Never Been Worse (Evergreen Park #3)

Chapter 14 – Wes

FOURTEEN

WES

“They work fast,” Harper whispers as we move through the airport, her steps slowing as we walk past a rack of magazines. She moves closer to it, grabbing the gossip rag and flipping through.

There’s a photo of the two of us inside, Harper in that tempting bikini, in my arms. My thumb is grazing along her bottom lip, her eyes locked on mine. She looks like she’s fucking enraptured by me. I do, too, but I would fully expect to see that.

“Who’s Wes Holden’s New Girl?” the headline reads, and I smile to myself, realizing in a week or two, it will be Who is Wes Holden’s New Wife? Leo has yet to spill that bit of juicy gossip, and considering Harper was only wearing her engagement ring at the resort to fuel rumors and everyone at the wedding was on tight NDA lockdown, it hasn’t leaked yet. Leo loves the drama of controlling a secret and dropping it when he wants to.

“We look good,” I say, tipping my head to the article, moving my body closer to hers, and looking over her shoulder.

A deep blush runs over Harper’s cheeks and down her chest.

“I look nearly pornographic in that bathing suit,” she replies, flipping the page.

There are a few more photos of us holding hands at the resort or going to dinner, but mostly from the first day there. The second day, I asked Leo not to tip anyone off and to discourage tabloids and paparazzi from taking photos, wanting Harper to have one relaxing day before we jump into the chaos of this new-to-her life. I don’t know if she caught on, but if she did, she didn’t mention it.

Still, the photos they managed to get are all perfect, both in making our relationship seem more real than before, and because they’re just great shots—I make a mental reminder to have Leo reach out and get some copies because if things go the way I’m planning, we’ll want them one day.

Harper must be reading the actual article instead of taking in the photos like I am because she groans aloud. You have to be kidding me , ” she mumbles before pointing to a paragraph that I quickly read.

We reached out to who our sources have told us is Miss Abbott’s most recent ex-boyfriend, Jeremy Vaughn, head of marketing for Astor Fashion House, but he declined to comment. His current girlfriend, socialite Clarissa Astor, however, was willing to give a statement to us. “She’s absolutely insane,” Miss Astor told Fans Weekly. “It was an amicable breakup after my sweet Jeremy learned she was only with him for his ties in the fashion industry. Clearly, her work isn’t that remarkable since she’s gotten nowhere but designing ugly pageant gowns in the years dating him, but she’s still holding on. Just a few weeks ago, she was caught vandalizing his home because she’s so obsessed with him.”

I don’t expect the anger burning in my chest at the lies spread about her, but when I see the look of hurt tinged with Harper’s own anger, I need clarification.

“That’s his new girlfriend? The one he was cheating on you with?”

She sneers before nodding. “She’s the one that’s been making a full-time job of talking shit about me and ruining my reputation. Jeremy might be doing the behind-the-scenes work, but she’s telling every tabloid she can about their fairy-tale romance and how I’m essentially just the evil stepsister in her story.”

“Does it bother you?” I ask, and she looks at me, clearly confused.

“Her talking shit about me? Absolutely. People are buying what she’s selling, and it’s messing with my name and reputation.”

“No, him moving on so quickly? Though, I guess, the bad press, too. All of it, really.” She shifts, looking over her shoulder and reading me as if trying to understand the motivation for my questions.

She lets out a small, self-conscious laugh and shakes her head, closing the magazine and putting it back on the rack. “Well, to your first question, no. Not really. I thought I would when it first happened. Thought I’d be heartbroken to lose him and see him moving on. Let’s just say, it’s been… a very eye-opening month or so.”

“How so?”

She takes a deep breath and begins moving in the direction we were headed. I think she’s going to write me off, but then she starts to speak.

“You know, my friends are falling in love, getting married, having babies, and I’m seeing what being in love —and being loved— really looks like. It’s a strange and uncomfortable feeling, knowing I spent so long with this man, convinced myself that we were going to spend forever together, and realize I never had that. I never felt that. I sacrificed so much for the bare minimum, and I was okay with that.”

I look at her profile as we walk, her face stern as she stares straight ahead, avoiding looking at me as she shrugs. “So it’s kind of…embarrassing, maybe? To see someone you’d convinced yourself you’d spend forever with moving on and not even feel a pang of hurt over losing him. I’m hurt about.” She pauses, as if she’s trying to choose her words carefully, then shakes her head. “Everything else.”

“The bad press?”

She tips her head from left to right, weighing her response before answering.

“Yes and no. Public opinion, I don’t care about, not really. It will all die down eventually, and something new and exciting will cast a shadow on it. It’s a bit inconvenient and frustrating, but in a month or two, no one will remember it. Plus, we have a plan in place to combat that.” Finally, she looks at me and gives me a small smile.

“That we do.”

We keep walking, both of us in our own heads, before she speaks again.

“It’s...the behind-the-scenes stuff.”

“How so?” I’m hesitant to ask too many questions, seeming to constantly straddle the line between encouraging her to talk and avoiding her closing me out. It appears like that was the right question, though, when she explains.

“Jeremy, despite not having a creative bone in his body, has ties in the industry. As Head of Marketing, he does a lot of the talking to the press and has a lot of connections. He knows I want to move beyond custom pageant gowns, and I’ll need to have connections to do that. I'm worried he’s whispering about me and ruining those opportunities before they even have the chance to come to fruition. For example, he gave me a contact for fabric months ago, and I’ve been going back and forth with them a lot since. They’re usually super responsive, but I called them last week, and they never returned my call. I know in my gut Jeremy has something to do with that.” She shrugs, then plays it off. “But there are a million suppliers around, so that’s not a huge problem. Still, it’s a small industry, so it weighs on me.”

