Chapter 7
Seven
Friday Afternoon.
Wes had been useless all morning.
Miguel had noticed—the way Wes kept checking his phone, the way he’d miscounted change twice, the way he’d nearly walked into a low-hanging branch because he wasn’t paying attention.
“You got that meeting today?” Miguel asked around noon, netting a balsam fir for a young couple.
“Yeah. Two o’clock.”
“Maybe you should eat something. You’ve been wound up all morning.”
“I’m fine.”
Miguel gave him an eye-roll that said he wasn’t buying it, but he didn’t push.
By one-thirty, Wes had given up pretending to be productive. He told Miguel he was heading in early to prep, which was a lie. There was nothing to prep. The paperwork for his business plan was ready. The kitchen was clean. Everything was in order.
Inside, Henry was in his chair, watching a British baking show. He glanced up when Wes came in.
“Meeting today?”
“Yeah.”
“With that banker? Jake?”
Wes paused. Something in Henry’s tone was different. Not suspicious exactly, but... encouraging?
“Yeah.”
Henry nodded, eyes back on the TV. “I like him. He seems decent.”
“He is.”
“Good. You could use a decent man like him to help you sort your business out. Take a load off.”
Wes didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. The words rang innocent enough one way, but downright dirty another. Sometimes his father seemed far more perceptive than he let on. He went to the kitchen, poured himself water he didn’t want, and tried not to pace.
At exactly two o’clock, Jake’s car pulled into the driveway.
Wes forced himself to wait, counted to five, then walked to the door and opened it before Jake could knock.
Jake stood on the porch, messenger bag over his shoulder, and wearing a baby blue Oxford that made his eyes sing. He looked good. Damn good.
He also looked nervous.
“Hey,” Jake said.
“Hey.” Wes stepped back. “Come in.”
They sat at the kitchen table. Jake pulled out his laptop, walked through the final paperwork—restructuring terms, payment schedules, and the timeline for filing. Wes signed where Jake pointed and initialed where needed.
But the whole time, there was the undercurrent of yesterday’s conversation at the Dairy Dream hanging between them.
Jake’s hands shook slightly as he organized the papers.
Wes’s voice cracked when he asked about the payment date.
They were both trying so hard to be normal that nothing felt normal at all.
“So that’s it,” Jake said finally, closing the folder. “I’ll file these on Monday. New terms take effect January first.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. You’re officially restructured. Lower payments, more breathing room.”
Wes nodded. “Thank you. For all of it.”
“Just doing my job.”
“No. It’s more than that.” Wes met his eyes. “You know it is.”
“Wes—”
“You wanted to see what I’ve been working on?”
Jake blinked at the subject change. “Yeah. If you’re still willing to show me.”
Wes stood. “Come on.”
Jake followed Wes across the yard to the workshop, watching his breath puff in the cool December air. Wes unlocked the door, hesitating with his hand on the knob.
“I was out here late last night,” Wes said. “It’s a little messy.”
“I don’t mind mess.”
Inside, familiar scents greeted them–sawdust and wood shavings, pine resin and machine oil. Half-finished carvings lined the shelves—Santas, reindeer, eagles, bears…
But Wes walked past all of them to the back corner, where something large stood covered with a paint-stained tarp.
“I’ve been working on this,” Wes said, not quite meeting Jake’s eyes. “All last night. It’s not finished.”
He pulled the tarp away.
Jake’s breath caught.
The figure stood over three feet tall, carved from cherry wood that glowed warm even in the workshop’s fluorescent light. It was the rough figure of a man—sharp angles, broad shoulders, abstract almost—standing with one hand raised to his brow, as if saluting, or searching maybe.
Obviously, the details weren’t there yet, but the shape was expressive enough to convey emotion. Yearning? Anticipation? “Wes,” Jake breathed. “This is... God, this is beautiful.”
Wes shifted his weight, uncomfortable. “Still needs work. But I like the shape it’s taking.”
“It’s… powerful.” Jake moved closer, drawn to it. “What inspired it?”
Wes was quiet for a long moment, his face furrowed with words he couldn’t quite spit out. “Just... a feeling I was trying to work through.”
“What feeling?”
“Hope, maybe? Or possibility.” Wes reached out, his fingers hovering near the figure but not quite touching, like he was afraid he might damage it. “The idea that maybe there’s something better out there. Something worth looking for, even if you’re scared you won’t find it.”
Jake felt a lump in his throat. There was something raw in Wes’s voice, something vulnerable that made Jake want to close the distance between them and—
“It’s stupid,” Wes said suddenly, dropping his hand. “Sentimental bullshit.”
“It’s not stupid.” Jake turned to face him. “It’s honest. That’s what makes it strong.”
