Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Weston
The cold January air hits us like a wall as we step out of the cozy Italian restaurant.
Brittany pulls her coat tighter around her shoulders, a small shiver running through her as we pause on the sidewalk.
The night sky stretches above us, Manhattan’s lights dimming the stars but creating their own constellations of windows and streetlamps.
I’ve walked these streets a thousand times, but tonight, standing next to her, everything feels different. Like I’m seeing the city with new eyes.
“Cold?” I ask, already shrugging out of my jacket before she can answer.
“No, I’m—” she starts to protest, but another shiver betrays her. “Okay, maybe a little.”
I drape my coat over her shoulders, my fingers brushing against her hair. It’s softer than I imagined.
Not that I’ve been imagining touching her hair.
Much.
“Won’t you freeze?” she asks, looking up at me with those piercing blue eyes.
“I run hot. Plus, I’m wearing layers.” I gesture to my sweater, which isn’t exactly arctic-ready, but honestly, I’d rather freeze than see her cold.
“If you’re sure,” she says, pulling my coat closer around her. It’s too big for her frame, making her appear smaller and more vulnerable. Something protective stirs in my chest. “Thank you, Weston,” she adds.
The way she says my name does something to me. It’s just two syllables, but somehow she makes them sound like poetry.
Get a grip, Wes.
I stuff my hands into my jeans’ pockets to keep from doing something stupid with them, like trying to hold hers.
She points downtown. “Parker’s penthouse is about fifteen blocks that way.”
“Perfect for a walk,” I say. “If you’re up for it? Or we could grab a cab…”
“A walk sounds nice,” she says, and we fall into step beside each other.
We make it about half a block before she bumps my arm with her shoulder. “That pasta was amazing,” she says. “I can’t believe I’ve lived in New York my whole life and never found that place.”
“It’s one of the city’s best-kept secrets,” I tell her. “The owner, Marco, is an eighty-year-old Italian guy who refuses to advertise. Says the right people always find their way in, eventually.”
“So, I’m one of the right people?” she asks, a teasing lilt in her voice.
“Definitely,” I say, too quickly.
Our eyes meet for a beat too long, and I’m the first to look away.
Parker’s warning echoes in my head: Stay away from my sister. She’s vulnerable, and you’re desperate.
Am I desperate? Maybe. But with Brittany, I don’t feel desperate. I feel … calm. Like the constant buzz of anxiety that follows me on dates has finally quieted.
There aren’t uncomfortable silences, or desperate searches for the next topic. It’s like we’ve known each other for years. Which I guess, technically, we have, though never like this.
We cross the street, our shoulders occasionally brushing in a way that sends electricity shooting through me. The conversation flows naturally between us.
“Gosh, I still can’t believe I’m living with my grumpy brother,” she says, her voice softening. “But I don’t know what I would’ve done if he hadn’t offered me a place to stay.”
“Parker acts tough, but when it comes to people he cares about…”
“I know,” she says. “It’s just … weird. It feels like I’ve regressed somehow. Three weeks ago, I was starting to plan my wedding, and now I’m sleeping in my brother’s guest room.”
I want to tell her she deserves better than Cal. That any man who would let her go is an idiot, but that feels too forward. Too desperate, as Parker would say.
“I just don’t understand what I did to deserve all this.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say firmly.
She glances at me, surprise flickering across her face. “You can’t know that.”
“I know Cal’s an idiot,” I say, and am rewarded with a small smile. “Anyone who would kick you out of their life with an hour’s notice doesn’t deserve you in the first place.”
“Parker told you about that, huh?”
“He might’ve mentioned it,” I admit. “Sorry if that’s overstepping.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s not like it’s a secret. The whole thing was just so … humiliating. He even had the nerve to ask me for the ring back as I packed everything I could carry into my car.”
My jaw tightens at the image. “What a class act.”
“Right?” She lets out a laugh that’s half-sigh. “I dropped the ring on the sidewalk; I couldn’t bear to hand it to him directly.”
“Good for you,” I say, meaning it.
We pause at an intersection, waiting for the light. The wind picks up, sending her hair dancing around her face. She tucks a strand behind her ear, and I find myself memorizing the gesture.
“Can I ask you something?” She looks up at me with curious eyes.
“Sure.” I shrug.
“How the heck are you still single?”
