Must Be Wright (The Wrights 3)

He blew out a breath, rocked back on his heels, and looked at the ground, shaking his head. When he met her eyes again, they were serious and scared. She was looking at the real Wyatt. The Wyatt beneath the flash, beneath the sarcasm, beneath the good-time guy. The man looking at her now was the one who’d slipped beneath her skin a long time ago.

Gypsy glan

ced toward his truck and found Belle in the front seat looking out the windshield at them. She waved, and Gypsy waved back, but to Wyatt, she said, “What did I tell you about the front seat last night?”

“She didn’t ride in the front. She just climbed there after we stopped. What do you say, Gypsy? I really need a friend right now.”

Most people would be surprised that a man with hundreds of thousands of fans and an army of employees needed a friend. But Gypsy knew exactly how isolating fame could be.

“Look,” Wyatt said. “I would take her with me, but if the lawyer says what I think he’s going to say, I don’t want her to hear that her mama didn’t want her.”

Shock dropped Gypsy’s jaw. “What?”

“Francie left signed guardianship papers on the kitchen table.”

All her air whooshed out. “Oh my God.”

He sighed and glanced at Bell, then back to Gypsy. Anger tightened his expression, and a muscle jumped in his jaw. “I’m hoping I find out more from this attorney.”

“Jesus Christ,” Gypsy whispered. “Did you see any signs of this? Or did your parents?”

Wyatt shook his head. “Not that I know of. She and Brody were on again, off again until she got pregnant and they got married. I know Brody’s suicide shook our whole family, but my mom says Francie has been as good a mom as she was able to be. I mean…” he shrugged, “…Francie called me a few months ago asking for help, and I sent her thirty grand. I didn’t hear anything after that, so I figured she had what she needed.”

Anger sparked in Gypsy’s chest. “What is it with successful men? Why do they always feel like money will solve every problem?”

Wyatt tilted his head and managed a crooked smile. “Because it usually does?”

“Not the ones that matter.” Gypsy bent her no-bullshit rules. “Fine, I’ll watch her, but I’m doing it for her, not you. No little girl should have to know what it feels like to be abandoned. But this is the last time, Jackson. Don’t pull this again.”

“Thank you.” Wyatt slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her into a bear hug, lifting her off her feet. “Thank you so much. This really means a lot to me. I really, really appreciate it.”

His words dimmed as her mind tried to process the onslaught of sensations in her body. His chest was wide and hard, his belly flat, his arms strong. Those lazy, untucked, unbuttoned shirts pulled over a tee didn’t showcase the body pressed against her now.

And damn he smelled good. He felt good. It had been so damn long since she’d been held by a man. Four years, to be exact. The night she told Cooper’s father she was pregnant, her entire world changed. And part of that change was being man-free so she could put Cooper first.

Wyatt was the only man she’d met in that time who made her ache for more, and not just for his looks or his charm. Her attraction to Wyatt came in rare moments like these, when she saw the man beneath the glitz. Wyatt Jackson the rock star didn’t interest Gypsy in the least. But this man who always stopped at her bar as soon as he got back in town, this man who loved his family, yeah, this man was real trouble.

She pushed off his chest and wiggled loose, then gave him a shove. “Go on. Bring her in.” As he walked toward the truck, she called after him, “I’m interviewing managers today. You have to be back to pick her up in two hours.”

7

Wyatt’s stomach was wired tight when he arrived at the attorney’s office, his mind spinning like a carnival ride, his stomach pitching with nausea. He climbed from his truck and made his way to the office, bouncing between hope and fear. Surely Francie hadn’t meant for this to be permanent. As soon as she realized what she’d given up, she’d come back.

He boarded the elevator to the sixth floor with Gypsy’s comment pinching his gut. “What is it with successful men? Why do they always feel like money will solve every problem?”

He had, admittedly, expected the money he sent Francie to get her whatever help she needed, even though he shamefully couldn’t remember why she needed help or what kind. He barely remembered the phone call.

In his own defense, he’d been just about to go onstage at the Capital One Arena in DC. And he hadn’t seen it as throwing money at her, but being there to give her what she needed to get by. Now he felt like a royal shit of a brother-in-law for not realizing when Francie called for help, she meant the psychological and/or physical kind of help, not the financial kind of help.

Maybe that was why Brody had never even called Wyatt for help. Maybe Wyatt was just too self-absorbed to grasp another person’s needs.

The building housing the attorney’s office was old and historically beautiful, but it had the slowest elevator in all of mankind. Wyatt stared at the numbers lighting up and going dark on the panel, fighting to shift the weight of this impossible blame off his shoulders.

Francie could have used the money he’d sent to hire help to alleviate whatever issue made her feel the need to abandon her child. She could have hired a nanny or babysitter or housekeeper. She could have taken Belle on a vacation or invested in herself by getting a degree or starting a vocational school.

As it stood, it looked like she may have taken the money and run.

Wyatt paused outside the attorney’s office door to collect himself. He was on the edge. Sweating palms, shaking legs, tension drawing his shoulders toward his ears. Wyatt rubbed his face with both hands before dropping his arms. He took a deep breath, dropped his head back, and blew it out slowly.