Chapter 7 Wesley
Wesley
I’m not waiting for Hunter to get back from his interview
That was a lie I would tell myself for now and one I’d use on anyone who asked me.
In reality, I’d factored in his interview, the drive, and traffic, added on plenty of time, and as soon as I shut up shop at seven, I found myself loitering with intent in the parking area.
Decidedly not waiting. Absolutely not. Just…
conveniently there. I could have stayed and watched from the window, but the most recent letter from the bank was more than enough to send me outside into the cold air.
Come January, I was done. Not even me—someone who looked at everything with such a positive slant—could fool myself into thinking I had a solution to all of this.
A year away from my trust fund, a family who’d shut me out, Hunter having interviews, and now it seemed I might have to give up The Story Lantern, my beautiful, messy bookstore, the one thing that was mine.
I blew out a breath. “Okay, Wesley, deep breath. You’ve gotten through worse.
You’ve built something beautiful here, even if the bank thinks otherwise.
You’ve made friends, you’ve carved out a life, and you’re not giving that up without a fight.
” I squared my shoulders. “Hunter leaving or not, family bullshit or not, I’m still here.
And I’m not done yet.” The words puffed out in the frosty air like smoke signals.
And, surprisingly, they worked. My chest loosened, and by the time I turned back toward the store, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt all day—hope.
Brooke and I had spent all afternoon discussing the new Adrian Trevelyan book we’d been allowed to read early.
In code of course, given anyone could be overhearing what we said.
The book was awesome, with a cliffhanger that was going to drive me mad.
Was book eight going to end up with Xander and Yvaine getting together, what with Yvaine being in a faerie prison and Xander just about to storm into a battle?
The next installment couldn’t come fast enough, and I was weighing up the possible outcomes while I very much wasn’t waiting for Hunter.
Jeez, who was I kidding. Of course I was waiting for Hunter.
I was excited to hear how the interview went.
I think.
No, actually, nerves tangled in my stomach.
What if he got the job and sold the store.
Probably to some weirdo. Maybe a taxidermist who wanted to close the café and fill it with stuffed moose and raccoons.
Or worse, someone who kept the café but who’d turn it into a scented candle emporium, filling the air with vanilla haze until no one could taste the coffee.
Or—my blood chilled—what if it became another bookstore?
I was already skating on thin ice with the bank; another shop like mine would sink me.
A blow like that would be unbearable. My brain kept spiraling—what if some eccentric millionaire bought it and turned it into a guinea pig café?
Or a Viking axe-throwing bar? Or a shop that only sold artisanal buttons, one at a time, in solemn silence?
I could hear the madness of it all in my head, and it was ridiculous, but none of these imagined horrors came close to the one thing worse than any of them—Hunter not being next door.
That thought knocked the breath out of me, harder than the idea of any weirdo or rival bookstore ever could.
My cell buzzed, and for one hopeful, ridiculous moment, I imagined it was him calling me.
Why he would, I had no idea—but my heart still jumped.
Then my darker side imagined him crashing on some icy road.
My imagination skittered between extremes because apparently calm, rational thought had left the building.
I scrambled for my phone and answered the call without checking the screen. ”Hunter?”
“Mr. Wesley Fairfax-Fitzalan.” The voice was icy, clipped, and I checked the screen where the display showed the number of the family lawyer, which hit colder than any winter wind.
My heart sank. I’d been so careful about ignoring any and all calls related to the family who didn’t give a shit about me.
“Wesley Darkwood,” I corrected. I’d changed it years ago—took it from a place in one of my favorite paranormal fantasy books. I didn’t want anyone knowing I was connected to the Fairfax-Fitzalan family.
“Quite correct,” the lawyer murmured after a pause.
Fuck off. Just fuck right off.
He cleared his throat “This is a formal communication from Cartwright & Lowe, legal representatives of the Fairfax-Fitzalan family. Trust fund documentation requiring your signature will be delivered to you by courier. Given the sensitive and timely nature of this matter, you are instructed to review, sign, and return the documents with the same courier without delay.”
“I’m doing what now? Why are you calling?” I asked, thrown. I’ll be signing off on trust fund investments until I was thirty, so why was the lawyer calling me this year?
“This is simply a courtesy reminder to return the signed documents as soon as possible, ensuring timely compliance with trust requirements.”
“Okay…”
Before I could ask for more information, the lawyer hung up, leaving me staring at my phone, and I must have stared at it for so long I missed Hunter’s car… hell I missed Hunter arriving.
“Are you okay?”
Hunter was right there—broad-shouldered in his dark coat, hair all kinds of styled, but with a few loose strands escaping, his jaw shadowed with stubble.
His baby-blue eyes looked tired but alert, his mouth set in that familiar straight line, as if he carried the weight of the day with him.
He had a solid presence that always made me feel both steadied and unsettled at the same time. I hadn’t even heard him drive up.
“Sure,” I lied.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked and frowned.
“Just… nothing…” Great, I wish I’d come up with a reason why I was standing in the snow, other than waiting for him. I shoved aside the weird call from the lawyer and focused on him.
