Chapter Twenty-Four – Paisley
Chapter Twenty-Four
Paisley
M artha's Diner looks like Pinterest and a harvest festival had a baby, then doused it in enough twinkle lights to be visible from space. I stop in the doorway, still a little wobbly from our recent battle with the plague, and seriously consider faking a relapse.
"Don't even think about it." Wes’s voice rumbles behind me, low and steady, right before his palm settles at the small of my back like it belongs there. "If I have to endure this, so do you."
"Misery loves company, huh?" I aim for sarcasm, but it comes out softer than intended. Maybe it’s the lingering effects of spending three days on his couch, sharing tissues and the worst TV known to mankind. Or maybe it’s just how he still hasn’t moved his hand.
"Paisley! Wes!" Martha materializes like a party-planning tornado, clipboard clutched in one hand, sheer determination in the other. "Oh, thank goodness you're both back among the living. We have a crisis!"
"Define crisis," Wes says, his hand finally leaving my back. I tell myself I don’t miss the warmth.
"The square dance formations are a mess! The couples’ competition is in shambles! The fairy lights are staging a rebellion!"
I glance at Wes. "That sounds…dire."
"Truly tragic. Thoughts and prayers," he deadpans, but there’s the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.
Martha is unfazed. "You two need to practice the dance. Immediately."
Wes stiffens beside me. "The what now?"
"The dance competition! You signed up weeks ago. You’re still in, right?" Martha beams at us like she's handing out free pie instead of guaranteed public humiliation.
My instinct is to laugh it off and politely decline, but something in the way Wes's entire body tenses, like a man facing a firing squad, makes mischief spark to life.
"Of course, we are."
His head snaps toward me so fast I half expect to hear a vertebra crack. I keep my attention on Martha, steadfastly ignoring the laser-focused stare drilling into the side of my face.
"Wonderful!" She claps her hands and starts repositioning tables. "Let's get you two warmed up."
And that is how I find myself standing in the middle of Martha’s Diner at ten in the morning, hand-in-hand with a cowboy who looks like he’d rather be wrestling a bull.
"Closer," Martha instructs, physically nudging us together until my chest brushes against his. "It’s a partner dance, not a tax audit."
Wes exhales sharply through his nose but places his other hand on my waist anyway. It’s warm and steady, and I am suddenly hyperaware of the sheer size of him, of the way he completely surrounds me.
"Just follow my lead," he murmurs, voice lower than before. "I won’t let you fall."
The words shouldn’t make my breath hitch, but they do.
Martha starts counting, and Wes moves. I try to follow. Truly, I do. But my feet seem to have forgotten their job, and within seconds, I’m teetering. Wes tightens his grip, pulling me in closer, keeping me from disaster.
"Relax," he says, amusement threading through his voice. "You're supposed to let me lead."
“And you think I know how to do that?”
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, so close I feel it against my own. "You don’t say."
Somewhere behind us, Martha is making encouraging noises, but I barely hear her. Because Wes is looking at me in a way that makes the entire diner fade away. Like he did during those quiet, fever-blurred nights on his couch. Like he’s still trying to figure out what this is between us.
"See? Not so bad," he murmurs, his thumb absently tracing circles on my waist. Definitely not part of the official choreography.
"Says the man not wearing heels."
"You're not wearing heels either."
"Details." I stumble again, but he catches me effortlessly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
"You know," I say, aiming for nonchalance despite my heart hammering, "in my books, this would be the part where the heroine magically knows all the steps."
His lips quirk. "And the hero never steps on her toes?"
"Not once." I tilt my head, smirking. "He also usually has perfectly styled hair and has never mucked a stall in his life."
"Sounds boring." His grip tightens ever so slightly. "So, is that what you've been writing up in your room?"
I blink, caught off guard. "What?"
"Emma says you've been holed up for days, barely coming up for air." His tone is teasing, but there’s something else there, too—curiosity, maybe. "Thought maybe you were crafting the perfect cowboy hero. One that never steps on toes and always has perfect hair."
