Weston (Broken Falls #6)

Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

Melanie

I 'm wholly unprepared for the person who emerges from the bathroom, steam billowing out in tendrils that cling to his already glistening skin. He obviously missed a few spots when he dried off. Weston isn't wearing a shirt, and he's got a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants that precariously hover on his hips, showcasing the chiseled lines carved by years of hard labor. My heart skips a beat, my tongue is suddenly sticky against the roof of my mouth as my eyes feast on the man before me. This is not the boy I left behind. No, the boy I left has transformed into a man molded by time and experience, and holy hell, he is breathtaking.

Guilt prickles at my conscience for objectifying him like this, but damn it all, this is my husband, although the right to call him that might have slipped through my fingers. He glances over at me, an amused, knowing grin playing at the edges of his full lips. He knows exactly what he's doing, and the fucker enjoys it.

"See something you like?" His voice is a lazy drawl, the kind that sends a shiver skittering down my spine.

I want to tell him I do, oh, how I do, but I bite my tongue, feeling uncertain and unworthy, at least for now. Maybe, just maybe, I'll earn that right again someday.

"So, what do you normally do at night around here?" I blurt out, striving to shatter the charged silence cocooning us.

His gaze lingers, a slight spark flickering in those deep, stormy eyes. "I'm typically by myself," he admits, "so I usually clean the kitchen, which you've already done, pick up a little because if I let it go too long, it starts to look like a hoarder's nest in here. And nothing's worse than that, let me tell you."

A subtle ache unfurls in my chest at the mention of other women, but I swallow it down, knowing this is the moment to lay the cards on the table. There won't ever be a perfect moment, so I take this one with both hands and hold on tight.

"Can I be honest with you?" My voice sounds more fragile than I'd like.

He eyes me, the corners of his mouth twitching with a hint of dry humor. "It would be the first time you've been completely honest with me, right?"

Anger flares within me, heat rising to color my cheeks. "You don't have to forget or forgive," I say, voice steady now, "but please, just treat me like a human being. It's been only a few days. I really want to be honest with you; I genuinely want to talk."

His jaw relaxes, the harsh lines softening, revealing more of the Weston I once knew.

"Alright," he concedes, "if you want to talk, let's talk. But I need to get a fire started; it's cold. We can talk in the living room. And you might want to get comfortable because there are things I need to know. No matter how long it takes." His gaze flickers to the jeans I'm wearing, a silent challenge dancing in his eyes.

Panic coils tight in my chest at explaining why I left. Anxiety rises swift and strong. "I'll do what I can."

With a shrug, he replies, "Fair enough, but honesty has to come at some point." He gestures toward my jeans with a teasing glance. "Now, go change; I'll be waiting."

Almost instinctively, I retreat to the guest room, the ghost of his gaze lingering on my skin. I strip off my clothes, replacing them with something softer, and catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Positive affirmations tumble from my lips, battling back tears threatening to spill. "You've got this, Melanie," I whisper. "You left for a reason. That mattered once, maybe it still does."

I steel myself against the uncertainties, and with a deep breath, return to the living room. Weston is already settled in, the fire casting a playful dance of shadows over his skin as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up, gesturing for me to sit beside him.

Taking a seat, I tuck my legs beneath me, cocooned in a blanket as if it could protect me.

"I need you to listen," I implore, "without judgment."

His features harden momentarily. "I can't promise that," he admits, "but I can listen."

"Okay, that’s enough for now." It'll have to be, because he's not willing to give me more than this.

He arches an eyebrow, wordlessly urging me to go on.

"Why did you leave?" he asks, voice deceptively calm.

The truth sticks to my tongue, my mouth suddenly dry. "I can't answer that," I murmur, "but I can tell you why I came back."

Resigned, he leans back with a sigh. "I suppose I’ll have to take what I can get. So, why did you come back?"

"I was scared," I admit, voice barely above a whisper. "There was too much happening, and I sought comfort in the only place I ever felt whole. Regardless of everything, Weston, you have always been my home."

His fists clench at his sides, the tension palpable in the air between us. "Well, darlin'," he says, the words sharp in their sweetness, "you've got a fucking funny way of showing it."