28. Hadley
Chapter twenty-eight
Hadley
“So do I win the prize?” Wes asks when we’re back in his bed, snuggled under the covers after taking a quick shower together and devouring the cold popcorn.
“Yes.” I stretch and kiss him on the cheek.
Even if he had lost the bet, I’d already decided I was going to tell him I wanted us to be together. Being with Weston Reynolds has been the easiest thing ever, which is scary because it has to stop being easy eventually, right?
But I’m not thinking about that right now.
I’m trying to enjoy the time we have together.
Soak it all up. Because eventually, he’ll decide he doesn’t want me.
That I’m not enough for him. Or that he doesn’t have the same feelings for me that I have for him.
But until then, I’m going to enjoy this. Enjoy being his.
“Good. Can I take you out tomorrow? I have a place in mind. It’s nothing too spectacular, but I think you’ll enjoy it.”
“I agreed to be your girlfriend. You don’t have to pull out all the stops for me anymore. No need to plan dates. We can just hang out, order takeout, and be lazy.”
He’s silent for a few seconds, and I think he’s fallen asleep, but eventually he speaks. “I will never not pull out all the stops for you, Hadley. You’re important to me. I want to do special things for you.”
“Oh.” I blink back the tears that threaten to fall.
This man.
This sweet, sweet man is ruining me for all other men.
There’s no way any other guy will be better than him. When we break up, because I know it’ll happen—it always does—I’ll just have to make do with the memories.
“Thank you. I don’t … I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve never had that.”
“Well, you have it now,” he says, dropping a kiss to the top of my head before pulling the sheets up and tucking them around us.
I fall asleep listening to the beat of his heart, happy and satisfied and trying to live in the moment.
“You’re taking me to a gas station?” I lean forward, peering out the front window, as he pulls into what is most definitely a gas station the next afternoon. A massive-ass gas station, but still a gas station. Not what I had pictured for our date, that’s for sure.
“Have you ever been here?” he asks, maneuvering his Jeep into a parking spot.
“Nope.”
“You’re missing out. Come on, let’s go inside.” He shuts off his Jeep and climbs out.
With a resigned sigh, I do the same, rounding the car to where he’s waiting for me on the sidewalk.
“It’s a gas station, Weston. I’ve been to plenty of those before.” I roll my eyes.
“Nah, this isn’t any old gas station. This is a Buc-ee’s.” He says it like I should know what that means, but I don’t.
“Oh-kay?”
“Not only do they have over a hundred gas pumps, but the inside is the size of a grocery store. It’s really cool. Come on, I promise you won’t be disappointed.” He puts out his hand, and I take it, letting him lead me toward the front door, not convinced I’m going to change my mind.
“Welcome to Buc-ee’s,” a cashier greets us as we enter.
My jaw about hits the floor as I take everything in.
“Shit,” I mumble.
He wasn’t kidding. This isn’t any old gas station. This place is huge. And it’s immaculate. Like, spotless. The floors are shining. Even the ceiling is clean, and let me tell you, that’s a good indication that a place is kept pristine.
“Where do you even start in a place this size?” I ask.
He gently tugs at my hand, pulling me further into the store.
“They’ve got everything here,” I mumble, taking it all in as we make our way through the aisles.
One side of the store is filled with home goods—dishes, cookware, cookbooks, home decor. The other side has a barbecue station, a counter that’s all fudge and other sweets, and a wall of beef jerky. Yes, a wall of jerky.
The back section, where Wes brings us, is filled with merchandise featuring Buc-ee, a cute beaver wearing a red shirt with his face on it and a red corduroy hat.
His face is on everything you could possibly want, from bathing suits to towels to pillows to shirts and even mugs, shot glasses, and jewelry by the looks of it.
“Oh my gosh, he’s adorable,” I gush, walking over to a big red truck with its bed filled with Buc-ee plushies. I pick one up and hug it to my chest.
How can I resist loving a cute beaver with his two big buck teeth and his little red hat? I can’t help the grin on my face as I take it all in, the stuffed toy tucked into my arms. I’ll admit, I’m sold on the gas station now, and I can see the appeal.
“Pick one you like,” Wes says, stepping up behind me. His hands go to my waist as he leans around me and peers into the bed of the truck. “They’ve got Buc-ees in other sizes too.”
“Nah, I’m too old for stuffed animals,” I mumble, setting the toy back down.
That’s what I’m supposed to say. Right? What I’m supposed to think. So why does it make me sad? I’m a fucking adult. I do not need a stuffed animal. I’m too old for them.
