Chapter Eleven
The next time I wake up, the first thing I see is a collection of ginger ale, Gatorade, and crackers on the nightstand next to my half-empty bottle of water. Migraine hangovers aren’t so different from the normal kind, except you don’t get to have any of the fun the night before to earn it.
Groaning as I start to push myself onto my elbow, I’m not expecting the warm touch on my back. “Easy,” Wes murmurs, his arm sliding under my shoulders to help me up.
The pain is thankfully almost gone, reduced to a dull ache, but it’s too nice to be fussed over to stop him. “What time is it?”
“Almost nine p.m.” He brushes a tangled strand of hair back from my face, the touch lingering. “How do you feel?”
“Like I desperately need a shower.” I take a tentative sip of ginger ale, and when my stomach doesn’t revolt, swallow a bit more. “I haven’t looked. Is this one Wes-approved?”
He laughs softly, something like affection lingering in his expression, as if he couldn’t be more pleased at the private joke. “Yeah, it’s a good one.”
I fight the urge to lean into his touch. There aren’t many people who know me well enough to share an inside joke. It’s probably the meds turning me sentimental, but it’s awfully nice to laugh together.
“Have you been here this whole time?” I ask to distract myself from the growing intimacy of the moment.
“Mostly.” Wes shrugs and closes his laptop, letting it rest on his legs. “I didn’t want to wake you up.”
He says it simply, no trace of irritation or annoyance lurking in the words.
In fact, if anything, he sounds pleased.
But he’s also plainly left the room at some point, his jeans swapped out for black sweats, and then there’s the assortment of drinks on the nightstand that definitely weren’t there when I fell asleep.
None of which woke me up, so why did he come back?
“I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry. There’s a few more snacks, or I can run out to pick something up if you want to grab that shower. Pretty sure our choices are going to be Subway or pizza, but it beats gas station snacks.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Not even a little.” Wes already has his phone in his hand when he asks, “What’s going to be easier on your stomach? Sandwich or pizza?”
“Sandwich.”
“Mind texting me what you want? I’ll take my time so you don’t have to rush your shower.”
As much as I tell myself I’m doing just fine on my own, there have been countless times when I’ve lain on my couch, miserable and alone, wishing that someone would care enough to do exactly what Wes is doing.
The nagging thought that I’ve misjudged him, that his kindness has always been there under the pranks and bravado, is steadily growing louder.
After he heads out to pick up our sandwiches I slowly drag myself out of bed.
Getting into the shower takes effort, but once I’m under the spray, the hot water soothes the lingering aches and queasiness.
I stand under the water for so long I’m still in there when Wes’s muffled Just letting you know I’m back comes through the door.
Not giving myself a chance to overthink it, I tug his sweatshirt back on over a clean shirt and shorts after drying off and giving my hair a half-ass blow-dry so it’s not dripping.
Wes is propped up against the headboard when I emerge, scrolling on his phone with the bag of sandwiches waiting at his side. I settle in next to him, carefully unwrap the paper to keep crumbs from exploding everywhere, and take a tentative bite to make sure my stomach isn’t about to revolt.
“Good?” he asks as he unwraps his own dinner.
“Yeah. I’m hungrier than I thought.” I take another bite and chew slowly, a mixture of discomfort and gratitude making it hard to find the right thing to say.
It’s a good weird to be fussed over this much, but it’s still a little strange.
“Thank you,” I eventually get out. “For taking care of me, I mean. You didn’t have to do all this. ”
“You don’t have to thank me for basic decency.
” It’s impossible to miss the undercurrent of irritation in his voice.
When I glance up, Wes is peering at me with a mixture of sympathy and frustration I don’t follow until he adds, “And I’d really like to have some words with whoever put it in your head that being taken care of when you feel like shit is too much to ask for, but I’m pretty sure I know where this is coming from after the last couple of weeks. ”
I shrug and try to play it off like there isn’t an emotional tsunami slamming into me. “It’s fine. I can look after myself.”
“Of course you can. You just shouldn’t have to—and you won’t if I’m around.”
There’s a pretty big if in there. One that makes it far less easy to parse my own feelings than it would have once been.
And maybe I’ll blame it on the post-migraine haze in the morning, but right now, I give in to the impulse to twist toward him and lightly brush my thumb under the healing scrape near his eye.
