Chapter Eighteen #2
Wes finds me in the kitchen nursing a glass of water, my free hand braced on the counter. Nervous energy tightens my grip on the glass. It’ll be fine. I want this. I want him. He wants me.
I’m still terrified of taking down this last wall between us.
Wes stops in front of me, a slight furrow between his brows. He reaches out to gently tuck a strand of loose hair behind my ear. “What’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours, darlin’?”
“It’s nothing.” I summon a smile, toss back the last of my water, and set the glass in the sink.
He hasn’t done anything to deserve my doubts.
I’ve been in and out of therapy enough to understand that I trust the familiarity of chaos in a way I don’t trust peace.
I was fine when we were on the couch earlier.
There’s no need to ruin the evening with my anxieties. “Ready for bed?”
“Not until you tell me what’s got you all twisted up,” he says from behind me. He’s close enough that I can practically feel the heat of him, but he doesn’t touch me. As though I’m a feral cat he doesn’t want to spook.
Even lost in the spinning vortex of my doubts, I know Wes deserves better than being hissed at.
He’s been nothing but honest with me. Far more patient than I deserve.
Coming here thinking I’d be testing him, testing us—it’s the sort of thing my mother would do.
Keeping my worries to myself, pretending they’re not real to keep the peace, is something I learned from her.
And Wes sees right through it.
I stare at him helplessly, struggling to push past the instinct to hide. His expression remains open, posture relaxed. Patient. Wes is so damn patient with me. Even now, he could easily accept my brush off.
I’ve been trying so hard to avoid turning into my mother.
To not pick the kind of men who leave wreckage in their wake.
But she’s never been entirely blameless in those relationships either, keeping secrets, playing pretend.
If I keep going down this path, it will eventually poison this fragile thing that’s been growing between me and Wes for weeks.
“I told you I don’t do casual,” I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I remember.” Wes slowly runs one hand through his hair and peers at me, concern morphing into something sharper before he takes a long breath. “I told you…has this felt casual to you?”
I don’t know how to explain the paradox of my thoughts.
How to communicate that the reason I’m crashing out is that it hasn’t seemed casual.
That ever since he said anything between us was never going to be casual, I’ve wanted—badly—to believe him.
That deep in the most hidden corners of my bruised heart, it terrifies me that I’ve started to want so much more than I ever thought possible.
“No,” I say quietly. “It doesn’t feel casual.”
“Good, because my feelings for you aren’t casual, Sloane. But you brought this up for a reason.” Each syllable is carefully controlled, but I know Wes well enough to see the frustration beneath the calm he’s trying to project. “Talk to me, darlin’.”
“Wes, I…” Forcing air into my lungs, I lean back against the counter and curl my palms around its edge in an effort to ground myself. “You don’t think this is all happening really fast? There’s a lot we haven’t talked about. Life stuff. Big stuff.”
“Then let’s talk about it.” He takes a step back, then another, until he’s leaning against the opposite counter. “Fast isn’t always a bad thing,” he says softly. “Not for me. Sometimes when you know, you know.”
My breath catches at the implication, but I’m not ready to ask if he means it the way I think he does. I stare down at the floor, tracing the cracks in the tile I keep meaning to fix, and reach for the truth.
“My mom jumps from relationship to relationship. She throws herself in headfirst from the start. She’s done it my whole life. Every single time, she says she knows. Not one of those relationships has ended well, including three marriages.”
“You are not your mother.” Wes pushes off the counter, takes a step toward me, and then stops with his arms folded across his chest. “I don’t have many dealbreakers. Not when it comes to you. You already know I travel a lot. Is that going to be a problem in the future?”
I bite my lip, hating the flicker of hurt that crosses his face at my hesitation. “It won’t be easy,” I admit. “But it’s not a dealbreaker for me, no. I travel for weddings more and more myself.”
“That’s one down. I’m not particularly attached to Houston. Do you want to stay here, close to your family?”
“Not so much my family.” I shrug, some of my tension starting to uncoil at his matter-of-fact approach. “But I like being near the mountains.”
“Okay.” Wes breathes out a sigh. “Now a big one. Kids?”
I shake my head, internally bracing for his answer. “Considering I pretty much raised my brothers…no, not for me.”
