“What’s that smile for?” “You,” I say simply. “Just thinkin’ ’bout you.” “Well, Easton William Moore,” Wyatt says, humor dancing in his golden brown eyes. “You look like a fool.” “A fool in love,” I tell him. Wyatt lifts his hand, tracing my lower lip, before he rests his palm over my heart, right where he belongs. “Makes two of us.”