“Well,” I start, not wanting to belittle her worries but also wanting to help fix them. “When we get back, we can talk to Leo about it and see what he says. He has contacts for pretty much everything under the sun.”

Harper shakes her head, her hair in that high ponytail swaying a bit. “That’s not necessary, I don’t need anyone to go out of their way for me and my drama.” She pauses, then adds, “Or, more than they already are.”

“You’re my wife, Harper,” I say. “It’s not going out of my way to help you.” She stops walking then, stares at me, and opens her mouth to argue, but as she does, an announcement that our flight is boarding comes overhead. “Come on, Mrs. Holden. Let’s go home.”

“Mr. Holden, welcome to Friendly Skies Airlines. We’re so happy to have you flying with us,” the flight attendant says, standing a bit too close for comfort. I give her a tight smile. “My name is Leah. I’m a huge fan, and I’ll be personally attending to you for our entire flight. We’re set to take off in a few, but is there anything at all I can do for you before that?”

I shake my head.

“No, but my wife would like”—I turn to Harper—“a Coke Zero, no ice?” She looks at me, slightly confused for a moment, before nodding, and I turn to the flight attendant once more. “That will be all.”

Her smile falters a hint before she nods and steps away.

“Lucky guess,” Harper says under her breath, pulling out a book and her headphones.

“I’m sorry?” I ask with a laugh.

“With the drink. Lucky guess. It’s what I order.”

Slowly, I shake my head because clearly, she still doesn’t get it, how into her I am, how much I’ve been watching her for the past two years.

“That wasn’t luck. When we go out as a group, you always ask what kind of soda they have. If it’s Pepsi, you’ll get water. If they have Coke, you’ll ask for Coke Zero. If they don’t have that and it’s fountain, you get a Diet Coke with ice. If it’s bottled, you’ll get water.” She stares at me, and I smile at the shock on her face. “I pay attention, little wife.”

She stares at me for a moment, taking me in and trying to decide how to respond, but the flight attendant is returning with a familiar red can and handing it and a cocktail napkin to me.

“Here you go, Mr. Holden,” she says with a purr before walking away with a wink.

When I hand the can over to Harper, I notice the cocktail napkin has a number and Leah written on it with a bright pink lipstick kiss on it. Rolling my eyes, I crumble it up and set it aside for the trash.

“Does that happen often?” Harper asks, cracking open the can. I shrug.

“It’s not uncommon.”

“Do you take them up on their offers?” I don’t miss the hint of jealousy she attempts to keep out of her words unsuccessfully.

“I’m not going to step out on you with a flight attendant if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say.

“Trust me, I know. There’s a very hefty prenuptial agreement in place,” she says, and I laugh. “I’m just...curious. I realized this weekend that I don’t know very much about you. Outside a good chunk of your musical memories, now, of course.”

I smile at the reminder of the flight here and reach out for her hand on impulse, grabbing it before shrugging. “I used to. When I was young and horny and didn’t want something more.” She bites her lip like she doesn’t want to ask, but I stare at her, eyebrow lifted, challenging her to do it.

“But now?” she finally asks.

“Well, now I’m married,” I say with a smile. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, elbowing me but not letting go of my hand. She told me she’s a nervous flyer, and I can feel the truth of it in the small shake of her hands.

“You know what I mean. Before me. Before you were tied to this.”

I think about how to answer that, how to approach this without terrifying her. Harper Abbott, now Holden, I’m learning, is much more scared than she lets on.

“It gets old, you know. Being some check mark, some grand trophy. You start to crave something real. You start to wonder if people like you for you, or if it’s because you’re the Wes Holden. If it’s because you’re in a band or if it’s because they like you .”

“So you don’t do friends with benefits?” she asks, and if I’m not mistaken, it feels like a leading question, something I’m intrigued by more than I probably should be. But I’ve already made my mind up on Harper and what I want us to be. Friends with benefits would just give my little wife too much room to deny whatever is building between us, even if her offer was tempting.

“I’m too old for that,” I whisper, my hand reaching out and tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. “I’m ready for more.” We’re veering off hypotheticals now, and she knows it.

“I’m not looking for more.” Her tongue comes out to wet her lips nervously. “I don’t think I’ll ever want more again. I wasted too long banking on more, and all that did was make me ignore all the glaring red flags.”

“I think you just need to learn to trust yourself more,” I say. “I think you knew for some time things weren’t going to work out with you two. You were afraid of what it might say about you if you walked away from it all after investing all of that time into the relationship.”

Her brows furrow as she takes in my words, and I watch her, reading her the way I’m learning to love to do. It’s the best way to get to know her since she is so hesitant to share. But then my eyes catch on a gold chain tucked beneath her sweatshirt, and I can’t help it. My fingers reach out, grazing her skin and snaking underneath, tugging it from her shirt. Her breath hitches as I touch her, and I don’t bother to fight the smirk on my lips as I settle the necklace over top of her sweatshirt.

“You’re still wearing it,” I whisper, running my thumb over the W charm.

“I kind of like it.” A small, shy smile spreads over her lips. “It’s growing on me, just like my husband.”

God, I fucking love her saying that, my husband .

I use the grip on the chain to tug her in closer to me until our faces are just a few inches apart. “My initial looks mighty fine around your neck, little wife,” I say, fingers grazing her skin as I play with the necklace between us, so close, her nervous breaths graze my lips.

“I think I like having it there,” she whispers back.