I groan. “I don’t know. I keep thinking I’ll meet someone and it’ll click, you know? But it never does.” I hesitate, not sure if I should admit the next part. “My longest relationship lasted six months. And even that was…” My voice trails off.
“Was what?” she insists.
“Mostly me trying to convince myself it was working when it clearly wasn’t,” I admit. “She was perfectly nice, but we had nothing in common. I think I just didn’t want to be alone.”
The light changes, and we start walking again. The street is quieter now, less crowded. Our voices seem louder in the relative stillness.
“I get that,” Brittany says softly. “Being alone is … scary.”
“Terrifying,” I agree. “Though maybe not as terrifying as being with the wrong person.”
She looks at me, her eyes searching mine. “You’re probably right.”
We stop at another corner, waiting for the light to change. She stands closer to me than strictly necessary, our shoulders touching. The scent of her perfume mingles with the night air. It’s intoxicating.
I’m in serious trouble.
She’s Parker’s sister. She’s fresh out of a relationship. She’s absolutely, definitely off-limits.
But goodness, I want to kiss her.
The thought blindsides me with its intensity. I imagine leaning down, tipping her chin up with my finger, and pressing my lips against hers.
Would she taste like the wine we shared at dinner? Would she pull away, shocked and offended? Or would she kiss me back?
“Hey,” she says, waving a hand in front of my face. “Light’s changed.”
“Right.” My voice is embarrassingly hoarse as I snap out of my thoughts. “Sorry. Just … thinking.”
“About what?” she asks as we cross the street.
About kissing you.
“About how different this is,” I say instead, which isn’t entirely a lie. “Usually, when I walk someone home after dinner, there’s this awkward vibe. Like we’re both mentally cataloging everything that went wrong.”
“And now?”
“Now it’s … easy,” I admit. “Talking to you feels natural.”
Our hands brush as we walk, a fleeting touch of skin on skin. Neither of us pulls away immediately, creating a moment of connection that sends my pulse racing. Then, simultaneously, we both adjust our pace, breaking the contact but not the tension.
“I know what you mean,” she says, her voice quieter now. “It’s nice, having someone to talk to who isn’t … complicated.”
The irony of that statement isn’t lost on me. This—whatever this is—is nothing but complicated.
We turn onto Parker’s street, and I can see his building at the end of the block. My stomach sinks with the realization that our walk is almost over.
I slow my pace slightly, trying to stretch out these last few moments.
“There it is,” she says, pointing to the imposing high-rise ahead. “Home sweet temporary home.”
We approach the entrance, and the doorman inside watches us through the glass. I wonder what he sees—a couple saying good night, or two strangers awkwardly parting ways?
We stop just outside the doorway, and for the first time all evening, silence falls between us. I rock slightly on my heels, hands shoved deep in my pockets to keep from reaching for her.
“Thanks for walking me home,” she says, looking up at me with those impossibly blue eyes. “And for dinner. And … for listening. I had a surprisingly good time tonight.”
“Surprisingly?” I tease, trying to keep my tone light despite the heaviness in my chest.
“You know what I mean,” she says, giving me a gentle shove. “I wasn’t expecting to enjoy myself so much. Not with everything…”
“I know,” I say softly. “I had a good time too.”
We stand, staring at each other in the glow of the building’s entrance lights. She’s still wearing my coat, and I should ask for it back, but I don’t. I want her to keep it, to have something of mine.
I lean forward slightly, drawn to her like a magnet. Her eyes flick to my lips, then back up to my eyes, and for one wild, heart-stopping moment, I think maybe—just maybe—she wants this too.
But then Parker’s voice echoes in my head again. Stay away from my sister.
I step back, the moment broken. “Well,” I say, hating how formal my voice suddenly sounds. “Good night, Brittany.”
“Good night, Weston,” she says, something unreadable in her expression. She starts to take off my coat, but I shake my head.
“Keep it,” I tell her. “You can give it back … another time.”
She nods, pulling the coat tighter around her shoulders. “Another time,” she echoes, and then turns toward the entrance. The doorman opens it for her, nodding a greeting.
She pauses, glancing back at me with a smile that makes my heart race. “Thanks again, Wes. For everything.” And then she’s gone, disappearing into the building with my coat and, it feels like, a piece of my heart.
I stand dumbfounded for a few moments, the realization seeping in.
I might be in total awe of the most off-limits woman ever.
The best I can ever do is be her friend…
And even that seems like a privilege.