Chapter 12
WILLOW
Iwipe sweat off my brow as I step into the late-morning sun and shut the garage door behind me.
It’s kind of a nightmare lugging in the inflatable paddleboards from the back of my dad’s truck, but he wasn’t around when I returned home from the harbor.
A drop of moisture slips down my spine, and I decide I’ll rinse off in the outdoor shower before heading inside to get ready for work.
A soft, melodic folk song flows through my earbuds as I push through the swinging door and step into the stall my dad built behind the garage.
Lined with bamboo paneling, it’s closed off from the outside world but has an open top that allows a view of the sky overhead.
A divider separates the changing area from the shower itself, and the entire stall is lined with planted ferns and calatheas, creating a private paradise.
I slip out of my wetsuit and throw it over the bamboo wall before rounding the divider.
Until I smack face-first into something that should not be there.
It takes a moment to regain my bearings, my focus settling on the broad, toned, wet chest level with my eyesight. I run my gaze up that chest, pulse pounding in my ears as I lift my head to find Weston blinking down at me.
His eyes are shadowed, jaw set, brows furrowed beneath the dripping hair hanging on his forehead. The eye contact is too intense, so I drop my gaze—and I can’t decide if I’m thankful or disappointed when I notice he’s wearing shorts.
His stomach brushes against my waist, and I realize how close our bodies are. I inhale sharply, jumping back to create enough space for the drumming in my chest—but one of my heels clips my ankle, and I stumble backward.
His arm shoots out, gripping my waist and curling around the small of my back, keeping me steady. I wobble slightly before finding my balance again, my mind reeling at the warmth of his palm, the way his fingers curl into my flesh to grip me—keep me upright.
His hold on me is solid and strong, tender when he squeezes slightly, as if reassuring himself he’s still holding me. I haven’t been touched like this in a long time. I haven’t been touched by a man at all. Not since . . .
The memory slams into my consciousness. Parker’s hands on my hips, his thighs rubbing against the backs of mine, my hair wrapped around his fist. Everything he was stealing from me in that moment, and the way I hadn’t even been aware. How I’d mistaken it for love and care and pleasure.
A nauseating chill rolls down my spine, and a shiver bites my flesh.
Weston rears back, clearing his throat. “So—Sorry. I thought you might fall.”
“Oh,” I breathe, realizing he must think I’m flinching at his touch. “No. It wasn’t . . .” I bite my lip, shaking my head. “I’m sorry. I was listening to music and didn’t hear the shower running. I should’ve knocked.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I get it.” He takes another step back, creating more space.
“It’s not you, Wes,” I murmur before bursting out an incredulous laugh. “I’m just traumatized.”
His brows shoot up, eyes flaring with concern. He rubs a hand across his jaw, lips parting like he may say something before they close again, and he shakes his head.
Parker had opinions about my body, ones he rarely kept to himself.
He’d comment every time I gained or lost a few pounds, and regardless of which direction the scale went, it was negative.
I lost weight in the wrong places, and gained it in the wrong places, too.
He’d tell me my breasts were too small, but my ass had too much cellulite, and my torso was too wide.
I was too athletic but not lean enough, too round but not curvy enough.
Then he’d follow up every comment with but I love your body anyway, and that’s all that matters.
Then, that night happened and he told me I was—
“Me too,” Wes responds, pulling me from my thoughts. “I struggle with touch. I understand.”
My nose begins to sting, emotion building behind my eyes, and I can’t decide if it’s for myself or for him.
He’s so tall, strong and guarded. Impenetrable.
I couldn’t imagine anyone being able to hurt him now, but I’m suddenly all too aware he was once a vulnerable young boy living inside a nightmare.
“I’m sorry.” I swallow, beginning to walk backward. “I’ll go—”
“Willow,” he rasps quietly, and I halt. His eyes are pinned to me, unraveling all my composure as they hungrily soak in every inch of my exposed skin.
Lips parted, chest heaving, he studies me like a painting he may never see again.
“I planned on talking to you after my training session. I was going to ask you to give me space.”
“Oh.” What the hell? How does he expect me to respond to that?
The whiplash between the language of his body and the words from his mouth knocks the wind from my lungs.
“That’s not . . . fuck.” He sighs, running a hand through his wet hair.
