Chapter Seventeen
Well, West Weston isn’t a liar, I can say that much.
A little cuddly? The next two mornings I wake up plastered to him, with one leg thrown lustily over his hips and one arm around his rib cage. And today is the worst. If mornings one through three were cuddling, morning four is a full-body dry hump.
I’m not just plastered to him, I’m on top of him. My legs are on either side of his hips, my face is in his neck, my fancy tank top has ridden up, and my boob is just right there! Pressed to his! Every morning so far we’ve been super “cool” and very “chill” and not awkward at all as we get out of bed, pretending like I haven’t migrated over to his side of the bed. But this morning it takes me exactly seven seconds of drowsy, cozy bliss to realize why I’m so warm, why the bed is so soft, but somehow also really… really… hard?
I peel myself away and carefully—oh my God, so carefully—slide from the bed. I’m sure I leave a boob imprint on his chest. But to be fair, his enormous boner probably leaves a matching imprint on my thigh. I’m doing everything I can to not think too much about that, but Goddamn.
I’m also trying not to think too much about how he gets up ten minutes after me, pulling on running shorts and leaving to go for a jog on the beach barefoot and gloriously shirtless. Or about the way he doesn’t even make a millisecond of eye contact. Odds are good he’s aware that I spent most of the night sleep-humping him, and now I must live the rest of my life with that humiliation.
To distract myself, I reach for the small watercolor palette I packed, my brushes, paper, and a cup of water, and walk out to the balcony to paint the sunrise. The view is just… unreal, a horizontal rainbow that touches everything with rose-colored light. Even if I woke up to this every morning for a hundred years, I would never get sick of it. The sight of it changes by the second and, flat brush in hand, I wet the paper and start with a section of cobalt blue near the top, letting the color diffuse at the bottom. I drop in gauzy streaks of raw sienna, rose, and violet. I’m still learning how to paint with these nails, but manage to add my horizon and mirror the sky in the water, laying down a touch of vermilion where the rising sun is most intense.
Despite the ever-present toxicity that is the Weston clan, the trip has been amazing. Yesterday, West and I attempted to escape the oppressively rich crowd and take a boat to one of the smaller islands, but Reagan and Lincoln spotted us on the dock and asked to join us. I’ve never spent much time with kids before, but it ended up being way more fun than I expected.
West is a great uncle. He’s patient and funny, and Linc looks at him with stars in his eyes. While West and Linc attempted to fish yesterday, Reagan and I talked about school and boys, music and life and friends. She showed me the sketch we’d done together and how she’d added train tracks for Eileen’s braces, and a conversation bubble over her head that said, “I’m a buttface.” I should have done the adult thing and reminded her not to call people names, but that kid pulled Reagan’s pants down in front of a gymnasium full of sixth graders; Reagan deserves to be a little salty.
When my phone pings in my backpack, I dig it out, my pulse taking off when I see a text from Vivi.
Hey favorite.
Hey. Is my dad okay?
He’s perfect.
We just watched the Lakers cream the Suns.
He ate an entire burrito.
Oh, that’s amazing!
I was just checking in to see if you’ve banged the husband yet.
Well, this is a track change. I stare down at the screen, wondering whether Vivi installed a camera in the robot suitcase and watched me sleep-hump the poor man last night.
Absolutely not.
It’s just a matter of time, Anna.
No.
I hit Send, and then send another, just to be clear:
No.
There’s a story behind your need to repeat that.
I don’t need these ideas in my head!
We kissed the other night.
Oh and we went to a party that was very fancy.
You would have loved it.
Are you trying to distract me from asking about the kissing?
Yes.
How was it?
The kissing, not the party.
His mouth is really great.
Like, REALLY great
But that’s not why I’m here!
Isn’t it a little bit why you’re there?
To fake-kiss him?
I’m being paid to be the perfect wife and so far I’d give me a C-
I think a perfect wife bangs.
Which is why banging could and should happen.
It would definitely knock you up to an A
Vivienne Amir. pls.
Also never say “knock you up” in a fake-wife situation
You wouldn’t say that if you weren’t already thinking about sex….
Hush
Your last sex was Micah, right?
Micah. A waiter at her parents’ café. Very hot. Very unskilled.
Yes. Two stars. Would not return.
Which is honestly such a bummer
He looked like he knew how to read a map but i guess not
Narrator: Like most men, Micah didn’t stop to ask for directions
And now every shift we work together I’m like
Sir I know she left your bed as soon as she could
Like the body wasn’t even cold
And he knows I know
And it is all very awkward
Ok but real talk: Dad is ok?
