Chapter Five
Turns out that showering after Wes, surrounded by hot, humid air smelling distinctly like him, isn’t a cure for insomnia.
When my alarm goes off, I swear I’ve only just fallen asleep.
My dreams were a hazy mix of images that fade before I even fully open my eyes, but the dampness between my thighs and the accompanying ache of unsatisfied desire linger.
Determined to ignore it, I grab the first thing my hand lands on in the closet—a dress—before the smell of fresh coffee lures me out of my bedroom, still finger-combing my tangled hair.
I’m too tired to bother with anything else.
The dress has a built-in bra that mostly keeps things contained, and I can get dressed properly after we drop Wes’s car off.
It’s exactly the kind of dress my mother would label sloppy, but it’s one of my favorites.
I’m texting my brother as I stumble into the kitchen, which means I hear the low noise Wes makes before I see him.
It’s not the sort of noise that belongs in my kitchen, scraping over my skin in a deliciously feral way, and when I jerk my head up from my phone, there’s something wild in the way he’s staring at me.
My sleep-fogged brain struggles to processes what I’m seeing.
Wes stands at my stove, frying bacon that I know for a fact was not anywhere in my house last night.
Shirtless and barefoot, his jeans ride dangerously low on his hips, the ends of his hair curling and damp from another shower—which is about when I remember him giving me a hard time at the wedding over wearing a dress.
When his eyes dip to my chest and then lower, where the dress clings to my hips before swirling around my legs, heat crawls into my cheeks. “I didn’t put this on for you.”
“Didn’t say that you did.”
“I wear dresses all the time at home.”
“Your hair is longer than I thought,” Wes says before abruptly turning back to the stove. But not before I catch the faintest hint of color washing into his cheeks and the bird tattoos that spread across his upper chest and onto his left bicep.
I can’t think of a single time in all the years I’ve known him that I’ve seen Wes flustered.
Suddenly aware of the weight of the long waves of hair falling down my back, I fight the urge to twist it into a knot and instead study the vertical tattoo along his spine.
My fingers itch to reach out and touch. The piece extends in a long column I’ve only caught glimpses of before disappearing into his waistband.
I’m too far away to be sure, but they look like a random assortment of letters and numbers. “Just how many tattoos do you have?”
Wes turns his head slightly toward me, one eye still on the stove. “You asking for a little show-and-tell?” he teases with his usual innuendo.
I scoff and roll my eyes, grateful to be back on more familiar footing. “Hard pass.”
If he’s offended, he hides it behind a good-natured laugh. “I got most of them when I was younger. Probably due for a new one but I can’t decide what I want.”
Curiosity gets the better of me. “Do they mean anything in particular?”
A flicker of emotion dashes across his face, the muscles in his arms flexing before he gives me another of those charming Wild Wes grins. “Whatever seemed like a good idea at the time.”
It’s a reminder of his impulsivity and recklessness I sorely need now that he’s doing his best impression of a bad-boy-turned-good fantasy cooking breakfast. Seemed like a good idea at the time is what landed him in my kitchen in the first place.
My phone lights up with a text, excusing me from having to dwell on the strangeness of the conversation. Sparring with Wes in parking lots has never been as intimate as this early morning duel.
“Eric said he’s already at the garage if we want to come by now before he opens.” My stomach grumbles a protest as I cast a forlorn glance at the food on the stove. “We can reheat that. Assuming it’s edible.”
“It’s more than edible.” Wes points with a spatula to the counter, where he’s laid out tortillas I hadn’t noticed. “I just need another minute and then we’ll have tacos we can eat while we drive.”
I was somewhere around seven the last time anyone cooked me breakfast. There have been guys who went out and picked something up, sure.
But actually cooked? The fact that it’s Wes is all the more surreal.
I highly doubt his parents have ever cooked a day in their lives.
They have staff for that. How did he even learn?
Texting my brother to let him know we’ll be there soon is as good an excuse as any to push my curiosity aside.
Wes and I aren’t having a cozy morning chat by choice.
He’s only here because he took a needless risk that could have gotten him killed.
“Maybe you should worry about finding a shirt. Seriously, who cooks bacon without a shirt?”
“If it’s not a little dangerous, are you even living?”
There’s the Wes I know and want to push in front of a tornado.
Except he came awfully close to doing that to himself last night, and the uncomfortable twist in my belly still hasn’t entirely loosened. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice, turning back to flip the bacon while humming under his breath.
