Chapter 14 Clara #2
Wes chewed and swallowed. Then, after a beat, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it much today. His eyes dropped to his plate, then lifted. “It’s really fucking good.”
My chest warmed and a happy grin split my face.
“Well,” I teased, “don’t get used to it.” I swirled noodles and lifted my shoulders. “This is about the only thing I know how to cook, and I still need to look up the recipe every time.”
A soft sound left him—barely there. Not a laugh. Not really. More like a huff that had the shape of amusement if you listened for it.
“Noted,” he said.
He took another bite and made a low, involuntary sound in the back of his throat—gravelly and unguarded—and my entire body reacted like it recognized it as something else entirely.
Heat chased up my neck. I reached for my water too quickly and nearly knocked it over.
Wes didn’t seem to notice. After a moment, he cleared his throat and said, quieter, “Thank you.”
The words were simple, but their effect was not.
Something in me glowed—warm and proud—like I’d been starving for any proof that I could do something right in this house.
I stared down at my plate so he wouldn’t see it on my face.
“So, uh . . . what were you up to today?” Wes’s question was quiet, like he didn’t have the right to ask, but was curious anyway.
“Oh . . .” I twirled a noodle just to give my fingers something to do. “I went out to the farm. Talked to Elodie. I think we’re going to do a winter bridal shoot out there. Use the barn, the dunes . . . it should be pretty.”
Across from me, Wes’s fork slowed. His gaze lifted from his plate, really lifted, like he was seeing me instead of just the food. “Yeah?” His voice dropped a notch. “Like a photo shoot?”
A knot formed low in my belly. This was the part where people either politely shifted the subject or tried to hide a smirk.
“I, um . . . never really talked about it much,” I said, hearing the defensive edge creep in even though I tried to keep it light.
“In the city, I did bridal modeling. Styled shoots. Helped put them together—locations, vendors, all of it. It’s .
. . a whole thing,” I added, bracing for the laugh, the oh, that’s cute, or the subtle dismissal I’d heard before.
None of that came. His eyes stayed on me, steady and sharper than I expected. “You do that for a living?”
My laugh came out thinner than I intended. “I did. In the city. Before everything went sideways.” I shrugged, trying to make my voice match the casual flick of my shoulder. “I sort of fell into it and found I had a knack.”
Wes’s eyes moved over me, slow and thoughtful, like he was lining up the idea of me in a gown against the mental picture of my sister’s farm. His jaw worked once, and butterflies erupted in my belly at his achingly slow assessment.
“Yeah.” His voice was low and rough. “I can see that.”
The words simmered low and hot, tangled up with the way his eyes were on me—on my face, my shoulders, the neckline of my sweater, like he was picturing me in one of those gowns and absolutely not hating the view.
Oh.
My pulse kicked hard enough that I had to look back down at my plate before I did something stupid. Like preen. Or blush harder. Or climb into his lap.
“I’ve been in magazines,” I heard myself say, chasing the flicker of confidence his tone sparked. “Campaigns. Catalogs. I just . . . never really talked about it here.”
“Why not?” he asked.
I nudged a noodle through sauce, watching the red smear across white porcelain. “People don’t always get it. And now after everything that happened . . .” A laugh escaped me. “Being a bride was my literal job, and I ran.”
Wes was quiet for a beat, chewing and shaking his head as he looked down. “He didn’t deserve you.”
I stared across the table, stumbling to make sense of what he’d just said.
Wes cleared his throat. “Setting up at the farm’s a smart move. It’s a good backdrop. You’ll crush it.”
My throat was thick, and I hummed a response. Warmth spread under my skin, slow and syrupy. I took a sip of water so I wouldn’t say thank you in a way that sounded too much like please keep talking to me like that.
I set my fork down and let my hands move as I talked.
“The goal is to capture a winter bride. Think twinkle lights, falling snow, the blue barn, maybe some stylized shots on the porch at the inn. I’m talking to a photographer, maybe a videographer.
Elodie wants a few extra lifestyle shots for the farm too—kids at the firepit, the restaurant when it’s done. She said she’d buy a package.”
His gaze stayed on me, intent and steady. It should have unnerved me. Instead, heat slid under my skin in slow, dangerous ribbons.
“Sounds smart,” he said. “She’ll get free advertising. You’ll get paid. The town gets to show off a little bit.” He tipped his chin. “You doing the modeling too?”
I swallowed, suddenly too aware of my own body. “Yes. I mean, I’ll try to snag a groom if I can, so it’s not all me, but . . . yeah.”
His eyes dragged over my face in a way that felt less like appraisal and more like confirmation as he chuffed a laugh. “That shouldn’t be hard.”
The words landed low in my stomach, hot and heavy. Old Wes was right there in that sentence—the one who used to charm women without trying, who knew exactly how to make her feel seen without making it gross. His tone wasn’t sleazy. Just . . . confident. Flirtatious and certain.
My pulse tripped. “Is that your professional opinion?”
His mouth curved, slow and wicked, a flash of the man who’d existed before the world took a piece of him. “Professional. Personal.” His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “You in a pretty dress on that property? They’d be idiots not to pay for it.”
Heat climbed my throat until I was sure it showed. I took a quick sip of water to cover the way my tongue suddenly felt too big in my mouth.
“Wow,” I managed. “Careful. If you keep complimenting me like that, I might start to think you don’t hate having me here.”
His gaze held mine for a beat that felt longer than it probably was. Something flickered in his eyes—something warm and wary. “I don’t hate having you here,” he said, voice low. “I just haven’t figured out what to do with you yet.”
Every nerve ending I owned stood at attention.
I broke eye contact first, because self-preservation was still a thing I pretended to care about. My fingers tightened around my fork, knuckles white.
Outside, the snow fell harder, filling the dark with white. Inside, Wes Vaughn sat at his own table, eating my food, breathing the same air as me.
Wes pushed back from the table and cleared his throat. “I think we should add a rule.”
I blinked. “What?”
“The one who cooks doesn’t do dishes,” he said, reaching for my plate before I could argue. “Now tell me you’ve got something sweet for me.”