David is great.
He said he might be up to coming to dinner at the cafe this week.
I almost can’t believe the words I’m seeing. Dad eating? Dad getting out of the house for a meal? I’m not always good at managing the white-knuckling fear of losing him, and hearing this makes hope expand inside me until it seems to push every other feeling aside.
But then I look up and see West jogging back down the beach toward me and another feeling shoves its way back in: predatory lady hunger.
West is jogging on the beach near me.
Vivi replies with a gif of Whoopi Goldberg saying You in danger girl, and she could not be more correct.
OK gotta go actively resist this.
Love you.
LYB
Footsteps pad along the bridge, and then West is there, turning the corner onto the balcony. “Hey,” he says, wiping a forearm down his sweaty face, and I have the intrusive thought that I wouldn’t even need to be dared to lick his chest right now. His nipples are… well, I enjoy them. I would like to touch them. Maybe with my boob again.
“Hi.”
He walks over, pulling a towel from where it’s drying on the railing, and uses it to wipe down his torso.
I’m momentarily devastated but soldier on. “How was the run?”
“Pretty good.” He motions to my abandoned paints. “What’s this?”
“I was painting the sunrise but got distracted.”
“Ah.” He rubs the towel over his sweaty hair. “By the way, I wanted to thank you for that.”
“For what?” I ask.
“What you’ve been doing for Regs. I think she often gets lost in the shuffle. I just wanted to tell you, I really appreciate you spending that time with her.”
“Are you kidding? She’s so much fun. I remember how much it sucks being a preteen. How universal is the experience of life sucking when you can feel like you’re missing out even when you’re on a private island.”
“Yeah.”
“So how’s it going with your dad?” I say, standing and stretching. West was pretty shaken up after Ray blindsided him in front of the Forbes editor. I can’t imagine what it’s like wanting to avoid your own father.
West hops up onto the railing, sitting with the ocean behind him. It’s a glorious view. “He’s trying to back me into a corner.”
“What I don’t understand is why he has such a boner for you being CEO when you clearly don’t want the job. Let him give it to Alex. He clearly wants it.”
“This has been his plan for as long as I can remember. It’s all about his legacy, and what Ray wants. He doesn’t want Alex. He obviously thinks my being here at all means I’ve had a change of heart.”
“Oh, sure.” I grin up at him. “I mean, why would you be at your own sister’s wedding unless it had something to do with him?”
The side of his mouth twitches up. “Sounds like you’re now fluent in Weston.” His expression straightens. “Speaking of… sorry about what my mom did the other night. I guess we haven’t talked about it yet.”
“You mean about the anniversary party I inadvertently asked for?”
He nods, grimacing. “Yeah.”
“I just remind myself I’m here doing a job. I don’t ever have to see her again after this.”
West swallows and then nods. “Good.”
“What about you?” I ask. “If everything goes the way you want this week, will you ever see them again?”
“Occasionally,” he says. “But not regularly.”
“Not even Jake and Charlie?”
He shrugs a muscly shoulder. “I’ll see them, sure. My parents and Alex… no.”
I study him, trying to piece out what sent West running for the hills after his internship.
“Trying to read my mind?” he asks after a few moments of silence, lifting one side of his mouth in a smile. “Just ask.”
Just ask. The two sexiest words ever spoken by an unreadable man.
“You said your dad did something shitty about ten years ago.” West nods, his expression turning guarded. “And then you had an internship that cemented that you did not want to come work for the company.” He nods again. “Will you tell me more about what happened between you two?”
His brows flicker down as he turns to look out at the water, and I take the opportunity to memorize his profile again. This damaged, hot man. Maybe Vivi is right and sex is the answer for everything.
But when he turns back, his eyes seem so troubled that all sexy thoughts evaporate. “He was a really shitty dad. That much is probably obvious. There are a million stories, of course. Him kicking Lego sets we’d painstakingly built because we did it in the hallway in front of his office. Alex wet the bed until he was maybe thirteen or fourteen, and Dad would make him hang his wet sheets outside in front of the house because he thought the shame would fix it. Jake broke his ankle during a soccer match and Dad made him walk through the gravel parking lot to the car because he’d let a goal pass and they’d lost the match.”
“Jesus,” I whisper, finally adding, “And you?”
