Never Been Worse (Evergreen Park #3)

Chapter 18 – Harper

EIGHTEEN

HARPER

Life has started to settle, or as much as life can settle when everything is so up in the air. I’ve been busy, working on client commissions and trying—and miserably failing—to sketch something new. Instead of making any progress for a new line, I keep hitting the same damn roadblock every single time.

Wes has been gone for the past four days with the guys doing some preliminary press tours to promote the upcoming release. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, depending on how you look at it, we have not had any time for more than a few hot kisses since the Marty show incident, with Wes leaving barely a day later.

Instead, it’s as if we’re in the woo-ing dating phase, if this was a real relationship. Every morning Wes sends me a good morning text, then we message back and forth throughout the day, whether it’s him telling me something stupid Reed did or playing musical memories through texts.

Wes was right: you really can learn so much about someone playing that game.

I’ve shared that I lost my virginity listening to “Best I Ever Had” by Drake (a horrific choice, especially since he very much proved to not be the best I ever had) and learned “Sugar, We’re Going Down” was playing on the radio when Atlas Oaks got their first record deal.

Each day, Wes has also sent some kind of small gift to the house for me. The first was a gorgeous bouquet of flowers Laurel essentially threw at me, now sitting in my bedroom, where I mostly just work, choosing to sleep in Wes’s bed even when he’s not there. The next was a dozen cookies. That night, Wes called me to tell me he had some delivered to his hotel room, and we were having a virtual cookie date.

Yesterday he sent me the goofiest candle with his face on it that he got on some fan site and was supposed to smell like him. It completely missed the mark, but it made me smile all the same.

Now I’m in my room that I don’t use for sleeping anymore, attempting to sketch and pondering what he’ll send today, when there’s a knock on the door. Looking up, Wes is leaning in the doorway, hair tousled and a wide smile on his face.

Without even thinking, I stand quickly, setting my sketchbook aside. “Hey,” I say with a smile. “You’re home.” I rush to him, happy to see him and burying down what that all might mean as he pulls me into him and presses a deep kiss to my lips.

“I am. Happy to see me?”

“Yes.” What does it matter anymore, being coy? I like Wes Holden, and I want to know where that could take us. “But I feel like I’m missing out on my fourth gift.” I joke.

“You want a gift?” he asks, his arms around my waist. I shake my head and open my mouth to tell him I’m only teasing when he steps back, tipping his head to the side and grabbing my hand. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

“I was just kidding,” I say as he leads me down the hall.

“I know, but I still have something for you. It wasn’t ready when we got home from the honeymoon, and I think it still needs some things, but I’m sure you’ll have thoughts on them, so maybe it’s best you see it now.”

“Wha—” I start to ask, but the word dies on my lips as he opens a door that’s been closed since I got here, light pouring into the hall as he guides me inside.

Large windows facing the wooded backyard line the far side of the room, letting in more natural light than I’ve seen in any other room in this house, with a small padded bench along the windows. On one side of the room is a large art desk currently set at an incline, and along the wall are dozens of cups with different mediums in them: lead pencils, pens, colored pencils, markers, and watercolors.

There are clear acrylic drawers holding what looks like tiny rhinestones and papers, but I’m too flustered taking in everything else to look. On the opposite side of the room is an L-shaped desk with a cozy-looking chair, three different seemingly brand-new sewing machines, and various fabrics in the organizers along the wall. When I open a cabinet, there are sewing notions in drawers: buttons and zippers and lace, quilting squares and rulers and cutting mats.

Everything and anything one might need to…create.

“What is this?” I ask, looking around, stepping toward the fabrics, and running my fingers over them reverently.

“This is...yours,” he says with a small smile when I look over my shoulder at him, my heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement.

“Mine?”

He runs a hand through his hair nervously before stepping further into the room.

“It’s a wedding gift.” He shrugs and then smiles again. “The marriage was a bit last minute, as you know, so it wasn’t ready when it was supposed to be.”

I turn to face him, crossing my arms on my chest as my heart races. It’s strange and overwhelming, this mix of excitement and gratitude and confusion.

