19. Daisy
19
Daisy
W ith the best smile I can muster, I set the coffee in front of Weston. Today I’ve crafted a butterfly into the foam of his latte, but my heart wasn’t in it.
Things have pretty much gone back to normal since we returned from Greenport. Wes comes into Joe’s first thing, and I present him with some sort of coffee creation that makes him smile. Then we talk about the weather, while he pretends he didn’t admit to having feelings for me at the beach house.
And I die a little inside.
I know that’s dramatic, but it feels like the truth. The Wes I spent time with at the beach was so different from the man who sits in Joe’s and says benign things like “It’s supposed to get up to eighty-four degrees today.” Maybe he’s able to switch his feelings off, but I’m not. I’m on fire with wanting him, and it’s only gotten worse since he admitted to feeling the same.
Weston glances up from the paper to take in the butterfly I’ve created. Deep creases form around his ocean-blue eyes as he smiles. He lifts his gaze to mine, scrubbing a hand across his short beard. He hasn’t shaved since we returned from vacation, and I’m glad. The roughness suits him. It makes him look more rugged, more masculine.
It makes me want to ride his face.
I look away, heat streaking my cheeks, as if he can read my thoughts. When did I become such a little horndog? I hadn’t touched my vibrator in months, but during the past couple weeks I’ve gone through three sets of batteries, imagining the things I want Wes to do to me. Thank God Denise has been out most nights, so I could have the place to myself. Just me and my filthy imagination.
Today, though, I can’t bear to look at him. I can’t bear the way my chest fills with longing, the way he acts like nothing has changed between us. The way he seems to have taken any feelings he might have had for me and stuffed them away in a box somewhere.
“Daisy—”
I turn for the counter, but Wes catches my hand. My breath stills in my lungs and I freeze, glancing down at him. I don’t think he meant to touch me, because he looks at his hand in surprise, quickly releasing his grip, but the heat from the brief contact spreads up my arm and into my veins. I curl my hand into a fist to steady myself.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, using my most polite, customer-friendly voice. Because if I don’t, I might actually cry.
This is the problem with letting yourself feel things. They don’t always feel so good.
Wes nods. “Of course. I just wanted to ask…” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. I follow the movement with my eyes, wanting nothing more than to drag my mouth over the soft olive skin there.
Wrenching my gaze away, I push my mouth into a falsely bright smile. “What’s up?”
He swallows. “Could you, uh, stop by the house tonight? Around seven?”
My lips part in surprise. “Your house?”
He nods. I can’t read his face, and I’m not sure why he’d want me to come over. Or to use his words, “Stop by,” which I’m certain he deliberately chose so I wouldn’t read too much into them. Why would he need me to stop by? We haven’t said two words to each other outside of Joe’s since we returned to the city. Maybe I left something at his place when I last visited Jess, though I can’t think what.
“Um…” I blow out a breath. “I guess. Why?”
He shakes his head, reaching for his coffee with a secretive little smile. “I want to show you something.”
Okay, now I’m really curious.
“What?”
His eyes dance as they move across my face. For a second I’m reminded of the man in the meadow, the man who picked me up and twirled me through the air, jubilant that I’d shot a single photograph. I’d wondered where he’d gone.
Then he schools his expression and pushes to his feet, leaving his coffee half-full. “I… I have to run. Just stop by, okay? I’ll see you at seven?”
My breath trickles out. “Yeah, I’ll… Yeah. Okay.”
And with that, he bolts from the coffee shop, leaving me to get through an agonizingly long day.
Weston answers the front door on the first knock. He’s so prompt that part of me wonders if he was hovering inside the entry hall, waiting.
“Hey.” His face warms with a smile when he sees me. “You came.”
I huff an awkward laugh. “Well, yeah.”
Weston’s gaze travels from my face to my feet, drinking me in. My shift finished at three, so I went home and changed into my favorite outfit; a black sundress with a white and yellow daisy print. It has cute little sleeves that swish over my upper arms as I move, a low scoop neck, and a ruffle hemline that cuts mid-thigh. Am I overdressed for “stopping by” at Weston’s? Probably, but I wanted to wear something that made me feel good. Made me feel sexy.
Even if I know it’s hopeless.
