She felt as if she were channeling an ultra hot star of screen and stage, Lauren Bacall or Greta Garbo, someone men had lusted after for generations. A quick glance down confirmed she was wearing cargo pants and a sap-stained T-shirt. There hadn’t been time to change between getting rid of her dad and preparing dinner for Wyatt. As she dished up bowls of shrimp and grits, she directed him to the table for two in her kitchen. The eastern exposure here made morning meals pleasant, though this time of day long shadows stretched across her backyard flower garden. Would Wyatt be here in the morning? Another kiss like that one, and she’d make him stay over. The front door banged. Wyatt shot her an inquiring look from his chair. “My dog,” she said. “I leave the screen unlatched so he can come and go at will.” “Must be inconvenient in mosquito season.” She shrugged and carried two steaming bowls to the table. “It’s always insect season around here. You get used to it.” He nodded.