“Who says?” He lets go of my waist and picks the plushie back up. “If he makes you happy, he should go home with you.”
I take the Buc-ee from him and hug it to my chest. I take a few deep breaths, blinking away the tears that are prickling in the corners of my eyes as Wes’s words play over and over in my head. For the first time, I feel seen by the guy I’m dating.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asks, turning me so I’m facing him. “What happened? Did I say something wrong?” His eyebrows crinkle as he scans my face.
“N-no,” I choke out. “Nothing.” I shake my head.
“Talk to me, please,” he implores.
“I used to have a couple of stuffed animals on my bed at my first apartment. The guy I was dating at the time, not Henry, came over shortly after I moved in, and he laughed at them and told me I was too old for them. Asked me if I knew any other twenty-somethings who still had stuffed animals. He made me feel stupid for liking them. Strongly hinted I should get rid of them if I wanted to be taken seriously as an adult. That wasn’t what broke us up a few months later, but it definitely didn’t help. ”
“What’s his name, and where does he live?”
I haven’t thought about that for years and have never talked about it with anyone. Because no one would have understood how I felt, until now, until Wes. I pat his chest, and before I can answer, he’s hugging me tightly. I sag into him.
“I kept them and got rid of him. They live in the closet in my old room at my parents’ house now. I hadn’t thought about them or what my ex said in a long time. I guess I got a little emotional about it.” I take a step back, clearing my throat.
“Well, we’re getting you a Buc-ee then. Want me to get one too?
We’ll match. They can be friends,” he says.
It’s silly but also swoony as hell. I shake my head.
“Well, how about we see what else they have that we need? I haven’t been in a while to see what’s new.
” He reaches for me, and I shift the stuffed animal so I can hold his hand.
This man.
How does he know exactly what to say? Every time I think he can’t be any more perfect, he goes and does something like that. It might be simple and silly to others, but after all the guys who wanted to change me when they got to know the real me, it’s nice to finally be accepted for who I am.
We spend the rest of the trip joking and having a good time, and we end up with way too much stuff.
He insists I pick out a Buc-ee’s shirt, and he gets a new one for himself.
When I ask him how many he already has, he gives me the side-eye.
We also grab a few different types of beef jerky, a bag of their homemade sweet almonds, a pulled pork sandwich to share, since he insists I need to try it, and a few different types of gummy bears. Because Wes has a major sweet tooth.
“You’re telling me you’ve never had a slushy?” he asks as we make our way out to his Jeep, our arms laden with bags.
“No.” I shake my head, looking at the cup in my hand that’s filled with my first ICEE—a frozen classic cola. “I’m not much of a soda person.”
“Well, come on, take a sip. I’m waiting,” he says, coming to a halt in front of his Jeep and tipping his chin toward my cup.
I take a sip. “It’s good,” I say. “A bit sweet. I’m glad I got a small.”
He opens the back of his Jeep, and we put our bags in, then he helps me into the passenger side.
This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.
“Thank you for taking me to Buc-ee’s. I haven’t had this much fun at a gas station, ever,” I say once he’s gotten into the car.
“Hadley Jane.” He pins me with a look that says he knows I’m messing with him.
“Fine. Fine. Weston Smith, I haven’t had this much fun in a long time. So thank you.”
He snorts out a laugh. “Not my middle name.”
I lift a shoulder in a shrug, buckling my seat belt. “Hey, you never told me your middle name. You promised.” I pretend to pout.
He glances over at me for a second before buckling his seatbelt and reversing out of the parking spot.
“Come on, tell me. Wait, I know, is it Weston Harriet? Weston Weston?” I tap my chin, trying to come up with even more ridiculous options. “Oh, I know. Weston Easton.”
“None of those.”
“Hmmm …”
“Fine, you really want to know?”
“I do. It’s killing me not knowing.” I put a hand to my chest, sighing dramatically.
“I don’t have one.”
I gasp. “I’m sorry. Come again?”
“I guess technically it’s A.”
“Like the letter A?”
“Yes.”
“Well …”
He chuckles. “Told you it wasn’t that exciting.”
“Who doesn’t give their kid a middle name?”
“My parents couldn’t agree on one that went with my first name, so they picked A because my mom’s name was Anna.”
“That’s a sweet story, even if it is weird you don’t have a middle name.”
“Well, now you know my deepest darkest secret,” he says, the sarcasm evident in his voice.
“That I do. That I do, Weston A. Reynolds.”