Chapter 36
36
WESTON
Two Weeks Later
A s soon as Carlee and I hop out of the car, camera flashes explode around us. Bright lights temporarily blind us, but I guide her forward. Paparazzi swarm like bees, snapping photos and calling out our names. It’s five in the morning; the sun will rise within the next thirty minutes. My fuckup was not expecting them to be here, waiting for us. Oh, how wrong I was.
Carlee grabs my hand, and I lift her knuckles to my lips, placing a kiss on them. It’s a little promise that we’re together in the chaos. In Paris, we weren’t followed very much, but now that we’re back in New York, that will change.
Our gazes connect, and I shoot her a wink. She blushes, a light hue spreading across her cheeks. I hope she always responds to me like this.
Right now, pictures of us are flooding the gossip sites, gaining attention that usually goes to A-list celebrities. The public’s view of us is positive, and for once, life feels so fucking good.
“Weston! Did you hear about Lena?” a deep voice calls out from the crowd, snapping me back to reality .
I shake my head, curious.
“Twenty years in prison. She got what was coming to her,” the person says, giving me a thumbs-up like I had anything to do with it.
Once inside the foyer of The Park, I hook my pinkie with Carlee’s. Touching her feels purely electric and something I crave constantly. We step into the elevator, still riding the wave from spending time together for two weeks.
“Ready to leave again?” I say, my mind drifting back to the peaceful days in Paris.
“I’d go anywhere with you,” Carlee replies. She means that.
The elevator ride up to the penthouse is filled with stolen glances and silent conversations. I smile, knowing I’ll never get tired of her looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“It feels like we’ve been gone for a lifetime,” she admits as I unlock the door.
“It does,” I say as we step inside.
Boxes are piled in the living room, chaotic but with neatly written labels. The sun will soon break over the horizon, and the early morning light will stream through the windows.
“Um,” she says, eyes wide, “what’s all this?”
“Your apartment,” I explain. “Your furniture is still there. I didn’t know what you’d like to do with it.”
“Let’s donate it. Everything was given to me,” she replies, moving toward her beloved paintings, leaning against the wall like old friends. “I only ever paid for art. Oh, can you help me with something? I want to see what’s on the back of this one. I can never remember.”
“Sure.”
I lift the painting and spin it around to face her. She tilts her head, studying it with an artist’s eye, and snaps a picture with her phone. I smile and pose.
“Did you get it? ”
“Yep.” She glances at me as I set it down. “Still can’t figure out what it says, other than the title. I guess the artist was too tired to sign their name after making this masterpiece.”
I chuckle. “You’re probably right. Something like this must’ve taken a few months.”
“Maybe longer,” she says. “Oh, speaking of paintings, I’d like to see the ones you have in storage.” She looks up at me with sparkly green eyes like she adores the shit out of me.
“Whatever you’d like, gorgeous.”
She grows giddy. “Today?”
“If that’s what you’d like. And you can pick the ones you want pulled, and I’ll have them delivered here next week.”
She tilts her head. “Can you have them all delivered here?”
I laugh. “No room. I have over a hundred framed paintings. That means you’ll need to be strategic with wall space.”
Her mouth drops open in disbelief.
“Oh, come on. Don’t act too shocked. I’ve been painting most of my life. If anything, there should be more.” I kick off my shoes, enjoying being back home.
The stack of unopened mail that was delivered while I was away is a reminder that my honeymoon is over. Tomorrow, I return to work.
“You impress me,” she says with admiration in her tone.
I tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear.
“Can we look at your paintings after we take a nap?” She grabs my hand and leads me up the stairs, her steps light.
“A nap? Or a nap ?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“A nap and then a nap. That’s the only logical order.” She smirks.
When we reach the second level, I pull Carlee closer. The smell of her vanilla-cinnamon skin is intoxicating. Our mouths slide together, and her arms loop around my neck. In one swift motion, I lift her, holding her ass to steady her. Instinctively, she wraps her legs around me.
“I can never get enough of you,” she confesses in a hushed tone. Her soft lips brush against my neck before returning to my mouth. “I’m addicted.”
I nudge open the bedroom door and gently lay her on the mattress. Her hair is splayed around her, and she smiles up at me.
My wife is gorgeous.
She glances at the wall and spots the painting of her above the headboard. It’s where she wanted it. The colors pop, and the image is full of life and love.
“Oh wow,” she says, totally captivated by it while I’m completely captivated by her. A smile tugs at her lips as she turns her gaze back to me. “I can’t believe you see me like that.”
“You’re my gorgeous girl. Now”—I wipe my hand over my scruff—“sit your pretty pussy on this face.”
“Mmm.” She gives me a smoldering look, chewing on the corner of her lip. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
Four hours later, I’m unlocking the climate-controlled space and flicking on the lights. Carlee walks in first and freezes.
“This is an art gallery,” she whispers.