He shakes his head. “I have plenty of personal grievances, and those alone justify staying far away. But the reason I’m not coming back to work for him isn’t one of them. I don’t like the way my father runs the business. It isn’t one thing; it’s a million things every day. But here’s an example: One of my responsibilities during my internship was to manage the facilities at headquarters in Irvine. Shift schedules for the hourly workers, maintenance, deliveries, et cetera.” Absently, he reaches forward, toying with the tie of my bikini that hangs over one shoulder. And I’m trying to pay attention, but his hands are so warm and the fact that he’s grounding himself with his fingers on me? That feels… incredible.
“There was a manager at the loading dock,” he continues, “a guy named César, who’d been with the company for thirty-five years. He was great. Funny, kind, sort of like everyone’s grandpa, and he knew the delivery system inside and out. He needed a schedule change in order to take the bus to work.” West’s thumb strokes down my shoulder and he watches the movement, lost in thought. “His car had broken down, and he had to walk his grandkids to school and asked for a different shift so he could catch the bus. It was one of those simple requests that turned complicated for reasons that aren’t interesting, but Dad overheard me discussing the schedule options with my assistant and blew his lid because I was wasting my time on something so menial. His solution was to tell César to get his car fixed and figure it out or find another job.”
A breath escapes my lips, and I put my hand over his on my shoulder. “Wow.”
“This man was one of his first hires, and he’s telling him to find another job because we aren’t paying him enough to get his car fixed? Because we can’t move a few things around? Dad wouldn’t ever bother himself with something like that if he hadn’t walked in on me talking it out.”
“Right,” I say quietly.
“It was such a crystallizing moment,” West continues, “because it’s so clear to me that it’s the people who make the company great, but Dad thinks everything that matters is at the top. Without César, that entire department wouldn’t be what it is, the loading dock would be a disorganized mess, and shipments to stores would be disrupted. Moving his shift would prevent all of that.” West shakes his head. “Everything about a good business starts at the bottom. Anyway, that divergence in our philosophies combined with everything Dad and I had been through when I was in college… I didn’t want to stay at Weston’s anymore. But I was inspired to find out whether and how corporate culture can be changed. It’s why I decided to pursue my PhD and what ultimately sent me and my dad into estrangement.”
“It takes a lot of bravery to walk away from the security of an executive position when you’re only, what? Twenty-six?”
He exhales a sharp laugh through his nose. “Nothing about interacting with my dad ever makes me feel brave. It makes me feel placating and restrained and disgusted with myself.”
“I don’t see it that way,” I tell him. “Whatever this loophole is, it’s important enough to you to come here and do what you have to do.”
West meets my eyes, and his gaze clears and then softens. “Yeah.” His attention dips to my lips. “Thank you for reminding me.”
I take a step closer, moving into his space, and I realize the moment he registers he’d been touching me. His eyes go a little wide, and he gently moves his hand from under mine. “The only answer here is to avoid him for the rest of the trip.”
His lips curl in a surprised smile. “Oh yeah? How should I manage that?”
I think it’s because he’s shirtless and sweaty, or maybe it’s because I left my dignity along with my boob prints all over him this morning, but the words bubble right up and out of me: “We could make out the whole time.”
Coughing, West squints out to the side, farther down the row of bungalows. “You might be onto something. Jake confirmed that Alex thinks we’re full of shit.”
“That’s probably because we are full of shit.”
“Well, if he gets wind of what my dad told Forbes, he’ll figure out a way to prove it.”
I angle my eyes over his shoulder and speak of the devil. There, down the beach, is Alex. He’s too far to hear anything we’re saying, but he’s just standing there, looking up at us, watching us interact like tentative strangers having one of their first vulnerable conversations.
There’s something in Alex’s posture, some gotcha! that makes me deeply uneasy.
Without letting it show on my face that I’ve seen him, I step closer to West, hand high on his bare thigh, just below the hem of his shorts.
West’s brows disappear beneath his messy, glorious hair. “Hello.”
“Don’t look, but Alex is watching us from the beach.”
West drags his attention from my hand on his leg to my face. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. So I’m just trying to look wifey and horny for you.”
“I could go inside and shower,” he says quietly. “He’d just walk away.”
“You could.” I lick my lips, stepping between his legs, shamelessly wanting another of his libido-electrifying kisses. For as much as I dislike Alex in theory, I’m not mad about this moment. West looks like he could use a little distraction. And after we kissed the other night, I thought there’d be more opportunities. I was wrong. “Or you could just pretend to be horny for me, too.”
He stares at me, unmoving.
“Or not,” I say, smiling while inside I’m dissolving, atom by atom, in mortification.
