Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
CLARA
The salsa dish between us was already half empty, a casualty of nerves and salt cravings, when I realized Wes hadn’t scanned the door in the last five minutes.
He had done it when we walked in—subtle sweep of the room, clocking the exits, the knot of people at the bar, the kid running laps between tables—but once we slid into the booth at La Casita, his shoulders had settled.
Not loose, exactly, but not locked in that braced-for-impact way I’d gotten used to seeing.
Now he sat opposite me, left leg stretched under the table, prosthetic braced along the underside of the booth.
The overhead lights were warm, catching on the dark hair at his forearms where his T-shirt sleeves hugged his biceps.
It was just a faded Army tee and those worn jeans he lived in, but his arms rested on the table in a way that made the corded muscles impossible to ignore.
His hand curled around his glass, fingers dwarfing it, veins standing out in sharp lines.
I had to force myself not to follow one of them with my gaze, imagining the drag of my fingertip from his wrist to his knuckles.
I remembered how those hands had been wrapped around my hips, holding me steady while he—
I shoved a tortilla chip in my mouth before my brain could finish that sentence.
“So.” Wes tipped his chin at me, sharp blue eyes steady. “How’s the photo shoot going?”
A sigh slipped out of me before I could stop it.
“You mean the grand winter bridal circus?” I scooped more salsa like I was arming myself.
“It’s . . . a lot. Elodie’s thrilled, which is great, but our makeup artist bailed for a better-paying gig in Traverse City, I’m still waiting on two dress designers to confirm, the photographer is a genius and a diva, and Michigan weather is threatening to snowpocalypse all over the schedule. ”
His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Snow could be . . . pretty?”
The knot between my shoulders loosened a fraction, and I smiled. “It could be gorgeous. But less so if my hair ends up in a wet, limp mess and my lips turn blue. I’ll look like a wet dog.”
“That’s impossible. You always look beautiful.” His gaze stayed on me, not wandering, not glazing over before he cleared his throat and his eyes sliced away. “You got the farm and the inn locked down, right? You can always use them as backup space if it dumps six feet of snow.”
I dipped my chip, trying to hide the blush that had crept onto my cheeks. I was talking with my hands as my vision came to life in my mind. “Even if the weather isn’t great, we’ll lean into it. Winter brides. Cozy knits. Champagne in snowdrifts. Frostbite as a wedding favor.”
He huffed. “Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
“It’s a gift.” I shrugged.
He picked up another chip and broke it in half. “You’re going to kill it, Duchess.”
The way he said it—simple, certain, like he was stating the weather—made my throat feel tight.
Greg and my friends in the city had always treated my modeling with patient amusement, like I was playing dress-up on my way to a real life.
Wes Vaughn was sitting in a Mexican restaurant asking follow-up questions about weather contingencies and logistics like my career was not only real, but important.
My heart did a slow, traitorous roll in my chest.
“You know the only hole in my plan?” I said, because feelings were terrifying and deflection was my favorite sport. “I still need a groom.”
His hand stilled halfway to the salsa. “A what?”
“A groom,” I repeated. “You know, for bridal photos. It’s kind of depressing to have a woman in a wedding dress gazing lovingly at . . . a barn door.” A playful snort escaped my nose.
His jaw worked. “You’re hiring some guy to—what—hold you in fake snow while you stare at him for hours?”
My eyebrows bounced. “And kiss.”
His nostrils flared, and I erupted in a fit of giggles, reaching across the table to grip his forearm. “Relax, caveman. There’s usually no kissing, and even when there is, it’s more like a robotic peck than a passionate make-out session.”
He grumbled something that sounded a lot like better fucking be, but I couldn’t be sure. The bristle in his voice warmed my cheeks in a way the salsa never could have. Jealousy looked good on him.
Dangerous. Hot.
“Unless you’re volunteering,” I said lightly, as if my heart hadn’t just tried to climb into my throat. “You’d look very dashing in a tux. The broody, contractor groom. It’s a whole vibe.”
He grumbled again and shook his head. “Leave my ugly mug out of it.”
My brows shot up. “First of all: rude. Second of all, your face would sell more photos than my entire catalog combined.”
His ears went a little pink. “The idea of standing in front of a camera right now makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Hard fucking pass.”