I huff a laugh. "If I was, you’d be flattered, wouldn’t you?"
His grin is slow, knowing. "Depends. Do I get a happy ending?"
My breath catches slightly, but I recover, forcing a smirk. "Wouldn’t you like to know?"
Something flickers in his eyes, something unreadable but impossibly warm. "Maybe I would."
Before I can respond, Martha claps her hands. "Music! We need music!"
She bustles toward the ancient jukebox, leaving us frozen in this too-close moment. Wes doesn’t let go. His thumb keeps tracing those slow, distracting circles, his grip just a fraction firmer.
The music starts—a country tune, slow and easy, but I barely register it. Wes holds my gaze, his hands warm and steady against me.
“How’s the book coming along?” His voice is low, just for me, despite Martha still bustling around, giving instructions.
“Almost done,” I reply, focusing on our slow, deliberate steps instead of the weight of his eyes on me. “Maybe another couple of weeks.”
He nods, his fingers tightening slightly at my waist. “And then?”
“Then Manhattan.” The word feels foreign in my mouth. “Back to real life, I guess.”
He looks away, just for a moment, before asking, “Is that what you want?”
I hesitate. “I don’t know.”
“Seems like you should,” he says quietly, eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder. “You’ve got a life there.”
“I had a life there,” I correct, softer than intended. “Now, I’m not so sure.”
His jaw works, a muscle feathering beneath the skin. “This place...it’s not easy. Or simple.”
“I didn’t come here for easy.” I catch his gaze again, holding it. “And I’m not looking for simple.”
His expression softens just a bit. “You’re different than I thought you’d be.”
“And how’s that?”
“Less polished,” he says, almost smiling. “More real.”
A small laugh escapes me. “That’s what happens when you’re knee-deep in mud and wrangling chickens.”
His hand moves up, brushing a stray curl behind my ear. “You fit here more than you think.”
I take a breath, the air thick between us. “Maybe I was just waiting for someone to notice.”
For a moment, I think he might finally say the thing we’ve both been skirting around. But then his hand drops away, the distance returning as quickly as it had vanished.
“I’ve got work to do,” he says, voice tight. “The bank’s breathing down my neck. Bills piling up. And Emma…she deserves more than this uncertainty.”
“What are you saying?” I ask, the words barely above a whisper.
“I’m saying I can’t offer you anything worth staying for.” He steps back, creating a space that feels cavernous between us. “Not when I can’t promise this place will be here come spring.”
I reach out, catching his hand before he can go. “I’m not asking for guarantees, Wes. Just...don’t shut me out.”
His gaze drops to our joined hands, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “You deserve someone who can give you more than a fight with the bank and a broken-down barn.”
“I’ll decide what I deserve,” I say, my voice firm. “And maybe it’s you.”
His eyes meet mine, conflicted and raw. “I can’t be the reason you give up everything.”
“You’re not.” I take a step closer. “You’re the reason I’m thinking about staying.”
He looks like he wants to argue, but instead, he just pulls me into a quick, fierce hug, his breath warm against my hair. “I need to sort things out. Figure out if I can save this place.”
“We’ll figure it out together,” I insist.
His hands drop away as he steps back, the cold seeping into the space he leaves behind. “I need to do this alone.”
Before I can protest, Martha returns, clipboard in hand, cheerfully unaware of the gravity she’s interrupted.
“Well, look at you two!” she beams. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think there was something going on.”
Wes offers her a polite smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I should get going. Livestock won’t tend to themselves.”
He tips his hat to me, a gesture too formal for the moment. “Take care, Paisley.”
And just like that, he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him. Martha prattles on about decorations and lighting, but I can’t focus on any of it. The room feels emptier, his absence more palpable than his presence ever was.
Outside, the sunlight is harsh, too bright, and I realize I’m still standing there, watching the door like it might bring him back. But it doesn’t. And it won’t.
Reality is relentless, stubborn in its insistence. And yet, somehow, Wes Montgomery has made me believe in something better.