I object.

“Remember when you were a kid and used to challenge Gigi to foot races and then cried each time she beat you?”

“I didn’t cry. I just teared up.”

“That’s crying.”

“Crying occurs when the tears exit your eyes. If they’re still contained, it doesn’t count.”

“It totally counts.”

We spend the rest of dinner bickering about literally everything. Whether ketchup belongs on steak. If humans could ever live on the moon. The correct orientation of the toilet paper roll. At first, I think maybe he’s picking the wrong answers just to annoy me.

But then I realize what’s happening.

“The dynamic is off,” I announce, cutting him off midsentence as he tries to explain why I’m wrong about mosquitoes. Mr. Naive over here actually believes we can eradicate them without it affecting the food chain. I can’t even.

“What do you mean?” Wyatt says. “What dynamic?”

“That’s why we keep arguing. Because we’ve never spent any time alone together, and it’s a shock to the system. Like, I don’t know what your personality is without your sister here.”