Roadside Attractions

Twenty-One

HARVIE HEIGHTS, AB

Music seeps through the walls, rumbling the floor beneath my feet as I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, fingers gripping the countertop. I blink slowly, feeling myself sway.

Since bringing the World’s Shortest Fling to a close and bidding Owen goodnight, I’ve bulldozed my way from feeling buzzed to becoming absolutely sloshed. I haven’t been this drunk since the grad party—I almost accidentally called Anjali earlier. Time has lost all meaning, and I can feel that my movements are wobbly and languid, my speech increasingly slurred, but I haven’t stopped. Because every time I allow myself a moment of clear-headedness, thoughts of Wyatt slip in.

I can’t feel this way about him. I just can’t.

Pushing off the counter, I open the bathroom door and step into the hallway. Wyatt straightens out from where he was leaning against the wall, waiting for me. My pulse spikes at the sight of him; it’s been like this all night, like my body wakes up when I’m around him .

“Hey,” he says, eyes scanning over my appearance. “Feeling better?”

“I’m ready to get back in there,” I say, gesturing toward the pub’s entrance across the lobby.

Wyatt gives me a doubtful look. He’s significantly more sober than I am. “Are you sure? Maybe we should call it a night. My childhood cowboy is satisfied.”

I wave dismissively, brushing past him. “Nonsense. We haven’t done any cowboy shit yet.”

He catches my hand with his, stopping me in my tracks. His touch sends electricity skittering up my arm. I keep my eyes down, feeling like I’ll spontaneously combust if I look him in the face. “Stella,” he says, voice low, stepping closer. Out of the corner of my eye, concern etches onto his features. “Did something happen with Owen? You can tell me.”

“ Nothing happened,” I remark for the millionth time. “I lost interest. That’s it.”

My answer doesn’t satisfy him. “It seems like more than that. You’ve been acting strange ever since I found you outside.”

Steeling myself, I meet his eyes. My brain swims, and I feel like I could fall into the depths of his gaze, drown in it. “Isn’t this what you’ve wanted from me this whole trip? To see me let go and have fun?”

“I was hoping you’d have the kind of fun you’d be able to remember the next day.”

“I don’t want to think about tomorrow,” I say honestly. I don’t even want to think about what I’ll be doing an hour from now. As someone with a general distaste for the unknown, this is very out of character. “We’re ages away from home, and I’ll never see any of these people again. Maybe I don’t have to be Stella Moore tonight.”

Wyatt holds me captive with his eyes. “I like when you’re you.”

My lips part, my chest pulsing with affection. It takes a second for my brain to start working again, for me to remember that we’re standing way too close, that his fingers are still curled around mine. Pulling my hand out of his, I take a step back.

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me,” I mumble, my speech slow .

His head rears back in confusion. “Why not?”

Because it makes me feel things I shouldn’t be feeling.

“Forget it. Let’s go back inside,” I say.

Without giving him a chance to respond, I trudge back to the pub, feeling safer and less exposed in the dim lighting. Owen’s crew left a while ago, but I wish they would come back. Dancing with Astrid and Mei-Lien would be the perfect distraction right now. Anything to prevent me from feeling this way, from blurting things I should keep to myself.

Wyatt trails behind me, seeming like the weary parent of an unruly toddler. I lead us back to the bar, ordering another round of shots, ignoring his protests.

“You need to catch up to me,” I challenge. “You’ve fallen way behind.”

Wyatt grimaces as I clumsily slide a shot glass in his direction. “I think I’d need an alcohol IV to catch up to you at this point.”

Leaning my elbow on the bar, I give him a playful smile. “Did we switch personalities when I wasn’t paying attention? I thought I was supposed to be the buzzkill.” I lift my glass in his direction. “Bottoms up, Cowboy.”

The nickname earns me a grin, and that small win makes me entirely too pleased. It feels like it’s been hours since he’s smiled for real. Maybe it has. We clink our glasses together before tossing them back, and I wince, my whole body shuddering as the J?germeister courses down my throat. Wyatt makes a face, rolling his shoulders before taking my empty glass from me and setting it on the counter.

“All right, I’m officially cutting you off,” he says firmly. “That was the last one.”

“Excuse me?” I protest. “I’m a grown woman, I can make decisions for myself.”

