Chapter Twenty-Three – Wes
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wes
I 'm dying. At least, that's what it feels like as another coughing fit racks my body. The ranch house has become a quarantine zone, with Jake and Colt keeping Emma at their place while Paisley and I suffer through whatever plague our niece so generously shared with us.
"Stop being dramatic." Paisley's voice comes from the other end of the couch, rough with congestion. She's wrapped in Sarah's old quilt, looking about as miserable as I feel. "It's just a cold."
"Says the woman who spent twenty minutes this morning comparing her headache to being trampled by Butch." I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't make my muscles scream. "At least I've got experience being sick. You city folks probably call a doctor if you sneeze twice."
She throws a tissue at me, but her aim is off. Probably the fever. "I'll have you know I once worked through an entire book launch with bronchitis."
"Explains the yoga scene." The words come out raspier than intended, triggering another coughing fit.
"I hate you." But there's no heat in it. There hasn't been for days, not since we both got sick enough to forget we're supposed to be avoiding each other.
The TV drones in the background—some cooking show she insisted on watching because, according to her, "If I have to be quarantined in Montana, I at least get to remember what real restaurants look like."
"We have real restaurants here." I reach for the remote, but she's quicker, despite the fever making her movements sluggish.
"Martha's diner doesn't count." She clutches the remote to her chest like it's the last copy of her manuscript. "And we're not watching bull riding highlights again."
"Better than watching some guy make foam out of carrots."
She sniffs—partly attitude, partly congestion. "It's called molecular gastronomy, and it's art."
"It's pretentious."
"You're pretentious."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"Your face doesn't make sense."
I blame the fever for the laugh that escapes. "Real mature."
"I'm sick. I don't have to be mature." She burrows deeper into the quilt, leaving only her eyes visible. They're bright with fever but still sharp enough to cut through my defenses. "Besides, you're the one who got us into this mess."
"How exactly is this my fault?"
"You're the one who wouldn't answer your phone when Emma needed picking up."
"And you're the one who got lost three times trying to find the school."
"There’s no navigation in your truck!”
Another coughing fit hits her, and without thinking, I reach over to rub her back. She leans into the touch, either too sick or too tired to pretend we're still maintaining careful distance.
Jake's voice carries through the screen door—they've been leaving supplies on the porch like we're some kind of quarantined pioneers. "Food delivery! Don't worry, Colt didn't cook it."
"Thank God for small mercies," Paisley mutters, but makes no move to get up.
"Emma wants to know if you're still dying," Jake calls out. "She's got a bet going with Sarah Beth about who's being more dramatic."
"Tell her we're fine," I say, just as Paisley announces, "Tell her your brother's being a baby about it."
Jake's laugh echoes across the porch. "Yeah, that tracks. Emma says to remind you both to drink water and stop being stubborn."
"She's definitely your niece," Paisley says once Jake's boots crunch away across the gravel. "Bossy and overprotective."
"Runs in the family." I realize I'm still rubbing her back and probably should stop, but she's warm and soft against my side, and the fever's making everything feel slightly unreal anyway.
"Yeah." Her voice goes quiet, thoughtful in that way that usually means I'm about to hear something I'm not ready for. "Seems like a lot of things run in this family. Stubbornness. Loyalty. The inability to admit when something matters."
The weight of her words settles between us like Montana snow—soft but heavy with meaning. I should move away. Should rebuild those careful walls I've been maintaining. But she's right here, fever-warm and real, and I'm too tired to pretend anymore.
"Some things," I say finally, my voice rougher than just the cold can explain, "matter too much to risk losing."
She shifts, turning to face me despite the quilt cocoon. "And some things are worth the risk."
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, everything I've been trying not to feel crashes over me like a summer storm. She's right here, has been right here, seeing through all my careful defenses with those writer's eyes that catch everything.
Then she sneezes, completely ruining the moment.
"Very romantic," I say, but I'm smiling despite myself.
"Shut up and hand me the tissues." She burrows back into the quilt, but not before I catch her own smile. "And for the record, this is definitely going in my next book."
"The sneezing?"
"The way you pretend not to care when you obviously do." Her voice is muffled by the quilt but still hits its mark. "It's very authentic."
I grunt but don't deny it. Maybe it's the fever, or maybe I'm just tired of pretending. "Your readers want romance, not reality."
"No." She peers at me over the edge of the quilt. "They want truth. Even when it's messy and complicated and involves two stubborn people who'd rather get sick together than admit they might actually need each other."
Before I can respond to that particular piece of insight, another coughing fit hits. She reaches over, her hand finding mine without hesitation. And maybe it's the fever, or maybe it's just time, but I let her hold on.
I smell burning toast before I hear her in the kitchen, and something tugs in my chest that has nothing to do with lingering congestion. She's been doing this since the fever broke—trying to prove she's fine by taking on tasks she's not ready for. "You're burning the toast." My voice still carries traces of the cold, but I can't quite hide my amusement.
"I'm caramelizing it." She rescues what looks like charcoal from the toaster, her hands trembling with the effort of staying upright. "Very gourmet."
"Very burnt." I move beside her, close enough to catch the scent of Emma's cotton candy shampoo mixed with something uniquely her. "Sit before you fall over."
