“I need a favor.”
Natalie glanced up to see Wyatt Buckhorn standing before her in all his glory. “I’m busy.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He pried her cookie-filled plate from her hands, setting it on the table alongside her wicker love seat.
“Hey,” she protested. “If ever there was a girl in need of cookie-therapy, it’s me.”
He rolled his eyes. “Cry me a river. Craig’s been an ass before, and I’m sure he will again. This is important.” Drawing her to her feet, he tugged her against him—tightly enough together a playing card couldn’t have been slid between them. Though Natalie and Wyatt had been pals since their first day in Weed Gulch Elementary’s kindergarten class, she couldn’t ever remember touching him—not like this. He was a Buckhorn, and had everything that came with the name. Criminally handsome, filthy rich, with enough charisma to charm a rattler into being a lap pet. That said, she’d always viewed him as someone to study from afar. He moved in vastly different circles than she did, which was fine. Back in high school he dated only cheerleaders and she’d had no wish to break her arm in a cheerleading pyramid, or, now that they’d grown, his usual date’s stiletto heels.
“Yeah,” she snatched a cookie from her plate, “so is my strict comfort-food regime.”
Fingers around her wrist, he playfully growled before biting off a good three-quarters of her treat. Before she’d worked up a protest speech, he finished it off.
“Back to business,” he said upon swallowing. “In about thirty seconds, I’m going to kiss you. If you play along, I’ll forever be in your debt.” With a tip of his cowboy hat, he looked as matter-of-fact as if he’d asked directions to the nearest bar.
Natalie lurched back far enough for the pool deck’s wrought-iron fence to bite into her lower vertebrae. “How much champagne punch have you had?”
“Promise,” he said in his lazy cowboy drawl, “I’m stone-cold sober. Plus, this whole godparent thing makes us practically family, and besides my date you’re the only single female under the age of eighty and over the age of seven. You’re my only hope.”
“No,” she insisted. “I’ve had the worst twenty-four hours in world history and—”
Leaning into her personal space, his warm, sugar-laced breath acted like a brick thrown against her resolve. In the lifetime they’d been casual friends, she couldn’t recall Wyatt having ever stood so close. Her pulse behaved badly, galloping over her common sense at an alarming speed.
Licking suddenly parched lips, she managed to mutter, “So, yeah, it’s been a lousy day for me and I probably should just go home.”
“Hell.” He inched still closer. “That’s what you want, I’ll drive you. Just first help me with a kiss.”
Where Natalie’s words used to live now resided hitched breath and the kind of tingly awareness she shouldn’t be feeling. But this was Wyatt Buckhorn standing before her, begging for a kiss. The scene didn’t make sense—not in her carefully ordered world.
“So we’re good?” Wyatt asked, hovering his lips above hers.
No! This assault against her senses was miles from good. But then, in true Buckhorn style, Wyatt claimed what he wanted, pressing his lips to hers. And then he wasn’t just kissing her, but transporting her to another world. A place where she wasn’t alone and trying to hide that she was five months pregnant, but shimmering with a slow, honeyed warmth spreading from her head to her toes. Wyatt’s kiss was firm yet gentle. Sinful and wicked, but in a heavenly realm of good.
When she moaned, he stole the opportunity to sweep her tongue with his. The broad, leisurely stroke was too much, drowning her in powerful, sexy heat. Arms on autopilot, they twined about his neck, and she pressed her fingertips to the back of his head, urging him in for still more. When he finally released her, it was a struggle for Natalie to keep her rubbery knees from buckling.
“Damn…” To Natalie’s credit, Wyatt looked a little dazed himself by the power of what they’d shared. Did that mean it hadn’t all been her imagination? “Um, that went better than expected.”
Breathing still shallow, Natalie managed a nod.
He glanced away, red-faced. “We good?”
“Ah, in what sense?” she asked, doing a quick check to make sure her clothes hadn’t spontaneously combusted from her superheated limbs.
“You know, like we’re still pals?”
Pals? She choked back a laugh. If this was how he kissed a woman he thought of as his pal, she couldn’t fathom the carnal gifts he’d dole out to an actual lover. “Um, sure.”
“Thanks.” After landing a sucker punch to Natalie’s right shoulder, he nodded toward his scowling date. “Pretty sure that did the trick.”
“Everyone line up for more pictures!” Georgina Buckhorn, Wyatt’s mother, was in her element. Parties were her thing, and the over-the-top angel-themed christening for Josie and Dallas’s second daughter together, Esther, was no exception. A trio of harpists provided ethereal song to the gorgeous Indian-summer afternoon. Buffet tables dripping in vintage lace and pearls held outrageously opulent cakes, candies and tarts. Antique-pink roses perfumed the air. “Natalie and Wyatt, you two hold the baby alongside the fountain. Dallas, throw glitter at them so they sparkle.”
“I’m not pitching glitter at my child,” Dallas barked, handing Esther to his brother. As the eldest of the Buckhorn men, he was also the least playful. A fact that, at the moment, served Natalie well.
“Again,” Wyatt whispered above the fountain’s gurgle for only her to hear, “I appreciate you helping me out with that kiss. I’ve been hinting to Starla for days that I’m not the kind of guy who’s in it for the long haul, but she refuses to listen. By helping me provide a few more visual clues, you made the perfect assist.”
“Sure. No biggee.” Liar, her conscience screamed. Part of her wanted to rail at him for including her in such a stupid stunt. Then there was the portion of Natalie still humming with awareness and craving more of whatever Wyatt cared to offer—and that girl wanted to thank him.
Georgina, camera in hand, directed, “I need a few with just the godparents. Natalie, you hold Esther. Wyatt, put your arm around Nat—and for heaven’s sake, smile.”
Unbearable didn’t come close to describing the next five minutes. As much as Natalie had always viewed Wyatt as a fixture in her life, like a brother, she had to admit—if only to herself—he’d grown into one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen. Tall and lanky with spiky black hair and impenetrable brown eyes, he was the dark horse to his fair-haired brothers and sister. He’d been the epitome of Weed Gulch High cool. Star quarterback for football. Pitcher for baseball. He’d changed girlfriends as often as clothes. Wiley Wyatt, he’d been nicknamed for his refusal to commit.
“Nat,” Josie Buckhorn called, “scoot closer to Wyatt. He’s not going to bite.” Natalie’s best friend, a petite redhead with freckles and a perpetual smile ever since marrying Dallas, gestured for Natalie to sidle up to Wyatt.
“I might. Bite, that is.” He aimed a wink toward his already miffed blonde date, which sent her stomping toward the open bar.
Natalie sighed. Wyatt’s action was perfect. Just the