“This isn’t a wedding gift, Wes. This necklace,” I say, fingers grazing the W at my neck, which I have only taken off to shower, “is a wedding gift. This is...way too much.”

“Maybe it will inspire you,” he says simply. “Come, look.” He grabs my hand, moving me along the sides of the room. “This is for fabrics, though I don’t know if I got any of the right kind. I figured you’d have opinions on those, so I didn’t want to get too much. Most of the stuff in here is based on what Ava and Jules knew you liked, but we can swap out anything.”

“Ava and Jules know about this?”

“Well, yeah, I couldn’t do it all myself. But they were sworn to secrecy,” he tells me.

“Hm,” I add, looking around, wondering how on earth my friends didn’t spill this secret to me, not even the tiniest hint .

“This is a desk, obviously. You can sketch here. Markers, pens, the whole nine. Ava says these are the markers you like?” He looks at me nervously, questioning it before I nod.

“Yeah, they are,” I whisper before he continues to show me things. Sewing machines, thread, pins, and behind one of the cabinets, a dress form—everything I would ever need is here, as he shows me with a mix of excitement and anxiety.

“This all feels very…the Beast showing Belle the library,” I say with a giggle I can’t fight, suddenly giddy and brimming with new ideas.

“Does that make me a beast?”

“No, it makes you a handsome prince.”

“I thought he was a beast?” he asks, confused.

I stop my perusing and stare at him aghast. “Have you never seen Beauty and the Beast ?”

“I have no sisters, and I’ve been in a rock band since I was fifteen. No, I have not seen Beauty and the Beast ,” he says bluntly.

“I think that’s a crime,” I say under my breath but continue moving through the room, opening and closing random drawers and checking out what he’s gifted me.

He laughs then moves to the art desk. “I figured this could be your inspiration center.” He points to a giant cork board on the wall. “You can pin pictures and stuff here—the articles I read say that’s very important, having your inspiration front and center.”

The thought of Wes Holden reading articles about designers finding inspirations fills me with unexpected warmth as I inspect what he’s set up. On the brown speckled cork, a few photos are pinned: one of Ava, Jules, and me from the wedding, a few photos of gowns I’ve designed in the past, and a shot of a beach that looks suspiciously like the one we went to on our honeymoon.

“There’s something missing,” I say, turning to look at him.

“I don’t…” he starts, his brows coming together.

“You’re not on the board, Wes.”

He shrugs, gaze drifting to his hand and picking at a nail instead of looking at me.

“I didn’t want to insert myself into your space,” he says, as a faint blush blooms across his cheeks. “I didn’t want to be presumptive. I wanted you to have a place that was all yours. Real.”

I lick my lips and take a single step closer to him, feeling my heart pounding in my chest.

I’ve come to realize that even though I’m scared, even though he might just be caught up in the excitement of this, I made a vow to myself to be more spontaneous . And right now, I want to be spontaneous with Wes.

“What if I want you to be in my space?” I whisper, moving to him and putting a hand to his heated cheek.

This is more than anyone has ever done for me, and it’s not about the money, though it’s clear he spent a lot of it to get all of this done. It’s about the thought. The way he pointed to every aspect of this room and explained why he put it there, why he thought I’d like it, the research he put into this project, this gift , as if he knew me before I even deigned to give him me.

He pulls me in close, pushing hair behind my shoulders the way he seems to love doing. “You want me in your space, little wife?” I don’t hesitate to answer for once in my life.

“I think I do.” It seems like we’ve switched positions, answering quickly and with my gut rather than my head and Wes overthinking each question, hesitating before he asks his next one.

“What is this, Harper?”

“I don’t know, but I want more of it,” I admit in a whisper.

“What does that mean to you?”

“It means…I don’t know,” I shrug, then elaborate. “It means I like being with you. I like when you kiss me, and I like having your hands on me, and I want more of that. I want to see where that can go.” I’m not so deluded not to know there is something, a spark of some kind between Wes and me, but it terrifies me. It came on so quick, so fierce, and only because we were thrown into this thing.