“You lost your decision-making privileges about an hour ago when you almost drunk-dialled your boss,” he insists, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re under my jurisdiction now.”

This is a side of Wyatt I’m not used to—scowling and protective. It’s both infuriating and miserably attractive. But I’m in no position to argue; my head feels like it’s about to either float away or drop to the floor, and the thought of either makes a laugh rise in my throat.

“Listen here,” I tell him, trying to smother my smile and give Wyatt a serious look, “there’s no stopping this party train. It’s your fault, really, for calling me boring . I’m proving you wrong.” Immediately, I hear how drunk I sound, stretching out each word, and I snort before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

“Yikes.” Wyatt raises his eyebrows, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “I might need to call Noor for backup.”

The thought makes me laugh even more. “If Noor were here right now, you’d have two problems instead of just one.” Right then, a man walks by with the most magnificent cowboy hat I’ve ever seen, and before I can process what I’m doing, my hand shoots out to snatch it from his head. “Can I borrow this?” I ask after I’ve already removed it.

He gapes at me. “Uh, no—”

“Here.” I stand on my tiptoes and attempt to place the cowboy hat overtop of Wyatt’s cream-coloured ball cap. “Fantasy complete.”

“ Stella ,” Wyatt says, mortified as he catches my wrist, but there’s laughter in his voice. He turns to the man. “I’m so sorry. She’s very drunk, as I’m sure you can tell.”

“Don’t lie to him. I’ve never been more sober,” I retort. The words are so jumbled they’re nearly unintelligible. I sound like a more impassioned version of George.

The man slides his hat back on and briskly walks as far away as possible. I throw my head back in laughter at the look on the stranger’s face as I process what I’ve just done. The action sends me off balance—my arms flail, trying to latch onto a barstool and failing. Seconds later, I’m flat on my back on the sticky pub floor, staring up at the ceiling.

“That’s it,” Wyatt says shortly. “Bedtime.”

He crouches down, slinging my arm around his shoulder as I giggle, completely useless. He hauls me to my feet, and I grip the back of his shirt tightly, squeezing my eyes shut.

“Wait!” I cry. “Stop making the room spin. ”

“That last shot really did you in, huh?” With a sigh, he gives me a second to collect myself before dragging me into a standing position.

“I’m fine ,” I emphasize, unable to stop grinning.

The second the words leave my lips, I stumble over my own feet, nearly catapulting to the floor before he catches me. He lets out another aggravated sigh, fixing me with a look of disapproval. Then, without giving me a chance to process what’s happening, he bends down, scooping me into his arms, bridal style. I let out a squeal, clutching his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“This is a lot easier,” he mutters as we exit into the lobby.

A grin stretches across my face, words slipping from my mouth unbidden. “We should get married.”

Wyatt comes to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the stairs, eyes connecting with mine. I can feel his heart beating wildly. “What?”

I snort. “ That would show Roman.”

He exhales sharply. “Right.”

We resume our path, and I hang on tighter as we make our way up the stairs. Wyatt sets me down when we reach our room, propping me against the wall. “Do you have the key?” he asks.

My lips pull up in a mischievous smile. I pat the pocket of my sundress.

He watches me expectantly. “Can I have it?”

“You have to come and get it.”

I inch away from him, back toward the stairs. But Wyatt stops me before I get too far, trapping me between him and the wall. I crane my head, looking up at him. It’s like a mirror of when we stood outside House 204, when he comforted me after we saw Roman’s Instagram post.

His irises are dark, swirling with an emotion I can’t decipher in my current state of mind. My eyes fall to his lips, and I allow myself a moment to imagine what it would be like to kiss Wyatt Song.

He holds out a hand, the movement drawing my gaze. It takes me a second to realize he’s waiting for me to drop the key in his palm. I shake my head stubbornly .

“I told you to get it yourself.”

Wyatt’s eyes spark, lingering on mine for a moment. Then, so gentle as though he might break me, he slides his fingers into my front pocket, retrieving the key, and I feel my pulse in my throat. Once he’s removed it, he unlocks the door and holds it open for me to enter.

Begrudgingly, I push myself off the wall and trudge into the room, kicking off my shoes as I head straight for the bed. I collapse onto it, suddenly eager to lie down and hopefully feel a little less like I’ve just gotten off a roller coaster. With all the commotion, I almost forgot we have to share this thing.