When I try to step away, he clamps his thighs around my ribs. “Where are you going?”
“To die of shame under a rotting log somewhere.”
West laughs, low and frankly dangerous. “No, see, my only hesitation is”—he leans in, running his thumb along my lower lip—“acting was never my strong suit.”
“I was a counselor at drama camp.” I speak against the pad of his thumb. “I’ll give honest feedback.”
He laughs, his lips so close. “Thank you.”
West’s mouth brushes over mine, giving me one of those feather-soft kisses again.
“Well,” I say as we share a breath, “that wasn’t bad.”
He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Anything that could make it more convincing?”
“Maybe another? Longer this time?”
West lifts both hands now, cupping my face and leaning in, pressing a soft kiss to my mouth before he parts his lips and gently nips at my bottom one. “Longer, huh?”
And with just this playful start, he has poured gasoline into my bloodstream. Does he know how fragile my restraint is right now? I am a sex demon in disguise. I am a fembot with only one program. I am only seconds away from licking the residue of sweat from his chest. I’m discovering things about myself, such as: I like sweat.
I set both hands on his thighs, stretching onto my toes for more, for longer and deeper, his surprised huffed breath coming out warm against my mouth as he lets me suck that beautiful lower lip, dragging my teeth along it in a way that makes him let go of a tight, helpless sound and which sends one hand into my hair. I fear I’m going to send him toppling backward into the ocean, but he leans in just as steadily, squeezing me close with those powerful thighs.
West’s mouth is unreal, commanding and firm, but with full, soft lips that beg to be bitten. He likes it when I do, too, releasing rough, rumbling sounds that seem to come from a cave filled with long, unsated need. My hands have a mind of their own, rising up over his hips to come to a stop on the warm solidity of his waist as our kissing ruse turns into an all-out groping session. He keeps one hand firmly fisted in my hair and sends the other down my back to my ass, pulling me close until I feel the hard press of him just beneath my breasts. He lets out a gasping laugh as I drag my teeth along his jaw, down his neck.
“To the contrary, your acting is pretty good,” I say, licking the salt of his throat.
He jerks at the contact, tightening his grip in my hair, holding my head close. “Yeah?”
“The erection is a great touch. I mean, very convincing.”
His laugh turns into a groan when I suck his neck, baring my teeth and pressing down. “Fuck yes.”
Well, well. Dr. Weston likes it a little rough.
I get high on his soft, dirty noises, and suck harder, scratching my nails around his back and up past his shoulders where I finally get my hands in that ridiculous head of hair. With his own grip on me, he yanks my head away and, eyes wild, comes for my mouth again, deeper now, setting a pace that is both slower and hotter, languid drags of his tongue over my lower lip, kisses that can only be described as claiming.
“God, your mouth is fucking amazing,” he says, dragging his teeth to my jaw, biting, sucking at my pulse point.
I have no idea how long we’ve been at it but my lips are tingly, there’s a very insistent boner pressed to my chest (hello again), and my legs are starting to shake from standing on my tiptoes. When I lift my gaze over West’s shoulder, Alex is gone. The beach is completely empty. Future me will kick myself for the rest of the day for saying it, but the words slip out: “He’s gone.”
West exhales shakily near my ear and then rests his forehead to mine. “Well… good. I guess we can stop.”
“I guess we can.” Leaning back and taking stock of him—rumpled hair, swollen lips, scratch marks on his sides, I realize I’ve also left a small purple bruise on his neck. “Oops.”
He frowns at me. “Did you give me a hickey, Green?”
“I might have.” I don’t miss the way his pupils dilate, inky black in the golden pools of his irises. “Well, the good news is now everyone will know for sure who you belong to.”
He laughs. “Unfortunately, Blaire will still grab my ass.”
“It’s a pretty great ass.” I step back, telling my body and brain to calm the hell down.
“Sorry, you’re…” West gently runs his thumb over my lips one last time. “You’re all red from my stubble.”
Maybe so, but I’m not the only one who looks like they just went at it pretty hard-core. His neck and chest are flushed, his eyes still burning as he hops from the railing.
I absolutely do not look down at his shorts; what kind of a trash goblin do you take me for?
But if I did look down, I would see quite a tent happening.
“Careful where you swing that thing.”
He laughs wryly. “I’m going to go take a cold shower.”
I nod, swallowing down the lusty scratch in my throat. “I’ll give you a few minutes of privacy.”
He retreats and I pull my phone out of my backpack, texting Vivi:
SOS. I am so fucked.