Chapter 3
3
WESTON
A s I scroll through my phone, a text suddenly pops up and pulls me from my thoughts.
Lexi
She’s leaving early! Is this when I tell you I TOLD YOU SO?!
Weston
You’re awful. You should be rooting for your bestie to have a good time.
Lexi
MARRY HER.
Weston
For the last time, I can’t marry anyone right now.
Lexi
MARRY HER WHEN YOUR DIVORCE IS FINALIZED!
Weston
Lex.
Lexi
When is it supposed to be over?
Weston
Soon. Weeks.
With a sigh, I swipe to my brother’s contact, hoping for a distraction.
Weston
Control your wife.
Easton
Impossible.
Weston
You’re enjoying this.
Easton
It’s amusing, watching you get your balls busted.
Weston
And she thinks I’M the evil twin.
Easton
Aren’t you?
Weston
We both know you are.
Easton
Maybe Lexi is right about you and Carlee.
Weston
I thought you weren’t getting involved?
Easton
I’m not.
I reluctantly focus back on the phone conversation Trever is having a couple of barstools down. Carlee’s empty seat is between us, and I’m impatiently waiting for her to return after texting her.
“Nah, man. I can’t make it tonight. I’m going home with someone. Yeah, the girl I met a few weeks ago,” Trever says with a chuckle.
His casual tone irritates me. I can’t believe she’d been on more than one date with this douche.
“Yeah. Gorgeous. Tiny thing with a very nice ass. Perky tits. Her nipples have been hard for me all night. I think I could fall in love with this girl, maybe even marry her,” he boasts. “She’s eating up every word I say. I guess we’ll see. Maybe I’ll just fuck her raw until I’m bored. Would be a good lay. Seems like a little freak.”
My jaw clenches tight.
“I have another date tomorrow night too. I dunno. Carlee feels special. Catch you up with what happens later.” He ends the call, smirking, completely oblivious to the anger he’s stirring within me.
I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm, but every fiber of my being wants to lash out. This motherfucker needs to be laid out on the floor. He doesn’t deserve her time, and he certainly doesn’t deserve her .
I down the bourbon in one swift motion, the burn calming my nerves. I signal for another, one that I’ll try to savor, needing to steady the storm roiling inside me. As I wait for round two, I catch the familiar hint of her perfume.
Carlee Jean Jolly, from Merryville, Texas, smells like vanilla with a hint of cinnamon. It’s intoxicating, swirling around me, and it puts me in a choke hold. I’m convinced I could locate her in a crowded room while blindfolded. Her scent is home, familiar, and comforting, and it drives me crazy. She drives me crazy.
“Pardon me,” Carlee mutters as she slides onto the barstool beside me.
Her fingers gently brush along my back. It’s a simple gesture, yet it holds so much behind it.
“No problem.” I meet her sparkling greens, losing myself in their depths, feeling like time stands still .
I glance down at her pretty lips, which curl into a shy smile as I sip my bourbon, trying to mask the onslaught of emotions brewing beneath my skin. Our gazes lock as the world around us fades to obscurity. We engage in a silent conversation; unspoken words connect us in this dimly lit bar.
I tilt my head, along with my glass, watching the rich brown liquid swirl at the bottom. She’s surprised I’m here, and she’s silently wondering why. I’ve asked myself the same question since I walked through that fucking door.
I shouldn’t be caught in this limbo of desire and restraint. But I had an unshakable urge to witness her with another man, a form of self-inflicted torture that only reiterates what’s truly at stake— her.
Carlee returns her attention to tedious Trever.
“Sorry, what were you saying? Something about import fees?” Carlee continues, straining to find interest.
I’ll give her an A for effort, but this date is pathetic.
Trever is birth control in human form.
“Ah, right.” He dives back into his spiel about foreign taxes and fees, blissfully unaware that he’s as exciting as watching paint dry. He wouldn’t recognize a hint if it punched him in the face.