Because of that, I’m so very hesitant to trust it.

Things with Jeremy went quickly as well. We met, we fucked, he told me he loved me in the first few weeks of us being together, showered me with gifts and attention and everything in between until I was in so deep, I couldn’t see the red flags. And that red-hot mix of lust and new ness disappeared quickly, but I survived on the warmth of it for so long until one day, I woke up alone, shivering and unsure of how I got there.

“But I know I’d really like to, uh,” I start, a blush burning on my cheeks, but I know if I want Wes to do anything, I need to speak it aloud. “Do stuff? Sleep together?”

He smiles and shakes his head gently, thumb brushing along the skin of my neck and sending a shiver through me.

“I’m not fucking you, Harper,” he says, and without permission of my head, I pout.

“Why not? We’re married.”

He lets out a laugh then before smiling softly like he finds me adorable. “Because I don’t want you to have a single doubt in your mind the first time you let me slide into you.” The mere thought of that has a wave of heat running through me, and he pulls me inexplicably closer to him, his voice going lower. “That first time I fuck you, you’re going to know down to your soul I’m absolutely wild for you, not because we’re married or because you’re convenient or because you’re with me all the time. But because you’re mine, and I’ve been obsessed with you since that first night I met you.”

Somehow, he knows all of my arguments, all of my hang-ups, without me even speaking them aloud. It should be terrifying. But something about him knowing me this well is exhilarating; it solidifies something inside of me that I haven’t been willing to look at too closely yet.

“We can do other things,” I suggest in a whisper. He groans, then opens his mouth to protest, but I’m already moving to my tiptoes, closing the gap between us and pressing my lips to his.

Like every other time I’ve kissed Wes, the world melts away, and my senses come to high alert. Instantly, I’m hyper aware of the feeling of his hand on my lower back, of the scruff of his cheek under my hand, of the warmth of his body.

Just as quickly as I started it, he takes over the kiss, pressing my body into his and slipping his tongue into my mouth, tasting me and groaning. My heart skips at the sound, as if the mere taste of me turns him on.

He takes a step, forcing me to do the same until my back is to the wall, pinned there by his hard body, though I’m not complaining. My breaths become pants as his lips trail down my neck, as my head tips to the side to give him more room.

His hand moves, one thick, rough finger moving into the waist of the loose sweatpants I’m wearing and running along the stretchy band, teasing me.

“Yes,” I whisper, my hips moving toward him involuntarily and feeling his hard cock against my stomach. I tighten my hand on his nape, pulling myself closer and grinding against him. “Please.” I’ve never wanted—no, needed —someone the way I need Wes, but I can’t find it in me to feel anything but excited.

“We should stop,” he says, putting his forehead to mine, my back to the wall, our breathing labored.

My hand moves up his chest, hooking behind his head and tugging him close to me. “I want you to touch me,” I whisper. “I want you inside of me. I want you , Wes.”

“Am I just an itch to scratch?” he asks in a strained whisper, voice husky and breath hot along my neck.

“You know you’re not,” I confess, the words slipping from my lips, but it seems to be the right thing to say when he groans loudly.

“Fuck it,” he says, then dips his hand below the waistband of my sweats, over my belly, past my underwear, sliding to cup me. I moan loudly at the feel of his warm hand on me, in that intimate, needy place.

Finally .

It feels so fucking right.

His lips are on mine, and his hand is down the front of my panties, playing along the wet seam of my pussy as he devours my lips. His thumb moves, brushing over my already swollen clit, and I sigh into the kiss, shifting my hips to get more of whatever he’ll give me. He groans out a curse before his finger moves down, a single thick digit sliding into my opening and pulling a moan from me.

“I’m going to make you come, Harper, but that’s it. And I need you to know I’m making you come as your husband, as a man wholly consumed by you, not as some fake relationship itch that needs to be scratched.” His finger hovers halfway inside me as my hips try to move to get more. “I need you to know this is more to me, and whether you’re willing to admit it yet, it’s more to you, too. It always has been.” He slides in a bit more. “That’s why you said yes. That’s why you didn’t even hesitate when I asked you to marry me.” He sinks in deeper, and my eyes flutter shut.