Their eyes met, and Jake saw something flicker across Wes’s face—gratitude, maybe, or understanding. Like he had seen the same thing in the carving that Wes had.
“You really think I could sell these?” Wes asked quietly. “Not just at church craft fairs, but really sell them?”
“I think you could do more than sell them. I think you could make a name for yourself.” Jake gestured at the figure. “This isn’t hobby-level work, Wes. This is art.”
Wes looked back at the carving, his expression unreadable. “Pedro said something similar. About not hiding my light.”
“He’s right.”
“Yeah, well. Easier said than done when you’re drowning in debt, and your father needs medication three times a day.”
“I know.” Jake wanted to touch him, to offer comfort beyond words, but he kept his hands at his sides. “But this—what you create—it matters. Don’t let the farm make you forget that.”
Wes carefully draped the tarp back over the figure, his movements gentle, reverent. “Thank you for saying that.”
“I mean it.”
They stood there in the sawdust-scented quiet, and Jake felt the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on them—attraction and fear and the impossibility of timing.
“I should get back,” Wes said finally. “Miguel’s probably drowning in customers.”
“Right. Of course.”
But neither of them moved toward the door.
Jake was standing close now. Close enough that Wes again saw the hazel flecks in his blue eyes, smelled his cologne—something clean that made Wes want to lean in and breathe deeper.
“I think about you,” Jake said quietly. “I shouldn’t. But I do.”
Wes’s heart slammed against his ribs. “Jake—”
“I know. I know I shouldn’t. You’re a client. I’m supposed to be professional. But I can’t help it. I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“I think about you too.”
The confession hung in the air, suspended between them, like haze on a misty morning.
“What if it ruins everything?” Wes asked.
“It won’t.”
“The farm—”
“Will be fine. I promise. Whatever happens, the restructuring is already done. Signed. You’re safe.”
Jake’s hand came up, cupping Wes’s jaw.
“Am I?” Wes asked.
Jake didn’t answer. Instead, he closed the space between them.
The kiss was desperate, nearly a week of want compressed into the crush of mouths. Jake made a sound—half gasp, half moan—and kissed back just as hard, hands fisting in Wes’s flannel.
They stumbled backward, hitting the workbench. Tools rattled. Wes didn’t care. He kissed Jake deeper, tasted coffee and need and something sweet he couldn’t name.
“Fuck,” Wes breathed against Jake’s mouth. “Fuck, I want—”
“Tell me.”
“You. This. I don’t know. Everything.”
Jake kissed him again, harder, teeth scraping Wes’s bottom lip. His hands dropped to Wes’s belt, paused. “Is this okay?”
“Yeah. God, yeah.”
“Lock the door.”
Wes crossed to the door on unsteady legs, twisted the deadbolt. When he turned back, Jake was unbuttoning his shirt with fingers that shook slightly.
“Let me,” Wes said.
He replaced Jake’s hands with his own, worked the buttons slowly, revealing skin inch by inch. When the shirt fell open, Wes traced his palms over Jake’s chest—lean muscle, soft hair, the rapid rise and fall of breath.
“You’re beautiful,” Wes said.
Jake laughed shakily. “No. You are.”
Jake shrugged out of the shirt, letting it fall. His hands went to Wes’s flannel, made quick work of the buttons. They undressed each other slowly, carefully, like unwrapping something precious.
When they were both shirtless, Wes pulled Jake against him, skin to skin. Jake was smaller, leaner, but he fit against Wes perfectly.
“Where?” Jake asked.
“Here. Now.”
Jake dropped to his knees in the sawdust.
Wes had imagined this the night before, his hand on his cock, trying to be quiet so Henry wouldn’t hear. But imagination was nothing compared to reality.
Jake on his knees, looking up at him with those devastating eyes. Jake’s hands working his belt, his zipper, pulling Wes’s pants down. Jake’s mouth—
“Oh, God—”
The heat was overwhelming. Jake sucked him slow and thorough, one hand stroking what he couldn’t take, the other squeezing Wes’s hip for balance.
Wes gripped the edge of the workbench, knuckles white, trying not to thrust. Jake hummed around him—encouragement or pleasure, Wes couldn’t tell—but the vibration was ending him.
“Jake, I’m—fuck! I’m sorry. I’m close—”
Jake pulled off just long enough to say, “Good. I want it,” then swallowed Wes down again.
Wes came with a broken sound, fingers tangling in Jake’s hair. Jake worked him through it, didn’t pull away until Wes was completely drained, shaking and hiccuping with hypersensitive aftershocks.
When Jake stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Wes pulled him into a desperate kiss—tasting himself, not caring about anything except having Jake close.
“Your turn,” Wes said roughly.