“I guess you could say that,” I explain, glancing at the neatly organized space. “I own a few of these around the city. All of my artwork is hosted here.”
“Really? These are all yours?” she asks.
Classical music plays in the background, creating a calming vibe.
She reaches her hand out for me and interlocks our fingers. “Can I take the tour?”
“Yes, please.” I lean over, kissing her forehead gently, loving being able to share this with her.
We start at the first room, and she studies each painting with wide-eyed wonder. I wish I could see this through her eyes as she takes her time with each piece. Her expression shifts from joy to deep thought, her feelings written on her face.
After we’ve seen half of the paintings, she narrows her eyes at me. There’s a flicker of intensity in her gaze.
“What?” I ask with a laugh, feeling the lightness in the air.
“Nothing,” she singsongs as we step into a larger area.
Her brows knit together as my artwork shifts to a more intense tone. The colors are darker, each brushstroke full of emotion. I think I catch her wipe away a tear. She squeezes my hand tightly, grounding me.
“I feel your pain and sadness in this,” she mutters.
“It’s all a part of the story. Without the storms, we’d never enjoy the sunshine,” I say, brushing my fingers against her cheek and sliding my lips across hers. “You’re the sunshine, Carlee.”
An archway leads us to a big, empty room, and she takes a deep breath. It’s the final showpiece. Two overhead lights illuminate the large white wall. Under one display is nothingness—a blank wall. Next to it is a lone painting, off-center.
As we approach the exhibit, our shadows flicker across the floor.
She reads the plaque before we enter. “ The Missing Piece .”
Her gaze lingers on the empty hook, then shifts to the painting beside it. It’s a green pasture dotted with rolling hills and lush forests encased in a thick golden frame. The scene breathes with new life. It’s peaceful and inviting.
As I stare at it, a chill races up my spine. It looks exactly like Carlee’s family Christmas tree farm in Merryville.
I watch her expression shift, the colors of her emotions changing like paint on an artist’s palette. Her breathing grows uneven. It’s like she’s finally putting the pieces together.
“Wes,” she whispers. There’s a storm brewing in her pretty green eyes.
“Yes, gorgeous?” I ask, keeping my gaze on her .
“Will you please take that painting off the wall?” Her voice shakes, and I see goose bumps form on her arms. The hairs on her neck stand as electricity fills the space between us.
I reach forward, lifting the artwork off the wall, and turn it around for her to see. The weight of the moment feels as heavy as the golden frame in my hands.
She covers her mouth, and tears start to flow, tracing paths down her cheeks like streams.
“ The Other Side ,” she says, reading the original title inscribed on the back of the canvas. “I have New Beginnings . It’s this painting’s match.”
“You have the missing piece.” I carefully place the painting back on the wall. “I’ve been looking for it for five years.”
In an instant, our mouths collide, an explosion of raw emotion, and tears stream down both our faces.
“How did it go missing?”
“Lena stole it and I never knew what she did with it. Honestly, I thought she destroyed it because I loved it so much. Instead of removing the display, I renamed the feature out of spite. When I saw you had my lost painting, it took my breath away …” I trail off, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Invisible strings. A confirmation of us,” she says as she looks at me in a different light. “You’re one of my favorite artists.”
I chuckle, and my heart swells. “ This is what it took for you to finally fangirl over me?”
Her hands glide down my chest, and she smirks. “Artists are hot. Especially the ones who wear tailored suits and slide diamond rings onto my finger.”
Our lips meet again, and I lose myself with her beneath the soft, low-lit lights of the gallery.
“My painting belongs here,” she whispers. “It’s only right that it returns home.”
“And what will you name the exhibition?” I whisper across her lips, savoring each second .
Her eyes drift from my eyes to my mouth. “You want me to rename it?”
“Yes, of course. It’s your painting,” I say, barely leaning forward to kiss her.
“ Together at Last ,” she says. “Like you and me.”
Eight Hours Later
“Sorry I missed the memo about your wedding,” Asher says as we share a whiskey, the amber liquid glimmering in the dim light while we play pool at his place.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I say casually, sinking a ball into the pocket with a satisfying thud. “It was short and sweet. Very last minute.”
He takes a sip. “I can tell you’ve finally found her . Now I’m convinced the Calloways have all the luck.” Asher calls the far pocket like a pro.
“Not all the Calloways,” I say, thinking of my sister, but he makes a face. “Ah, so you still can’t stand her either?”
“Billie can get fucked,” he replies with a smirk.
“I’ll never understand it. You two are practically the same heartless person—impossible, hardheaded, stubborn, with anger issues. And soulless. Can’t forget that. Holy shit, don’t get me started.”
I grab my whiskey; it swirls in my glass as I stroll around the table. My only goal right now is to help my sister.
His slightly older brother, Nicolas, bursts into the room, whistling a catchy tune that I recognize but can’t place. In his hands is a vintage bottle of bourbon. “To celebrate your nuptials.”