“Me neither.” He unfolds his arms and comes to stand at my side, adopting a similar pose with his hands braced on the counter at his back. “Is marriage on the table? Not now,” he adds, probably because my eyes almost fall out of my head. “But one day.”
“I think so, yeah,” I whisper. My heart pounds at the enormity of the thought. “One day.”
His lips curve with familiar mischief. “Dogs?”
“With the amount we both travel?”
Wes shrugs. “Dogs travel.”
“I’ve never had a pet,” I admit, something soft and warm taking root in my chest. “Always wanted a cat.”
“Noted.” The humor fades as his eyes latch on mine, dead serious. “Any other dealbreakers for you?”
I resist the urge to shake my head. I’ve never had a conversation like this. No one yelling or crying or carrying on over big, emotional topics. Just a calm exchange of information. It’s a welcome change to realize that Wes isn’t going to lose his shit if I tell him the truth.
“You scare me sometimes,” I say after a beat. “You call it impulsive. I call it reckless. I can’t…I need to know I’m not going to get a call one day because you went off half-cocked and got yourself hurt. Or worse.”
Wes lets out a sharp breath and then nods. “The thing with my windows was a bit of a wake-up call. You were right that day. It could have been a lot worse. I got lucky.”
He pauses, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and then adds, “I’ve told you enough about him that it probably isn’t a surprise my dad can’t take a joke.
Any kind of criticism, he loses it. Been that way since I was a kid.
I decided a long time ago that I didn’t want to be a thing like him.
That I wouldn’t take myself too seriously and end up bitter and angry about everything.
I think what happened is that I tend to not take anything seriously, but there are some things that are worth being serious about.
You are worth being serious about, Sloane. ”
I swallow hard. “No more stupid risks?”
“No more stupid risks,” Wes confirms. “But you know chasing is dangerous. I can’t promise there won’t be a close call or two in the future.”
“I know. I get that part. I just want to know that you’re not going to do anything to make it more dangerous.”
“I won’t. Besides, if I get my way, I’ll have you with me next season to keep me in line.” Wes slides his hand along the counter, tentatively resting his fingers on mine. “Anything else?”
I take a deep breath and push off the counter, moving to stand in front of him.
He just admitted he wants us to be together a year from now.
It should be enough to banish any lingering doubt, but just to make sure, I force myself to ask the question that’s been on my mind since we decided to come back to Colorado.
“Do you want your car, now that we’re here? ”
“My car?” Confusion wrinkles his brow. “I was going to say we could swap out for a bit, put the miles on my tires, but if you don’t want to, I’m good with sticking with yours.”
The last bit of my hesitation vanishes at his genuine bafflement.
There’s a small part of me that feels enormously stupid for doubting Wes, but we needed to have this conversation.
I needed it, not just for his words—though I’ll be holding some of those close for a long time to come—but for the undeniable proof that he’s exactly who he’s shown himself to be in our time chasing together.
Physical distance isn’t going to make or break our relationship if we talk to each other, a lesson Wes has just deftly taught me. It won’t always be easy to make this work, but he’s proven at every step he’s willing to try. The least I can do is meet him halfway.
I close the last remaining bit of distance between us and let my palms rest lightly on his chest. “You sure you’re not sick of me and my horrible, awful, no-good taste in music?”
Wes lights up, a grin full of mischief curving his lips. “Darlin’, you and your ridiculously unorganized playlist make my life interesting,” he says, settling a loose arm around my waist.
Neither one of us is in a hurry to move.
We stand together in my kitchen, my cheek on his shoulder, one of his hands idly toying with my hair, and breathe each other in.
I trace idle patterns on his chest and listen to the steadiness of his breath, the catch in it when I accidentally graze one of his nipples with my nail.
The muscles in his abdomen tighten when I drag my fingertips lower, and I swear he stops breathing when I rest my hand on his waistband, all of the anticipation and want from earlier flooding back in with my doubts quieted.
But there’s one more thing I need to say before we leave this kitchen.
“Wes?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you,” I say softly. “For calling me on my shit. For making me talk about it.”
“I’m not letting you go that easily,” he says, quiet but intensely serious. “I get you’re used to doing everything on your own. I can handle an independent woman. Just don’t shut me out, all right?”
“I’ll do my best.” I glance down the hallway toward my bedroom and lift a teasing brow. “Still want to take me to bed?”