“Come here.” Wyatt blinked at him. “What?” “You can help. I’m not your cook.” Wyatt stood, making his way toward Linc with trepidation, like it was some elaborate scheme. Linc handed him a wooden spatula. “Just push them around in the pan so they don’t burn, okay?” Wyatt frowned but nodded, staring into the pan with the same concentration one gave bomb disposal. Linc smiled. He couldn’t help himself.