The door clicks shut behind him, and he places his hands on his hips. “What am I going to do with you, Stella Jane?”

Whatever you want.

Thank God I haven’t completely lost my filter.

“I’ve always thought my middle name was boring, but I like when you say it,” I muse with a sigh. “I like that you call me something no one else does.”

Wyatt pauses, face softening. “You do?”

I close my eyes as the spins begin to pass. “This is the comfiest bed in the whole entire world.”

“Highly doubtful.” Wyatt rifles through a suitcase.

“See for yourself.”

Moments later, he speaks again, his voice much closer. “Hey,” he says. “Sit up.”

I force myself to open my eyes, eyebrows furrowing. Wyatt is perched on the edge of the bed next to me, holding something in my direction. My makeup wipes. I push myself onto my elbows. “What are you doing?”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t like going to bed without a clean face.”

“I don’t,” I agree.

“So,” he says simply. “Sit up.”

Still feeling confused, I do as he says, tucking my legs beneath me and turning to face him. Wyatt presses his lips together in concentration. He hesitates before gingerly brushing my hair out of my face, and I go still beneath his touch. Placing his fingers on my jawline with a feather-light touch, he tilts my head upward, steadying me as he begins to clear my makeup away with the wipe.

I feel the urge to pull away, to snap at him and say that I’m more than capable of doing this myself, but I’m too busy holding my breath to do anything else. I close my eyes as he scrubs the night from my skin, leaving my face feeling fresh. A wave of self-consciousness threatens to rise inside me, but I smother it. He’s seen me bare-faced before.

When he’s done, he pulls away, leaning back. My eyes flutter open. “Thanks,” I murmur.

I can’t seem to tear my eyes from his face, convinced he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. My hand reaches out without me telling it to, and my fingertips perch on his cheek lightly, barely there. He freezes, inhaling sharply, the sound so faint I hardly hear it.

His skin is soft beneath my fingers, tantalizing. I want to feel more of him while I have the chance. Feeling like a woman possessed, I let my fingers trail down his cheek diagonally until I reach his lips. I’m too afraid to breathe. The whole time, Wyatt remains still as a statue, not daring to look away from me. I press against his mouth gently, trying to signal what I want, without having the courage to speak the words aloud.

Kiss me.

But he doesn’t move, so I drop my hand to the neckline of his t-shirt, my fingers curling in the fabric. I have a wild temptation to tug him closer, my heart thundering in my chest. Wyatt swallows—I feel it against my hand. His pulse is racing too. Would it be so wrong to give in to the physical attraction, even knowing it’ll never be anything bigger than that?

I close my eyes again, leaning in. Wyatt’s hand snaps out to encircle my wrist gently, and my eyes fly open with a jolt. His gaze is heavy-lidded, zeroed in on my lips. We’re only a whisper apart, close enough that our breaths mingle.

“Careful, Moore,” he warns roughly. His voice is low and thick, sending a thrill down my spine. “Don’t do that unless you mean it.”

The words don’t compute in my brain, and I blink at him for a moment before feeling a wash of embarrassment over my unreciprocated brazenness. I lean back, and he lets go of my wrist, as if I’m no longer a threat. When I remove my hand from his shirt, his shoulders visibly relax. I’m dizzy and confused. I mumble an apology as I scoot farther away on the bed.

Wyatt passes me my water bottle. “Drink this. And go to bed.” Then, in a mutter to himself, “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I give him a mock salute, then uncap the bottle, chugging most of it. When Wyatt is satisfied with my hydration, he rises from the bed, pulling back the covers so I can slide beneath them. I’m too wrecked to attempt changing out of my clothes, and Wyatt may have taken off my makeup, but I’m not about to let him take off anything else.

I settle under the covers, feeling like my limbs are weighed down with stones, sinking into the mattress. Wyatt begins to walk away.

“I wasn’t into Owen,” I hear myself say.

He pauses, looking at me over his shoulder.

I hold his gaze. “Guys like him don’t do it for me.”

Wyatt’s face changes as he turns around. “And what exactly does it for you?”

I wrap my arms around one of the spare pillows, lips curling upward. “Not telling.”

He narrows his eyes in suspicion. Exhaustion grips me, and the last thing I remember before slinking into subconsciousness is Wyatt’s voice, low and warm:

I like when you’re you.