Chapter 14 Willow
WILLOW
Weston:
I don’t like sleeping in the dark.
My phone chimes with a text from Weston just a moment before two more follow it.
Weston:
That’s my truth. Now I need one from you.
Weston:
Do your parents keep cameras in their kitchen?
Willow: Um…yeah?
There are cameras in all the common areas.
We’ve had break-ins over the years.
Weston:
Your dad asked me not to suck on your fingers in his home.
Oh my God. My teeth grind as I throw the comforter off my legs and bound out of my bedroom, barreling toward the stairs. I’m ready to rain hell upon that man when my phone vibrates in my hand again.
Weston:
Please don’t tell him I told you.
I’m on my way to kick his ass, Weston.
Weston:
I don’t doubt you could, Wills. But honestly, it would just make things more awkward for me.
I roll my eyes, typing back.
He’s a stalker weirdo freak.
I’m sorry.
Weston:
I just figured I should let you know so the next time you’re planning on getting tongue-y with me you can do so in a camera-less location.
A snort rips through my throat. Tongue-y? He’s so bad at flirting, and it may just be the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. The words next time set a fire deep inside my belly, and the thought of tasting his skin—touching him—again is so enticing I don’t even care that he’s a dork.
Still…I can’t believe he spied on us.
Weston:
Honestly…your parents and mine were probably watching us together.
Fucking weirdos. It’s like they’re obsessed with us.
I laugh, shaking my head, feeling like a child—in the best way. In a way I haven’t felt in a long, long while. It feels as if I’ve aged ten years in the past two months. I’m not even sure the last time I giggled before I met Weston.
We need to get back at them somehow.
I’ll begin brainstorming.
Also…you call Carter and Penelope your parents?
I don’t know why the reference caught me off guard. I suppose because I’m desperate to know every single detail about him. Every fragment that makes up who he is.
Weston:
They’re the closest thing I have to parents now.
Willow: I’m happy they found you. So…why are you afraid of the dark?
Weston:
I’m happy they found me too. And I’d tell you, but then you might become afraid of the dark too.
I scramble back into my bedroom, stopping at the lamp on my windowsill and flicking it on. I toss open my curtains before texting him back.
Look outside.
It’s difficult to see across the lawn, but I can just make out a dim light from the guesthouse bedroom behind its shut blinds. They flick open, and the light becomes brighter, Weston’s silhouette visible through the slits.
Hopefully it feels a little less dark now.
If you ever want to talk about it, I don’t scare easily.
If not, I’ll still leave the light on for you.
Weston:
Thanks, Wills.
Another truth: I misjudged you, and I’m sorry.
How so?
Weston:
I assumed you were spoiled and bratty. Maybe selfish. I think you're selfless instead.
I smile at my screen, biting my lip to hold back a schoolgirl laugh.
Lol. Truth: I am spoiled, and I can be bratty when the situation calls.
Weston: Truth: Maybe you deserve to be spoiled so it’s okay. And maybe I like a brat.
Damn. The fire he started in my belly spreads to my core.
Truth: Maybe I like broody surfers after all. My dad always told me to stay away from them.
Weston:
Truth: Your dad told me to stay away from you.
Truth: Maybe I like a rule breaker. Maybe I want to be one.
Good night, Wes.
I end the conversation before it can go any further, because truthfully, I have no idea what the hell he and I are doing right now.
I don’t know if this is good for either of us.
I don’t even really know if Weston likes me, or if he’s just bored and I’m the only girl around.
I’m easy access, and I’m giving in far too quickly.
I trust easily, I always have. I’ve got to stop falling in too deep and too fast because a boy is pretty and has the ability to make me giggle. My bar has been on the fucking floor.
I lock my phone and place it on the charger beside my bed, vowing not to wait for Weston’s response. Boundaries, Willow. A little casual flirting with the boy next door never hurt anyone, but that’s where it needs to end.
God, I can’t believe I put his finger in my mouth.
Though in all fairness, he started it.
When his tongue made contact with my skin, some kind of dormant spark reignited inside me. His mouth was the soft blow on cindering embers, warmth suddenly flaring in my being again. That familiar ache and gnaw of desire, what I’d been so sure I’d lost and never feel again.
I sigh deeply, pressing my head back against my pillows and closing my eyes as I slide my hand beneath the comforter and over my chest. Dipping into the band of my pajama shorts, I brush the tip of my finger through my slit.
“Weston,” I breathe, reminding myself who has me feeling this way.
Parker’s gone. I’ll never see him again. Weston.
I’m absolutely crossing a line, but if there is any place to push boundaries, I think my own mind is the most appropriate.
I think back on the way it felt when his tongue wrapped around my finger, and I make the same motion with it now over my clit.
I replay his soft moan when I did the same to him, the way he tasted in my mouth, the flare in his eyes at my boldness.
Like that spark of desire was ignited inside him too.
A small moan claws at my throat, and I curl my wrist, slipping inside myself, adding a second finger. Pushing in, I fill myself, coating my hand with my arousal.
It’s not my fault, Willow.
I can hardly feel a goddamn thing. You’re too—
His words barrel through my mind a fraction of a second before Parker’s disappointed face flashes behind my closed lids. My hand flies out from between my legs, and I’m filled with disgust.
Rolling over with a groan, I curl my legs into a ball and pull a pillow to my chest as tears prick my eyes.
Like every time I’ve attempted this in the past three months, I talk myself away from the tidal wave of hatred that crashes over me.
Hatred for him. Hatred for myself. My body.
I count my laughter for the day. I visualize the finished painting I’ve been working on.
I also think about Weston. The way he makes me feel. The comfort in his gaze.
I toss and turn most of the night, sick to my stomach yet choking on butterflies. When the sky finally begins to brighten my window as dawn rises, I give myself permission to check my messages. One notification blinks back at me. A response from Weston.
Weston:
You’re trouble.
Good night, Wills.