“Why do you want me to stay away from you so badly?”
I’ve volleyed between whether Weston genuinely doesn’t like me, or if he’s just terrible at flirting.
He looks at me with interest, but speaks to me with disdain.
I’ve considered he might be jealous, assuming I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and have never wanted for anything, while he’s struggled for everything—and he wouldn’t necessarily be wrong about that.
But I’m not a spoiled brat. I’m not mean or shallow or vain, and I’ve done my best to prove that, because it’s an assumption that’s followed me most of my life.
It makes my skin itch—the thought of Weston thinking those things of me, not liking me.
It’s as if part of me wants to tell him off, tell him I’d like distance from him too, because I refuse to tolerate yet another man who resents me.
Yet, part of me wants to fight to prove him otherwise, show him I’m none of those things—that I could be his friend.
I think, perhaps, it’s because I am growing to like Weston.
I think I’d like him to be my friend too.
A third part of me is a little afraid that this is his version of flirting, because I find him beautiful, and I cannot allow my head to go down that rabbit hole.
“Do you remember when we met at Disneyland? It was Christmas, like . . . six or seven years ago?” he asks.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“You knew I was overstimulated.” When I only blink, he raises his head toward the sky as if searching for what to say next.
“Nobody else noticed. I thought I was hiding it well, but I was having the hardest fucking time. Not just that day, but with everything back then. You saw it. I don’t even know how.
And you didn’t make me feel embarrassed or ashamed of the box I hid inside.
You were kind. I felt . . . seen.” He looks at me again, blue eyes blazing through me.
“I never forgot it, Willow. I blocked a lot of shit out, but I remembered you.”
My mouth parts with a ragged gasp, desperate to swallow the oxygen laced with his words.
“Since moving in here a few weeks ago, you’ve been . . . distracting,” he continues softly. “Even more so after I found you crying that morning, and how you disappeared for days afterward, and . . . whatever happened at the flower shop.”
“Nothing—”
“I don’t believe that.” He inches forward, like he may step toward me, before rearing back, as if he thought better of it.
“I’m aware of you at all times, and it’s completely eclipsed my focus.
I can’t lose sight of the reason I came here.
My entire life hangs in the balance, and I thought you might jeopardize that, even if through no fault of your own. ”
My heart seems to have sprouted wings, and in an attempt to fly out my mouth, it’s been lodged in my throat.
“I wasn’t lying when I said I lack social skills.
” He huffs a laugh. “I grew up around poor communication styles and, according to my many therapists, I isolated myself socially, likely as a way to hide the abuse that was going on at home.” He shrugs.
“It’s why I struggle with touch. I wasn’t touched gently as a child. I don’t trust the hands of others.”
That stinging erupts behind my eyes again.
“Why are you telling me all of this, Wes?”
He bites his lip, lashes fluttering as his gaze falls to the ground. “You make me feel like I can, I guess. Like my truth is safe with you.”
“And yet you want me to stay away?”
He shakes his head without raising it—without looking at me.
“Not after today.” He finally lifts his eyes, and the raging storm inside them seems to have settled.
“I heard you out there, cheering for me. It lit a fire inside me. Reminded me what it feels like to surf for someone other than myself. I’m grateful for that now. ”
I don’t know how to respond, still choking on my feathered heart.
I breathe deeply before whispering, “Your truth is safe with me.”
Weston licks his lips, nodding before his gaze falls from me again.
“My boyfriend sexually assaulted me,” I blurt so quickly I’m not even sure I’ve spoken until I hear the words leave my mouth and land in the space between us. “That’s why I moved home. That’s who you heard my mother talking to. He called looking for me.”
Weston’s head snaps up, eyes widening before narrowing slowly, nostrils flaring, jaw tensing. His breathing picks up, and I imagine if Parker were standing beside me right now, he’d be in grave danger. Though I don’t feel threatened at all.
“I thought he was the love of my life.” I swallow, emotion surging behind my eyes.
“I thought I’d marry him someday. I still miss him all the time, and I hate myself for it.
” I quickly turn my head, wiping the tears dripping down my cheeks, as if I can hide them from him.
“I haven’t said that out loud before. Not to anyone. ”
“But you’re telling me,” he says softly.