“You heard me, Mari.” Emma set down the stack of dishes she’d collected. “I’m here to serve your needs at the inn, but you can’t barge into every corner of my life, or the lives of the people in my life. Those people trust me, and I’m not going to subject them to cameras and questions, or trot them out for entertainment’s sake.”
“You make it sound so distasteful. Have you considered that some of them might find it enjoyable . . . exciting, even? Naturally we couldn’t record anyone who didn’t sign a waiver, but why rob them of a chance to do something unique? Being in a film with an international sports figure is an opportunity most people would probably love to experience.”
Emma rocked back on her heels. Could Mari have a point? Might Mrs. Marchetti or old Tom Jahns like the spotlight? It seemed unlikely. Then again, her erotica-writing career would seem even more implausible to everyone in town. Perhaps, deep down, many people would jump at a chance to experience something new, especially if they’d been confined to an eldercare facility for months or years.
“Then there’s the issue of how this could help Wyatt’s image.” Mari raised her brow in that snotty, stuck-up way Emma couldn’t stand. “But I suppose that’s not important to you, is it?”
“I understand why Emma’s being protective.” Wyatt tossed his napkin on the table and stared straight into her soul. “I’d still like to go, with or without the cameras.”
Somehow instead of Mari being the bad guy, that black hat hovered above Emma’s head now, waiting for her decision. How could she deny Wyatt after what he’d confessed to her in the kitchen?
“Fine. You can come. But before the cameras show up, I need to clear it with the center’s director.”
“Fair enough.” Mari’s victorious smile made Emma want to hurl. “I’d like to be part of that call so I might be able to answer any questions and assure everyone that we won’t do anything to upset the residents.”
“It’s after hours, so we’ll have to wait until early morning to speak with her.” Emma lifted the stack of dishes again and dashed into the kitchen before her good manners vanished.
Once safely ensconced in her kitchen, Emma took out her feelings on the dishes by jamming them into the dishwasher.
“Whoa.” Wyatt had sneaked into the kitchen and crossed to where she fumed. He removed a dish from her hand. “Take a breath before you chip all your plates.”
“I’m fine.” She held out her palm, face up. “Seriously, Wyatt. Please hand me the plate and go back to your posse.”
He placed it back in her hand. “I’m sorry about what happened out there. I didn’t think about how Mari might react. If I had, I would’ve waited to speak with you in private. If it’s going to be a problem, I can say my knee hurts, or make up some other excuse not to go.”
Emma eyed him, trying to determine whether this was some excellent form of manipulation or simple sincerity. Having already decided some of the residents would enjoy participating in a film, she gave Wyatt the benefit of the doubt.
“As long as no one exploits the patients, I suppose it is fine. Mari’s right, some of them might get a little thrill out of it. It’ll certainly be a big change from a round of bingo.”
“Nice to know I’m good for something.” His grin seriously messed with her head, filling it with fanciful thoughts of hand-holding, stolen kisses, warm embraces.
“Imagine that,” she teased, then reined herself in. For a dozen reasons, not the least of which were her secrets, she couldn’t let him know her.
“What are you baking?” he asked, glancing toward the oven. “Smells good.”
“I thought refined sugar is off-limits.” Feeling crowded by his presence, she asked, “Shouldn’t you be out there making decisions about the footage?”
“Like I have any say.” Wyatt frowned and rapped his knuckles on the counter. When he looked up, his eyes glittered with fire, and his lopsided grin warned of a mood change. “As for my nutrition plan, tell me what’s on the dessert menu tonight. I’m feeling naughty.”
Emma couldn’t think with him standing so near. Her heart relocated to her ears, its beat throbbing there, blocking out other sounds. She stepped aside to create a little distance between them before they fused together. “No wonder you like Trip. You’re a junior version of him.”
“First of all, I’m not that much younger than him, or you. Secondly, what’s so bad about being like him?” Wyatt rubbed his jaw with one hand, and she found herself wondering if his stubble felt prickly or soft. He’d been clean-shaven the night his mouth had kissed every inch of her skin. That memory sparked a burst of goose bumps that rushed down her neck. “Seems like he has a good time and a good life . . . a happy one.”