2. Wesley
Wesley
For months now, the mountain has been my sanctuary of silence, a place to make me dead to the world. But even the dead dream of breathing again. Even if I needed to avoid people, humans need social interactions. It’s a scientific fact.
That’s what finally drove me to step into town a handful of weeks ago—a desperate, clawing need for a taste of life that wasn’t filtered through pine needles and solitude.
I found it in the most unlikely place — a bakery that looked like a fever dream of pink and blue. But through the glass, I saw her, and the world, for one reckless heartbeat, felt warm again.
Maribel. Laughing, her hands dusted with flour, a spot of sunlight in the sterile, fluorescent glow. I walked in, ordered a tart I didn’t want, and took a seat, claiming it as my own. I’ve been hooked ever since, a man starved trying to live on the mere scent of a feast.
It’s so sweet in here, I can taste the sugar on my tongue. My stomach clenches, and my hatred for sweets has yet to change despite how many tries I take to manage more than a couple of bites.
The next bite of cream cheese is the price of admission to watch her when she doesn’t think I’m looking.
Right now, it’s through the reflection of the glass.
I tell myself I’m just curious, that it’s harmless.
But every time her laughter spills across the room, my fingers twitch, aching to trace the sound.
I have a craving that needs to be met, and I don’t know how else to feed it.
As new information reaches my ears, secretly watching her doesn’t feel like it’s enough.
Maribel wants a husband. Somehow, no one in this town has already scooped her up and made her his. It’s a mystery I can’t solve, nor do I want to.
Just thinking about someone doing what I want to do is enough to make the next bite I taste sour.
Wesley Haverford was once a man who took what he wanted. Now look at me, stealing things like a thief in the shadows. Sneaking glances when she thinks I’m not looking. Listening in on conversations I’m not a part of. Anything to get more of a woman out of my reach.
The old me would have already charmed her into a date. One smirk and a few husky words could’ve gotten me far.
The man I am now just watches his own fractured reflection in the front window, drinking in the woman of his dreams from a distance.
Wesley Haverford, once a well-known CEO of Elysion Tech, turned creepy.
She wants a husband. And I, who have no right to want anything at all, want nothing more than to offer myself, knowing I’d be a poor gift.
Because the man I am today? No one wants me. The world chewed me up and spat me out because of a fabricated lie.
Knowing my luck, as terrible as it has been, she’d get uncomfortable, and I’d lose the one place I use to escape.
The voice, when it appears, is a gentle, melodic hum that surprises me, interrupting my solo staring contest and transforming my view into the sight of a passing SUV.
“Is it not to your liking?”
I startle, my spine snapping straight. Maribel stands beside my table, a cleaning rag in her hand and a slight, worried furrow between her brows. Her gaze is fixed on the evidence of my crime, the pumpkin roll, with its three reluctant bites taken from it.
When did she end her conversation with the other woman? Did thinking about my past swallow up her presence?
My mind empties. It’s one thing to observe her from a safe distance; it’s another entirely to be the sole focus of those soft brown eyes. The warmth in them is a physical touch, and it steals the air from my lungs.
She thinks her baking is bad. The thought brings a wave of panic. I cannot let her think that. I cannot be the reason that light dims.
“No,” I blurt out, the word too rough in the quiet hum of the bakery. I grimace and clear my throat. It’s rusty from disuse. “No, it’s perfect, Maribel.”
Her breath catches, a soft, sharp intake of air that I feel in my own chest. Her eyes, already wide, widen further, the warm brown deepening with surprise. The rag in her hand stills.
She seems more surprised than she should be. Was she expecting me to insult her creation?
A slow blush creeps up her neck, staining her cheeks. She releases in a small, flustered laugh. Looking a little unsteady, her teeth catch her bottom lip like she’s trying to contain a smile. “Perfect. I’m glad to hear it.”
She doesn’t move away. She just stands there, her presence a sweet, overwhelming pressure. The scent of her—vanilla and apple pie—wrecks me more thoroughly than any corporate betrayal ever could. Right now, there isn’t any room in my head to think about the past.
Her gaze flicks from my face to the pastry and back again, a new, unreadable emotion in her eyes. Curiosity. She glances back toward the counter before looking at the seat across from me. “May I?”
And now, she wants to sit here? Right within my reach?
“Sure.” Cradling the fork keeps me from feeding into this new craving that is forming quicker by the second. At this rate, I’m going to want to reach out and touch her.
Secluding myself has truly taken its toll on me.
Before I can ask her why she wants to sit in front of me, she’s squinting at the pumpkin roll like I’ve fed her a lie. “I’ve noticed you barely finish off what you buy. Are you sure they’re good?”