His monotonous finance talk is painfully unengaging. He hasn’t allowed Carlee to speak for longer than three seconds, and it’s infuriating. Even if she wanted to go home with him, which I can sense she doesn’t, I’d never fucking allow it.
Call me a cockblock—I don’t care.
Lexi was right about one thing: Carlee deserves to be with someone who will treat her right. Trever isn’t the one.
“Don’t you find that interesting?”
“Wow, yeah,” Carlee responds, twirling the straws in her martini glass before downing the rest of it. She unlocks her phone to check the time, perhaps gauging how much longer she’ll have to endure this.
I take the opportunity to text her.
Weston
For fucks sake, how are you surviving this?
Carlee
I told you I have the worst luck.
Weston
Sluggers after this?
Carlee glances down at her phone and laughs, a sweet sound that pierces through the monotony of Trever’s dialogue. It’s the first time I’ve seen her chuckle since she sat down, and I take pride in knowing I sparked that glimmer of joy.
Visiting Sluggers is one of her bad dating rituals. After every failed date, she goes inside and has a shot of tequila before heading home.
It’s also where we met.
Carlee was a faint glow in the darkness, my Firefly.
My phone buzzes with her reply.
Carlee
After movie night.
It’s confirmation that she’ll be at my brother’s. It makes me smile.
Weston
It’s a date.
Carlee
Do you want it to be?
“ Do you ?” I barely whisper, letting the question float between us.
I shift my arm just enough to brush against hers, my fingertip touching her skin. The world around us fades away again.
I pick up my bourbon, shooting the rest back in one swift motion. Two shots down. Stiffening the nerves feels necessary, but I think I need another.
The vintage light bulbs let out just enough light for me to catch the subtle uptick in her pulse. Something stirs between us, unspoken and undeniable, but I won’t admit it. Neither will she. We’re too stubborn.
“Are you okay?” Trever interrupts his own monologue, finally directing his attention toward Carlee.
She nervously chuckles. “I’m great.”
A lie.
Trever continues his droning, and she glances at her empty glass—a silent plea for an escape.
“Excuse me.” I catch the attention of the bartender with a wave. “I’d like to order the lady a drink. It’s desperately needed.”
Trever’s rambling stops, and his eyes bore into me, confusion and irritation flaring in his gaze. I ignore him because a lion doesn’t care if a dog barks. No one intimidates me.
“Miss?” The bartender turns to Carlee.
A flirty smirk dances on her pretty, kissable lips, hinting at her seductive spirit. She enjoys me being here—I can tell.
“The most expensive bottle of wine you have. With two glasses, please?” she asks, then glances at me.
“Make it three glasses,” I say, breaking the tension surrounding us. “She forgot to request a glass for the finance guy.”
“What’s his fucking problem?” Trever mutters, his voice bitter.
“He’s just being polite,” Carlee interjects, her tone calm and confident. “You have nothing to worry about.”
I don’t know which of us she’s reassuring, but it feels like that last part was directed toward me .
Flecks of gold dance in her irises, capturing the light.
Am I worried? Absolutely not.
Trever’s disrespect and what he said on the phone gnaw at me.
“Yeah, I think he does have a problem,” Trever continues, his agitation obvious as he leans forward, his arms crossed defiantly .
“I don’t have a problem. Yet. ” I turn to him, keeping my tone sharp and cool. “I can ruin your life with one phone call, so don’t fuck with me, little boy. Calm down and enjoy your date, if that’s what you call this.”
Carlee’s a player in this game. If this were baseball, she’d be in the major leagues—graceful, strategic, and in absolute control. She’s no damsel in distress, and she doesn’t need rescuing. But I’d bet my entire inheritance that when she walked through that door, Double-E Trever wasn’t a passing thought. There was only one man on her mind.
“Is that a threat?” Trever asks, his eyes narrowing in challenge.
He’s too stupid to understand it’s a promise.