Wes drags his gaze from me, saying nothing. As I step into the foyer, I notice what he’s wearing. It’s Jesse’s Yankees hoodie. Too hot for a New York summer, but with Wes’s air conditioning it’s actually a little cool in here. The feeling is blissful after being out in the city heat.
I stare at the hoodie, my gut churning. I’d assumed Jess wouldn’t be here, but now that I’m back inside the house—now that I’m looking at that sweatshirt—I don’t know why I’d made that assumption.
Wes closes the door behind me, catching my expression. “He’s not here,” he says gently. “He moved out before I got back from the beach.”
I feel a cool wash of relief. Thank God . But as I take in the sad half-tilt to Weston’s mouth, I realize he must be gutted. I know how much it meant to him that Jess was back home, even temporarily, and how hard he was trying to repair things between them.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, and Wes shakes his head firmly.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” A grim chuckle slides from him. “Honestly, I think it was doomed from the start.”
I cringe, thinking of my own relationship with Jess. Given how I feel about his father—how I’ve always felt—I could say the same about us.
“Well…” I laugh humorlessly, trying to lighten the mood. “At least he left you his sweatshirt.”
An amused spark flickers in Weston’s eyes. “It’s not his sweatshirt.”
I falter. “What? He wore it all the time.”
“He did.”
I open and close my mouth, my gaze straying to the hoodie again. I’m so used to seeing it on Jesse’s lean, athletic frame, and it looks different on Wes. Or rather, it makes him look different. The soft, faded navy-blue fabric contrasts with the rugged silver on his jaw, the olive of his complexion. And it makes the blue of his eyes even more intense.
I think of the day I came to the house when it was pouring with rain, and he gave me that sweatshirt. The way he looked at me wearing it. This entire time it was his.
I swallow, smoothing my hands over my dress. If I do that, I won’t be tempted to reach out and stroke the fabric of his sweatshirt, because I know how soft it is, and I want to feel it on him. Actually, I want to peel it off him, and—
Stop .
I clear my throat. “There was something you wanted to show me?”
“Yes.” A grin tugs at his mouth. “Follow me.”
He leads me to a set of stairs that go down to the basement, and I follow, intrigued. I’ve never been down here, and I’m surprised to find a huge entertainment room with a plush sectional sofa and projector facing a huge screen and stereo system. Beyond, a wall of glass doors opens onto the carefully manicured backyard.
But Wes doesn’t seem interested in any of that. Instead, he leads me across the room to a door, to what I assume is a closet, or maybe a small bathroom.
He pauses at the door, glancing back at me. His face is a mask of boyish excitement, and I tilt my head, wondering what the hell is going on. I can’t help but laugh as I follow him into the cramped space. It’s a bathroom, yes, but—
My smile falls away as Wes closes the door. We’re standing in pitch darkness, and my heartbeat falters. What’s going on? Then I hear a click, and a soft red glow falls over the tiny room. I blink as my eyes adjust to the dim light, and a familiar feeling settles over me.
A feeling like… home.
I glance around, seeing the bathroom properly. There’s a sink, but no toilet. Instead, there seems to be some sort of table or counter, and on it sits a stack of wide trays and bottles. Above the bathtub, someone has strung a line with pegs on it. Not someone—Wes. Wes did this. This is what he wanted to show me.
I find him in the half-light, struggling to read his expression. Not because of the dimness of the space, but because he seems a little guarded.
“What… what is this?” I ask.
“A darkroom.”
“You made…”
He swallows, the sound loud in the small, quiet space. “I made it. For you.”
My breath catches in my throat. He made this, for me ? He made me a darkroom ?
I blink, trying to make sense of this. “Why?” I ask breathlessly. My heart has taken off at a sprint, staring at the man in front of me. The man who took part of his home and turned it into something… for me. And not just something, a darkroom. He made me the one place that feels like home.
Wes shrugs, as if it’s not a big deal, but it is a big deal. It’s a huge deal. It’s the hugest fucking deal of my life.
“You were so passionate when you spoke about photography, about spending time in the darkroom when you were younger. That’s what you should be doing, Daisy. Your passion is wasted at Joe’s. I have this big house, and I thought—”
But he doesn’t get another word out, because suddenly, my lips are on his.