“No, no. Eyes on me, beautiful. Keep those pretty eyes open while I finger you,” he says, and I groan, opening my eyes and looking at him, his eyes burning. When I lock my eyes on him, he slides his finger in deep, then pulls out before repeating the motion.

“Wes,” I moan. “I need…oh, God, I need…”

“I know, baby. I know. I’ll give you what you need.” His finger slides out, rubbing over my clit and forcing another groan from me. His lips tip up, still parted with heavy breaths, before he slides two fingers inside me this time, stretching me. “God, you’re so fucking tight, Harper. So wet for your husband, aren’t you?”

I nod, unable to say anything, to do anything other than focus on the pleasure building in my belly. He starts moving faster, fucking me quickly the way I want, the way I need, and it tightens in my belly, and my pussy tightens around his fingers.

“Fuck, Wes,” I breathe out. “I’m right there.”

“That’s it, baby. Fall for me, come for your husband,” he groans, his forehead to mine.

With his permission, I fall, spiraling as lights flash behind my eyes, though I keep them open and locked on Wes. He groans loudly, like my pleasure brings him pleasure, his fingers sinking in deep and his palm grinding on my clit, and aftershocks race through me. A year might pass as I come back down to earth, but Wes holds me the entire time patiently.

“Oh, my god,” I say. His smile widens at my words, and he opens his mouth to speak, but we’re interrupted.

“Hey, Wes,” a familiar and irritated voice says, and almost instantly, I shift away from Wes, his fingers sliding out of me as I rearrange my sweatpants nervously. Wes’s eyes never leave me, that smile playing on his lips. “Oh, don’t worry, I walk into this kind of thing all the time, doesn’t faze me at all,” Laurel says with a smug look.

A blush burns across my cheeks.

“Laurel,” Wes says in warning, and she rolls her eyes.

“I’m just saying, it’s not the first time I’ve walked in on you making out with someone. It’s just what happens when you’re someone’s right hand.”

I picture myself tearing out her hair and bitch-slapping her.

“Did you call that person I asked you to contact?” Wes asks, clearly annoyed. With his words, her face goes a bit cold.

“They didn’t have any availability,” she tells him, the conversation unclear to me, but with the way she twirls her hair around her finger, I get the unsettling feeling she’s lying to Wes.

“Did you try the one in Hudson City?”

“You didn’t ask me to try the one in Hudson City,” she says, and I’m half surprised she doesn’t pout.

Wes’s jaw goes tight before he sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair and mussing it more than I did just moments before. “I’ll do it myself.”

He reaches in his pocket for his phone, but before he moves, he turns to me.

“I have to go on a bit of a press junket tomorrow,” he says, and I scrunch my nose up. “It’ll be another four days, but when I get back, we have a press thing. Willa Stone’s last tour stop is on Saturday, and we’re in the VIP box,” he says. His hand moves to my cheek, making me forget all about the nuisance in the room.

“Oh. Okay,” I whisper.

“I also have to take my wife out on a real date soon, wine and dine her.” I giggle—actually giggle at his words, and his eyes twinkle with the sound. “When are you free?”

“Hmm?”

“When are you free, Harper? For dinner. Or lunch?”

“Oh, I, uh…” I try and think, but he’s so close to me, blurring my mind, and I can’t piece words together, much less make myself sound more interesting than I am. “I have no life.” He smiles wider. “Except you,” I add like an idiot, and his smile goes to a straight-up grin. “Shit, I didn’t mean, I just…”

“Got it. You’re at my mercy.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I really like the sound of that, little wife.”

“Me too, Wes.”

He stares for a long moment, then leans forward, pressing another, softer kiss to my lips. “I look forward to finishing this later,” he says. “Now go make something beautiful, baby.”

Then he’s walking off, stupid Laurel scurrying behind and leaving me in my new design room, body buzzing and, for once, my mind not even a little bit confused.

Because surprise, surprise, I like my husband.