I glare at him like I’m the Grim Reaper. In less than five minutes, I could unearth everything about him—his background, his ambitions, and his family. That silly little finance job he clings to? I could buy the company right now and fire his ass first thing in the morning without giving it a second thought.
He leans closer to Carlee, his fingers brushing along the exposed skin on her back. Thinking about his grubby little hands on her makes my jaw clench.
“Do you want to get out of here? We can go somewhere more private and finish our conversation,” Trever whispers. “I think I’m falling for you.”
She immediately stills, and her demeanor changes in a snap.
“No, no,” she says, pulling away from his grasp. She’s so close we touch.
The brief contact between her body and mine sends an inferno raging through me, igniting desires I’ve learned to ignore.
Why am I here again?
“I forgot I promised my best friend I’d meet up with her at eight thirty,” Carlee explains sweetly, her voice a melody that doesn’t defuse his annoyance.
I glance down at my watch, noting the cruel passage of time. It’s a waste of precious minutes we’ll never get back .
Trever growls with frustration, the sound feral. “I thought you were free all night? Isn’t that what you told me?”
I don’t like his fucking tone with her. It’s laced with entitlement and anger, which only amplifies my need to protect her.
“I wanted to see you,” she says, her honesty cutting through the fog of the situation.
Her expression is final, and she’s done playing cat and mouse with this man. Just as her lips part to say more, a twenty-year-old bottle of merlot is set on the bar top like a trophy.
Carlee studies it.
“How much is this?” I ask.
“Ten thousand,” the bartender replies.
“Carry on,” I tell him with a dismissive wave.
The bartender carefully removes the cork with a practiced flick of the wrist and pours the dark liquid into three glasses.
The rich, velvety scent of the wine fills the air, making my mouth water. Trever glares at the two-thousand-dollar glass of merlot as if it personally insulted him.
“This is bullshit. When will I see you again?” His words drip with rudeness as he disregards Carlee’s demeanor. It’s obvious she’s growing uncomfortable by his tone.
“Watch your fucking tone when speaking to her,” I finally say, my voice straining.
Carlee sits straighter. “I’m sorry, Trever. This isn’t going to work out between us.” Her Southern accent says hello , a melodic reminder of the roots she tries to bury.
“You’re breaking up with me?” Trever snaps back, his voice crackling with disbelief.
His reaction catches her off guard.
“Trever,” she says sharply as the nice version of her vanishes, replaced by a fierce resolve, “be realistic. We’re on our third date. You ditched me after thirty minutes the last time we were together.” Her tone is unwavering. “We are not dating. Look at how you’ve treated me tonight. You’re self-centered and married to your job.”
Ruthless. I’ve never personally witnessed this side of her before, and it simultaneously captivates and terrifies me.
“You’re a bitch,” he retorts, pulling a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet with exaggerated disdain. “I’m not paying for your drinks.”
“I’ve got it,” I say, glaring at him, my hand instinctively returning to the back of Carlee’s stool. “Goodbye, Trever.”
“Fuck you. She won’t suck your dick either,” he hisses as he storms away.
As he retreats, Carlee picks up her wineglass, taking three large gulps as if seeking solace.
Neither of us speaks for five minutes, but our bodies are as close as they can be without sharing a chair.
“I’m—”
“I’m—”
We stumble over each other in synchronicity.
“Go ahead,” I offer, hoping she isn’t upset. “You first.”
“I’m happy to see you,” she admits. “Your turn.”
I open my mouth, then close it again because that’s not the response I expected. “I was going to offer an apology.”
“Save it for when it’s needed. It’s not in this instance.” Her brows rise, and she glances around, a smile breaking across her face as her gaze dances over the candles flickering on the bar top.
A second later, she shifts her barstool, creating space between us. It’s a deliberate move, a precaution, in case anyone is watching our casual exchange too closely.
“What’s on your mind?” I ask.
“When I arrived, I imagined how nice this would be with the right company. And then you appeared.” She tilts her head, eyes sparkling.
“Were you thinking about me?” I ask. The weight of the moment shimmers with unspoken chemistry .