“They are,” I insist, the lie a familiar, bitter coating on my tongue. “I’m just… not a big eater.”
She tilts her head, and a stray brown curl escapes the loose knot of her hair as her nose scrunches like she doesn’t like my answer. My fingers twitch with the forbidden urge to tuck it back.
“See, that’s the thing,” she says, leaning forward conspiratorially. “I’m trying to get better. I want to be a real pastry chef one day, not just a small-town baker. It’s hard to improve when everyone is just so nice. You don’t look nice.”
The last words flow out of her, and she jerks like she’s said more than she’s meant to.
“I mean, you look like you don’t mind the cold, brutal truth.” Attempting to save herself, her cheeks glow a pretty pink shade. “Therefore, I think you’re exactly what I’m looking for.”
Her earlier conversation pops back up in my head, and I have to convince myself that this woman is not about to ask me to give her my last name.
This is what happens when everything goes from zero to a hundred without any warning. I’m feeling things I never have before.
“What do you need from me?” A simple question with hopefully a simple answer.
“Would you… Would you be willing to help me? Be a taste tester, I mean? For my new recipes?” Her smile is back. “If I can make something you can finish, then that must mean improvement, right?”
No. Absolutely not. This is the most dangerous path she could have chosen. My name, my face—they are liabilities. If someone connects Wesley Haverford to her, the gossip, the whispers, the stench of my old scandal would tarnish her.
The lie that ruined me would quickly taint her. People would demand she stay far away. They’d convince her that I’m a monster.
“Maribel, I…” I shake my head, the refusal already forming. “I’m not the right person for that. You don’t understand.”
“Please?” The word is soft, but it carries the weight of a plea. Then she does the unthinkable. She reaches across the small table. Her fingers, giving me no time to prepare for the contact, brush against my knuckles.
It’s a connection I have been starving for without knowing it. The contact is brief, but it scorches my skin, short-circuiting every rational argument, every instinct for self-preservation.
Her eyes are wide, pleading, and I am utterly, completely lost. There’s no question about it. I’ve met my weakness. And now, this sweet woman is using herself against me to get exactly what she wants.
She could ask any of these locals to eat some free sweets, but without warning, she has her eyes set on me.
Against every screaming alarm in my mind, against the ghost of the man I used to be who would have calculated the risk, my head dips in a slow, defeated nod.
“Alright,” I hear myself say, the word a surrender. “I’ll help you.”
A brilliant, triumphant smile breaks across her face, and once again, I’m in awe.
My stomach churns with dread for the future, and this lump in my chest is starting to come alive due to the uncertainty of what lies ahead.
A radiant, victorious smile spreads across her face, and I remain in awe. Though a single curve shouldn’t rival the sun, she consistently comes close to surpassing it.
“Okay, great!” For a moment, she just sits there, soaking in her success. Then, a new energy seems to run through her. Without warning, she hops up from her seat. “Don’t go anywhere.”
As if I could. As if my bones haven’t fused to this seat. I watch, mesmerized, as she rushes away and disappears into the back, leaving me in the sudden, deafening silence of my own recklessness.
The few minutes she’s gone feel like a lifetime. My mind races through a hundred scenarios, each more disastrous than the last. I should get up. I should walk out that door and never come back. I should spare her the fallout.
But then she reappears, a flash of pastel and warmth, and every thought of escape evaporates.
She’s clutching a small, crumpled piece of paper in her fist, her knuckles white.
The confident baker from a moment ago is gone, replaced by a flicker of the same nervous hesitation I feel curdling in my own gut.
She stops beside the table, her bottom lip caught between her teeth again. “So we can… You know, figure out the details,” she says, her voice a little unsteady. She holds out the paper.
I take it. Our fingers don’t brush this time, but the potential for it hangs in the air. The paper is warm from her grip.
I unfold it carefully. A phone number is scrawled in a looping, slightly hurried handwriting. Below it, her name is in looped cursive, like I need to know this is hers.
Does she think women throw their numbers at me as a daily occurrence?
“Text me,” she says, her voice gaining a little more strength, a little more of that hopeful energy. “We can get this going. This is going to be great.”
She gives me one last, dazzling smile before telling me she should get back to work. All I can do is nod because none of this feels real. Once I’m alone, the paper curls against my touch.
I stare at the ten digits like they’re a foreign language. It’s just a phone number. A simple, mundane thing. At the same time, it’s everything.
Folding the paper carefully, I slip it into my pocket and stand up. Tossing away the remaining piece of the roll, I decide now is the best time to head out before I feed into this reckless trend of mine.
I should walk away before this becomes something dangerous. But her number burns in my pocket like a heartbeat, and for the first time in months, I want to feel alive again.