Was it really only two weeks ago that this whole adventure started?
“I can still say thank you,” I say quietly, my fingers trailing down his jaw, soft with the neatly trimmed beard he’s grown in since the start of my season.
Wes leans into my touch, all but purring as his eyelids grow heavy. “You never answered my question.” Slowly he turns his head just a little more, until my fingertips brush the corner of his mouth.
I can’t blame the migraine for the shiver that runs through me at the sensation of his breath on my skin. “What question?”
Movement draws my attention down to where Wes has a death grip on his balled-up napkin. “Why didn’t you leave me on the side of the road?”
My breath catches and my fingers still, barely resting on his jaw as my eyes snap up to his.
The light spilling out of the cracked bathroom door is just enough to make out the vulnerability in his naked stare.
“I couldn’t.” I let out a shaky breath and slide my hand down his neck to rest on the curve of his shoulder.
“Why did you kiss me at that gas station?” I whisper, almost certain the answer is in the way he’s looking at me. “We could have just left.”
One corner of his mouth tips up. “You know why, Sloane.”
“I really don’t.”
Wes moves slowly, first to set his sandwich out of the way, and then to settle one hand on my hip in an unmistakable prelude. “Would it clear things up for you if I do it again?”
Heat rushes through me, anticipation and need tripping over each other. It’s such a Wes thing to say, but I’ve never once heard him use that low rumble of a voice.
I want to hear it again.
“I don’t know.” I lean closer, my breath catching as his hand slides under the thick hoodie—his hoodie—to find a sliver of bare skin above my waistband. “Worth a try, I guess.” My eyes flick up to his. “If you want.”
Wes runs his fingers through my hair in a light, soothing touch, his expression turning rueful. “Ask me again when you’re feeling better.”
“I’m asking now.”
Banked embers flare into a blaze at my reply. He leans in, but all he does is brush his lips against mine in a feather-light kiss. “That explain it?” he teases, eyes crinkling with laughter despite the firm hold he still has on me.
I shake my head, pressing closer. “Not exactly,” I whisper, giddy desire bubbling like champagne in my veins. “Try again?”
With a hum of agreement, Wes tangles his hand in my hair and holds me in place while his mouth caresses mine.
Not the insistent demand that exploded out of him at that gas station, but a gentle, beckoning thing that’s in no rush.
He kisses me like he’s savoring a fine wine, the unhurried sweep of his lips and brush of his tongue so gentle in contrast to the way his fingers dig into my hip.
“Clear now?” he breathes against my mouth in a barely audible rasp.
“Maybe.” I run my palms up his chest and slide my leg over his thighs so I can press closer. “I think you might need to show me one more time.”
Wes drags his hands down my back, lower and lower, until they settle on the fleshy part of my ass. There’s something wicked in the curve of his mouth when our gazes lock. “If you insist,” he murmurs, accent thickening.
“I do.” I shift my weight, our hips not quite touching, and curl my fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer as anticipation floods my veins.
“Well, then, yes, ma’am.” Wes tightens his grip and yanks me the last bit of the way to being pressed together from hip to shoulder, playfulness giving way to raw desire.
His lips demand and soothe with soft nips and tantalizing licks while one hand slides under my clothes to press against my spine, fingers splayed wide.
I drink in the pleasured-filled rumble I draw out of him, scratching lightly along the back of his neck and up into his hair.
He’s breathing hard when he breaks the kiss to nuzzle into me, then sucks in a sharp breath when I lightly scrape my teeth over his throat and kiss a path back to his mouth.
The last bits of himself he was holding back come loose, need tangling with emotion in the sweep of his tongue and the press of his palm on my bare skin. Wes holds me like I’m a prize he’s finally won and can’t fathom letting go.
A tornado could drop in the hotel parking lot. I wouldn’t notice. I’ve lost myself in the smell of his soap and the taste of his skin, the crisp hair on his chest as I explore under his shirt, the flex of muscle in his abdomen when my touch dances lower.
Lungs burning, I break the kiss and gulp in air, my cheek on his shoulder. Wes’s breath is far from steady, his chest rising and falling beneath me as he runs a hand up and down my spine in a soothing stroke. His other hand returns to my hair, sifting through the tangles.
“I hope that clears things up for you.”