“Jeez, Wes, you’re not wearing a coat.”
Oh. Well, that snapped me into action. “I am.” I swirled out my only-to-be-worn-around-Thanksgiving cloak. Worn and a little theatrical, it billowed around me as I posed with pride. “It’s my Pilgrim cape.”
Hunter groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That is not a Pilgrim cape. Pilgrims wore plain woolen cloaks, definitely not whatever the hell that is.”
I grinned at him, unfazed, back in my happy place teasing Hunter, and forgetting all about the phone call. “It’s festive, and it’s mine. History can bend a little for fashion, professor.”
Hunter launched into a lecture, voice firm and professorly. “Pilgrims wore rough wool cloaks, mostly undyed, practical, no ornamentation, and certainly nothing that billowed dramatically in the wind.” He gestured at me as if my cloak was a personal affront to history.
I tilted my head, feigning deep thought. “Funny, because I heard that Pilgrims actually hid symbols in their stitching to ward off curses, and capes like mine were worn to confuse witches.”
He froze, then pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a slow shake of his head. “Why am I even—” he muttered, exasperated, but there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, as though he was fighting not to smile.
I counted that as a win when he smiled, and I could also forget the call.
Night had already fallen, snow whirling in the glow of the streetlights. It would’ve been romantic—magical, even—if not for the row of garbage containers along the alley. Still, I thought, with a bit of glitter and some fairy lights, even this could look enchanting.
As I turned to head back toward my own door, my boots slid out from under me on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow.
I flailed, arms windmilling, and before I knew it I’d latched onto Hunter’s arm.
The momentum nearly yanked him off balance, too, and for one terrifying, ridiculous second, we were both about to topple into the small piles of snow gathered at the edge of the alley.
My heart pounded, breath catching as I clung to the solid muscle of his arm.
He steadied us both, glaring down at me with that stern look that always unraveled me.
To him, it might have been nothing more than irritation, but for me, it was electricity—heat racing through me at the sheer closeness, the strength in his grip, the scent of coffee and cold air around him.
I forced a laugh, way too loud. “Graceful, huh?” I muttered, trying to play it off, but inside I was shaking from something that had nothing to do with the snow or the slip.
“You’re wearing slippers,” Hunter said, shocked, giving me a once-over.
“And a cloak. In the dark.” He shook his head, exasperated, but then he held out a hand to steady me as the snow kept falling in soft whirls around us.
The streetlight caught on the flakes, and for one ridiculous heartbeat, it felt almost like a scene from a movie—me in my cloak, him frowning, and snow drifting between us.
I cleared my throat, scrambling for dignity.
“Well, yeah, slippers. They’re comfortable.
And the cloak? It’s multipurpose—warm, stylish, and doubles as dramatic flair.
And besides, if this were a horror movie, I’d totally be the mysterious cloaked figure in the snow.
” My voice wobbled somewhere between defensive and teasing, and I forced a grin.
“Don’t knock it, Hunter. You’re just jealous you don’t have one. ”
“I’m not jealous, I’m practical,” he said firmly, but there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth as he straightened me up, his grip on my arm steady.
I was lost, staring into his eyes with the snow swirling around us, and god, I was so helplessly in-romance with him it hurt.
“Can you walk without ending up on your ass?” he asked, all practical and strong and big and…
“I’ll just hold your arm,” I said, fluttering my lashes at him.
“What are you doing?”
“What?”
“Are your eyes okay?”
I blinked a bit more dramatically. “Just snow,” I murmured, then I really needed to change the subject as I linked my hand through his arm. “How did it go?” I asked, heading back the short distance to our respective stores.
“The interview?” he asked with a frown, shoving his hands deep into his coat pockets as if bracing himself against more than just the cold, as if he could be questioning something else. At least he didn’t dislodge my hand.
“No, the drive,” I teased.
“Ha ha,” he muttered, realizing, his frown easing only slightly. He let out a sigh, eyes flicking away as if the weight of the day was still pressing on him. “It was confusing.”
“Confusing how?” I asked quickly. “Do you want to talk about it? I have cookies.” I thumbed back toward my store. “And cocoa.”
Hunter seemed torn, his expression tight in the cold glow of the streetlights. After a pause, he shook his head. “Not tonight. I need to get my head around it all.”
I fought off the instant disappointment that he wasn’t at the point where he could talk to me when he turned toward his door, hand on the handle, but stopped at the last second. His gaze pinned me, and I forced a smile. “Why were you standing outside?”
Panic set in. “Oh, uh, I thought I heard kittens,” I blurted. “In the snow. Like, tiny mews. So, I came out to check, but… nope, no kittens. Totally fine. All good.” The words tumbled out in a convoluted mess, and I flailed my arms in a helpless shrug. “False alarm. My imagination, probably.”
“Hmmm,” was all he said, and then the door shut on him, and I was standing like an idiot at the back of my store.
I hadn’t learned much—just that he was confused.
I sighed and leaned against the door when I was inside.
“Join the club.”