“Maybe.” She takes another sip of wine, the liquid gliding down her throat, and I can’t help but admire the way her lips wrap around the glass’s edge.
“Don’t make me blush,” I tease, trying to keep the mood light.
She chuckles. “Is a Calloway even capable?”
“Hmm,” I muse, realizing she has no idea how breathtakingly gorgeous she is under these lights.
I’d get on my knees and worship her if I could, but deep down, I’d grapple with my own fear—wondering if I could ever fully give myself and my heart to someone again. That’s why there are unspoken rules to our friendship, deep lines drawn in the sand that neither of us dares to cross. Not to mention, she won’t give herself permission to really fall in love.
As I discreetly watched Carlee from across the bar, I knew she wasn’t into Trever. If they had genuinely hit it off, I’d have left, ensuring she never knew I was here. But seeing her with him only confirmed that our relationship was lightning in a bottle.
“He said he was falling in love with me,” she says, her brows knitting together in confusion. “Why is that the go-to?”
I shrug. “Maybe it’s true?”
“Doubt it.” Annoyance coats her tone, and she avoids eye contact.
I know what she’s doing, pretending we’re strangers to anyone who might catch a glimpse of us. The muted buzz of conversation and soft clinking of glasses surround us.
“You’re the type of woman men want to settle down with,” I reply, my voice steady, hoping to navigate the delicate topic with care.
“I think you’ve pegged me wrong, Weston,” she counters.
I wish with every fiber of my being that she could see her how I do. She draws me in like a moth to the flame.
“You go on dates with men who you’d never actually date long-term,” I say .
My honesty is sharp yet gentle. I don’t want to cut too deep, but she deserves the truth, and I know she can handle it.
Carlee nervously chuckles.
“Laugh, but you know it’s reality,” I assert, leaning closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You set yourself up for failure so you can continue being single. The chase is a game to you. One you’re not ready to give up yet.”
“Maybe you do have me figured out,” she finally concedes, her voice thoughtful, tinged with curiosity and a touch of vulnerability.
“I think it’s because you’re afraid of actually falling in love,” I say without regret.
I sip the wine, letting the bold dryness wash over my palate while she contemplates my words. Silence swallows us whole as an eternity passes between us.
“Wow, how much do I owe you for my therapy session?” she asks teasingly.
Spilling truths is a familiar routine we’ve fallen into since we became friends. We don’t hold back from one another because there is no time for bullshit.
“Don’t worry; I’ll add it to your bill,” I tell her, the corners of my mouth lifting in a smirk. I lean back in my barstool, enjoying how her laughter lights up the dim room.
“And how will I ever repay you?” she asks, her demeanor flirty.
“I’m sure I’ll think of something,” I reply.
The promise hovers in the air between us, charged with unspoken possibilities.
More people filter into the bar area, but it’s a Friday night, so that’s unsurprising. The hum of chatter surrounds us, blending with the occasional clinking of glasses and the rich jazz floating from the stage across the room.
Carlee licks her red lips, and she captivates my thoughts. I can’t help but wonder how the merlot tastes on her tongue.
“What’s on your mind?” she asks .
Her gaze moves from my mouth to the sleek tie around my neck; that tight knot draws her attention like a magnet. I’m her kryptonite.
“You’re eye-fucking me. You should stop that.” I don’t ever let that shit slide. I want—and need —her to be acutely aware when she looks at me like I’m utterly irresistible.
“Blame the suit,” she replies, an amused smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
A well-dressed man is her thing. It always has been. She’s never denied her preferences, and I admire that about her.
We sit in comfortable silence for a few more minutes. There are too many unspoken words and lingering glances.
“Have you heard the recent Weston Calloway rumor?” she asks, breaking the spell.
“Which one?” I lean closer, inviting her to share the latest scandal.
Several have made their rounds this week, each more outrageous than the last.
“There was a blind item dropped about you and your secret girlfriend.” She studies me intently, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “Who is she?”