“You don’t have to—”
Wes silenced him with a kiss, fierce and calming. “If you think I’m not doing this, you’re crazy.”
He pushed Jake against the workbench, dropped to his knees. Jake was already hard, straining against his briefs. Wes mouthed him through the fabric first, just to hear Jake gasp and curse above him.
“Fuck, Wes—”
Wes pulled the briefs down, took Jake in his mouth without preamble. Jake’s hand flew to Wes’s hair, not pulling, but holding on like he needed an anchor.
Wes had done this before, but not like this. Never with someone who made him feel so desperate and powerful at the same time. He worked Jake with his lips and tongue, taking him deep and pulling up slow, learning what made Jake’s breath hitch, what made his hips creep forward.
“God, your mouth—” Jake’s voice was wrecked. “Wes, come up here.”
Wes pulled off, confused. “What—?”
Jake hauled him up, kissed him hard. “I want to see your face. Can we—” He turned, hoisted himself up to sit on the workbench, legs spread. “Come here.”
Wes stepped between Jake’s thighs, and Jake pulled him into another kiss, deep and hungry. Jake’s hand dropped between them, wrapped around Wes’s cock.
“Wow—” Jake sounded amazed. Wes was half-hard again, filling under Jake’s touch.
“Can’t help it. It’s your fault.”
“Yeah?” Jake stroked him, slow and deliberate. “Good.”
Wes groaned, dropping his forehead onto Jake’s shoulder. His own hand found Jake’s cock, matching Jake’s rhythm. They stroked each other—Jake sitting, Wes standing between his legs, hands working each other with increasing desperation.
“Look at me,” Jake said.
Wes lifted his head. Jake’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. They kept eye contact as their hands moved faster, breathing each other’s air.
“God, you’re beautiful,” Jake said.
“You are.”
Jake laughed, breathless. “We’re—fuck—we’re a mess.”
“Yeah.” Wes twisted his wrist on the upstroke, watched Jake’s eyes flutter. “A perfect mess.”
Jake’s free hand came up, cupped the back of Wes’s neck, pulled him in for a kiss that was more breathing into each other’s mouths than actual kissing. Their hands sped up, grips tightening.
“Close,” Jake gasped. “Wes, I’m—”
“Me too.”
Jake came first by seconds, spilling over Wes’s fist with a broken moan. The sight of him—head thrown back, throat exposed, coming apart—pushed Wes over. He followed, impossibly, his second orgasm pulled from somewhere very deep.
They stayed there, sweaty, foreheads pressed together, hands still loosely wrapped around each other, breathing hard.
“Jesus,” Wes said finally. “That was—”
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t know I had it in me.”
Jake smiled, soft and a little smug. “Good to know for future reference.”
The word future hung between them, fragile and hopeful.
Afterward, they stood in the workshop, half-dressed and breathing hard, trying to piece themselves back together.
“That was—” Jake began.
“Yeah.”
“We should probably talk about it.”
“Probably.”
But neither moved. They just stood there, looking at each other, the air still electric between them.
Finally, Jake reached for his shirt, shook off the sawdust. “I should go.”
Something in Wes’s chest clenched. “Already?”
Jake paused, shirt halfway on. “Do you want me to stay?”
“I—” Wes thought about Henry in the house, Miguel outside with customers. “I want you to, but—”
“It’s complicated. I know.”
Jake finished buttoning his shirt and tucked it in. All professional again, except for his sex-rouged lips and a mark Wes had unintentionally left on his neck.
“Shit,” Wes said, reaching out to touch the hickey. “I marked you.”
Jake’s hand came up, covering Wes’s. “I don’t mind.”
They stood like that for a moment, Jake’s hand over his, skin warm.
“I meant what I said,” Jake said quietly. “This matters to me. You matter to me.”
“You matter to me, too.”
“So, what do we do?”
Wes didn’t have an answer. How would they do this? Jake lived in Atlanta. Wes was tied to the farm. There were several reasons why it was impossible.
“I don’t know,” Wes admitted.
“Me neither.” Jake squeezed his hand, then let go. “But I want to figure it out… if you do.”
“I do.”
Jake smiled—so genuine, so beautiful. “I’ll call you. Tonight. After dinner. We’ll talk.”
“Okay.”
Jake gathered his bag, headed for the door. Paused with his hand on the knob.
“Wes?”
“Yeah?”
“No regrets. Not about this.”
Then, he was gone.
Wes stood in the workshop, surrounded by his sculptures and the ghost of Jake’s cologne. He looked at the carving in the corner, waiting to be finished.
His phone buzzed.
Miguel: A customer wants to talk to you about delivery.
Back to reality.
But tonight, Jake would call.
They’d figure it out.
They had to.