The two of them are a force to reckon with. Co-owners of a marketing empire that can make or break anyone. Billie’s company is still in the infant stage. The foundation is too shaky to handle the onslaught of seasoned competitors that, if merged together, would ruin her in months.
“How’s the wifey?” Nick asks, his voice warm.
“She’s great. Just what marriage is supposed to be like.” I smile at the thought of her, of us, and our future.
Right now, Carlee’s helping Lexi prepare for tomorrow night’s costume and baby announcement party. I would be there, too, but Easton forced me to do recon for Billie instead. So, here I am.
“Love to hear it, man,” Nick says, casually handing me a glass, pouring the bourbon with ease.
So, now I’ve got two drinks. Whiskey in one hand and bourbon in the other. The perfect combination for the tough conversations that will happen before I leave.
“Did you decide if you’ll work with Lustre?” I cut straight to the point, slicing through the casual chatter.
Nick freezes in place and glares at Asher, who brushes off the tension. He’s not intimidated by anyone, unfortunately. It’s one thing that makes him dangerous. No one gets in his head.
Lustre is my sister’s main competitor, ran by her shitty ex. The rumor spreading in the investment world is that Lustre offered Asher a billion-dollar contract to represent them. It would be devastating to Bellamore, Billie’s fashion company.
“Actually, I think I might,” Asher finally replies. “The money is great. But we both know it’s not about that.”
I stare at him. “What would it take for you to work with Billie instead?”
He chuckles sarcastically. “She’d have to kiss the ground I walk on.”
I roll my eyes. “You know that’ll never happen.”
“That’s because Billie Calloway is too stubborn to ask for help, even when she desperately needs it. The Ice Queen will rescue herself, won’t she?” He shoots back the rest of the whiskey in his glass. “I don’t need Billie and her constant bullshit.”
“Careful. You might eat those words one day,” I warn, breathing deeply, already knowing I’ll need to speak to Harper as soon as possible. The stakes are higher than any of them are aware, but I stay calm. “Seriously, what would it take?”
He pours some aged bourbon into his glass, his eyes narrowing. “I think I’d like for her to beg.”
“Now you’re just being a facetious asshole,” I throw back at him, laughing but also knowing this conversation is over.
After a few more drinks, I kick his ass at pool, and then we decide to call it a night.
“If you need anything, you can always call me,” Asher says as I climb into my car.
“Only if it has nothing to do with my sister, right?” I throw back at him.
“Correct.” He crosses his arms over his chest and smirks.
My driver takes me the short distance home while my thoughts swirl like the bourbon I drank.
When I walk into the penthouse, Carlee is lying on the couch, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and panties. As soon as she sees me, her face lights up. I sit beside her, and she climbs onto my lap, straddling me.
“I missed you,” she says as she tastes my lips. “Bourbon.”
I lean in, kissing her again more eagerly, growing hard underneath her. “I missed you so damn much.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, leaning back to get a better look at me. “Don’t say nothing. I can tell.”
“Billie’s company is in bigger trouble than I thought,” I explain. The weight of it is heavy on my shoulders. “Asher will ruin her since she’s too stubborn to ask him for help.”
Carlee laughs against my lips. “You’re such a good big brother. But I think I know how we can fix this. ”
“How?” I ask, hoping she has the answer.
“Let’s hook them up. We’re awesome matchmakers. Harper could help us,” she suggests, her eyes sparkling as she bites her lip.
I tilt my head. Skepticism paints across my face. “I don’t think you understand, babe. They want to gouge each other’s eyes out. If Asher was lying in the middle of the road, waving for help, my sister would take him like a speed bump, going thirty miles per hour. It’s not the cutesy oh, they like each other kind of hate. She fucking despises him. And it’s mutual. They can’t even be in the same room together.”
“That just means the sex would be scorching hot,” she says, rolling her hips.
My girl is becoming a love optimist. A few months ago, she was the biggest pessimist I knew.
“I’ve heard hate sex is so good.”
My thumbs dig into her hips, and I groan as she continues rocking against me.
“We have an incredible track record.” The way she says it, with that mischievous look in her eye, makes me wonder if she might actually be onto something.
“He did make a joke about helping her if she’d fake date him,” I reply, caught between how ridiculous the idea is and the possibility of it working. “They’d destroy one another.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a joke, and there’s some truth to it?” she urges. “Most people don’t just say things to say them. Could be what he really wants.”
“Fuck,” I hiss out, needing her like I need air. “You might be right.”
Carlee leans in, and her warm breath sends a shiver down my spine.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Her voice is a sultry whisper.
“The only thing on my mind right now is the thought of being buried deep inside my wife,” I mutter in her ear, my fingers gently massaging her scalp.
“You must be a mind reader,” she says, wiggling out of her panties.
When she climbs on top of me, and I slide deep inside her, everything fades away. And it’s just us, desperate and breathless.