My chest squeezed. I wanted to tell him he was the most compelling thing in any room, whether he was in front of a lens or not. I actually liked the idea of his face in the photos, because the image of a future without that face in it made my stomach drop.
Instead of ruminating, I popped another chip and shrugged like it was no big deal. “Fine. We’ll hire some poor unsuspecting idiot and make him stand in the snow all day. He’ll probably cry.”
“That I would pay to see,” Wes said, a real smile breaking across his face, bright and quick. Lines fanned at the corners of his eyes. I wanted to reach across the table and smooth my thumb over them, memorize them with my hands.
Under the table, our knees brushed, and neither of us moved away.
Our plates arrived—tacos for me, something with enough meat and cheese to qualify as a structural challenge for him.
I launched into describing the rest of the shoot, the dress silhouettes, how Elodie had offered to let us use the goats for a few fun shots.
Somewhere between the carnitas and the churros, the conversation slid sideways into easier territory.
“So the Nerd Night campaign is almost over?” I asked, licking a line of salsa from my thumb. His gaze followed the motion before he blinked and reached for his fork.
“Couple more sessions.” He chased a piece of steak around his plate. “We’re down two horses and one wizard, which feels about right for this group.”
“Tragic.” I bit into a taco, talking around it like a gremlin. “What happens when it’s over? Group therapy? Grief counseling?”
“Brody floated the idea of a new game. Crokinole, I think it’s called?
I don’t fucking know.” Wes shrugged, then rolled his shoulder like it was still a new motion.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss it.
Game night is . . . nice. Having somewhere to be that isn’t PT or my sad living room. ”
Something soft flickered in his eyes at the admission. He poked at his rice. “Softball starts up in a couple of months. They’re already making noise about the rec league. No idea what that looks like for me now. Maybe I’ll be the bat boy. Or the team mascot.”
The casual tone didn’t hide the way his mouth tightened around the words.
I set my taco down and nudged his plate back toward him, but he absentmindedly pushed it away. “You can see where you’re at when the time comes,” I said. “You surprised yourself on that hill. Might surprise yourself on the field too.”
His gaze lifted to mine, something like gratitude flickering there. “You’re very annoying when you’re optimistic.”
“Thank you.” I stole one of his chips and popped it in my mouth.
He rolled his eyes, grabbed another chip, and deliberately pushed the basket closer to my side of the table.
It felt easy in a way that scared me. The loop of conversation, the little touches, the way he made sure I ate when I forgot. People laughed around us, clinking glasses, a server’s tray wobbling past. Across the room, a couple shared a plate of nachos, heads bent together over some private joke.
I could see us like that so easily it hurt.
Every time Wes laughed—that rare, low sound that came from deep in his chest—my body remembered his mouth between my thighs, the way he had coaxed pleasure from places I hadn’t realized I’d stopped trusting.
Anticipation thrummed under my skin, hot and insistent.
Tonight hovered at the edge of my thoughts like a live current.
Lesson three. His body inside mine instead of just his voice in my ear.
I had to drag myself back to the table so I didn’t melt into a puddle in the salsa.
“You still with me, Duchess?” he asked, one brow arched.
Heat rushed to my face. “Absolutely. Just thinking about . . . makeup artists and weather reports,” I lied poorly.
His mouth curved, unconvinced but not pushing. “Those must be some very interesting weather reports.”
You have no idea.
I forced a grin and picked up my taco again. “Trust me. Lake effect is riveting.”
We finished eating in that companionable quiet that happens only with people who know where all your bodies are buried. He flagged the server for the check before I could reach for my wallet, giving me a look that said we would argue about it later and he would still win.
“Let’s go home.” Wes’s chin dipped toward the exit.
My chest squeezed at the casual way he said home.
When we stepped out onto the sidewalk, the evening air hit my face, cold enough to sting. The street was a ribbon of slush and light, cars inching past, someone’s dog trotting by in a ridiculous sweater.
Wes fell into step beside me without seeming to think about it. Then, automatically, he shifted—one smooth, unconscious move that put his body between me and the curb. His shoulder brushed mine as we walked toward the truck, the outside edge of his arm catching the wind instead of me.
It was nothing. A small, protective tilt of his body. A habit he’d probably picked up a decade ago and never thought twice about.
My chest went hot and achy anyway.
This was what it would be like, my brain whispered. This was what it already was.