“There’s coffee.” Wes points to the counter, where there are two take-out cups waiting, along with several packets of cream and sugar. “Wasn’t sure how you liked it.”
“How long have you been up?” I yawn while carefully stepping around him and his still very naked chest to grab one of the coffees. I dump some sugar into it and skip the cream. “I’m surprised I didn’t hear you.”
“I’m quiet when I want to be.”
“You went out with all your windows smashed?” I can only imagine the looks he got.
“Not many people out at six thirty on a Saturday.”
I wince, eyeing my far-too-small-for-him couch. It was close to two by the time we both settled in for the night. “Did you sleep at all?”
Wes shrugs and grabs one of the tortillas before adding a scoop of scrambled eggs. “Couple of hours.”
“Sorry about the couch.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He finishes adding cheese and bacon to the tortilla and expertly wraps it before handing it to me. “Eat your breakfast.”
Eric lets out a low whistle when he steps out of the garage. “I thought you were exaggerating.” I follow his gaze toward where Wes is parking his mangled SUV. “Uh, Sloane, when you said you had a friend who needed some work done fast, you left out that it was him.”
I shrug, not for the first time wishing I’d kept my mouth shut and never ranted to my brothers about Wes after too many cocktails at Christmas. “Chaser code,” I lie.
“But I thought you—”
“I do.”
“So why is he—”
“Not now,” I hiss as Wes drops to the pavement and starts toward us. He’s put on a shirt, thankfully, but I’m having a hard time not picturing all the skin and ink hiding beneath the snug fabric.
My brother shakes his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he mutters before he throws me a warning look and goes to inspect the hot mess Wes made of his vehicle.
I make introductions quickly. It’s a little odd to see Eric and Wes side by side. Growing up, my younger brothers rapidly outgrew me once they hit their teenage years. I’m used to Eric and Sam towering over me, but next to Wes, Eric is the short one.
“This is a good news, bad news situation.” Eric gestures at the SUV with a grimace after poking around for a few minutes.
“We can fix ’er up for you no problem, but I’ve got to order in the glass.
That’ll take a few days. You might have better luck at the dealer up in Denver or one of those glass replacement services.
Once it’s here, it’s not going to take too long, as long as you didn’t fuck up the mechanics of the door.
If there’s glass in there too, it’ll take longer to take it apart and clean everything up. ”
Wes glances at me. “How far are we from Denver?”
“An hour, give or take. Maybe a little longer depending on where you need to go.”
“I’ll make some calls.” He paces away, tapping on his phone, while next to me Eric shoves his hands in his pockets and gives me that classic, I’m-your-brother-I-see-your-bullshit stare.
“I thought he was, and I quote, the biggest jackass on the plains.” Eric’s brow goes up. “Or is it the even if he’s hot part that’s driving all this? Don’t tell me you’re pulling a Mom.”
“Did you really just compare me to Mom?” I hiss, giving him a shove that he hardly seems to feel.
“You showed up with a guy you told me is a dick to you. What am I supposed to think?”
“It’s not…He’s…Sometimes he’s not so bad.” I fold my arms over my chest and jerk my chin toward the lack of windows. “The only reason he’s here is to get his car fixed. You fix cars. He’s willing to pay extra to have it done faster.”
“That’s nice, but what’s he doing with you in the first place?”
“I told you, chaser code. He needed help and I was there.” I shift uncomfortably, my attention drawn to Wes’s tense form as he paces the garage’s driveway.
With one hand clutching his hair, his shirt is riding up again, exposing just enough of his bare abdomen to make me wonder about those other tattoos.
“Sloane? You in there or has the man’s ass mesmerized you? I might not swing that way, but even I can admit that’s gym goals.”
Face flaming, I yank my attention away from Wes. “I don’t want to win the magazine contest because of something stupid, all right? I want to beat him on my own merit so he can’t blame circumstances.”
It’s not a lie—but it also didn’t occur to me until this morning. After Wes was already in my house.
Shoving the thought aside, I continue, “I’m sick of hearing how my shots are never going to be as good as his because I’m not willing to dangle myself out of a helicopter or hike glaciers or any of the other insane shit he does.”
Not like I could even if I wanted to. Those trips don’t come cheap.
“Then you better hope your boy—”
“He is not my anything.”