"I'm fine." The words come automatically, stubborn as ever, but she's swaying slightly where she stands.
"Sure, you are." Without thinking too hard about it, I guide her to a chair, my hands lingering longer than they should on her shoulders. "That's why you're swaying like a fence post in high wind."
She doesn't argue, which tells me more about how she's feeling than any words could. Paisley Monroe admitting defeat is about as rare as Bernard being humble.
"I hate being sick." She slumps in the chair, looking small and frustrated in my old Whispering Pines T-shirt.
"Really? Because you've been such a joy these past few days." I set water in front of her, using the routine of breakfast preparation to distract myself from how right she looks in my clothes. "Drink."
"Bossy." But she drinks anyway, watching me move around the kitchen.
The past few days blur together in my mind—shared blankets and tissues, her fever-warm weight against my side as we argued about TV shows, the way she'd curl into me during coughing fits like she belonged there. Now that we're both mostly clear-headed, I should be rebuilding those careful walls. Should be remembering all the reasons I decided this couldn't work.
Instead, I find myself watching her in the morning light, memorizing details I have no business noticing. How her hair falls in messy waves around her face, still damp from the shower. The way she wraps both hands around her water glass like she's trying to anchor herself. How she's stopped pretending this isn't home.
"Jake's bringing Emma home today." I say this casually, like it won't completely shift whatever fragile peace we've found in our shared convalescence. "Doctor says we're past the contagious stage."
"Oh." She stares into her water glass like it might hold answers neither of us is ready for. "That's... good."
"Yeah." I pause in my breakfast preparations, something tight coiling in my chest. "However, she might be disappointed we didn't actually die of the plague like she was betting."
"Betrayed by our own immune systems." Her laugh still carries traces of congestion, but it hits me the same way it always does—warm and real and dangerously addictive.
I watch her over my coffee cup, taking in how the morning light catches her hair, the way my shirt hangs loose on her frame like it's found a better home. She looks better today—still pale, but her eyes are clearer, more focused. Unfortunately, that means my excuses for keeping her close are running out.
"You should eat something." I set a plate of actually not-burnt toast in front of her, trying to ignore how her fingers brush mine when she takes it. "Before Jake brings the tornado home."
"Emma's not a tornado." Her smile does things to my chest I'm not ready to examine. "She's more like... a very enthusiastic summer storm."
"That destroys everything in its path?"
"That brings life to everything she touches." Her voice goes soft, thoughtful in that way that usually means I'm about to hear something that'll crack my walls. "Like someone else I know."
I busy myself with the coffee pot, needing distance from the way she sees right through me. "You're still feverish."
"And you're still deflecting." She takes a bite of toast, watching me with those eyes that catch everything. "Though I have to admit, your technique's improving. Very smooth subject change."
"Learned from the best." I lean against the counter, crossing my arms like that might protect me from whatever's building between us. "You've got deflection down to an art form."
"Says the man who spent three days pretending not to care that I was sick while simultaneously making sure I stayed hydrated."
"That's just common sense."
"Is that what we're calling it?" She sets down her toast, fixing me with a look that could strip paint. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks a lot like caring."
The morning light streams through the kitchen window, painting everything in soft gold and making it harder to maintain careful distance. She's right here, wearing my clothes and speaking truths I'm not ready to face, and I'm running out of reasons to keep pretending.
"Paisley—" I start, but the screen door creaks.
"Knock knock!" Jake's voice carries through the house, followed by the thunder of Emma's footsteps. "Anyone still dying in here?"
Emma bursts into the kitchen like a small, pigtailed hurricane, immediately wrapping herself around Paisley. Something in my chest constricts at how natural they look together, like this is exactly where they both belong.
"You're alive! Sarah Beth owes me five dollars!"
"Glad my survival was profitable," Paisley laughs, hugging her back with a warmth that makes my chest ache.
Jake appears in the doorway, taking in the scene with too-knowing eyes. "Well, well. Look who's up and functional. And here I was hoping for at least another day of quarantine bonding."
I shoot him a look that would wither less resilient men, but he just grins, unrepentant as ever.
"Uncle Wes!" Emma detaches from Paisley to launch herself at me. "Did you really almost die?"
"No one almost died." I catch her easily, breathing in the familiar scent of her strawberry shampoo. "Martha might disagree, given how many pots of soup she sent over."
"That's because she knows you're terrible at taking care of yourself," Emma declares with all the wisdom of her ten years. "Good thing Paisley was here to help."
Jake's grin widens. "Yeah, good thing."
I ignore him, but I can't ignore the way Paisley's watching us, something soft and wanting in her expression before she catches herself and looks away.
And just like that, reality crashes back in. In four weeks, she's supposed to leave. Go back to her life in Manhattan, her deadlines and book tours, and a world that has nothing to do with sick days on my couch or early morning coffee or the way Emma lights up when she walks into a room.
Unless...
Emma tugs on my shirt, pulling me from dangerous thoughts. "Can we have pancakes? The ones Mom taught you to make?"
"Sure, kiddo." I ruffle her hair, grateful for the distraction. "You might want to supervise. Last time Paisley tried to cook, we almost had to call the fire department."
"That was one time!" Paisley protests, but she's laughing, the sound warming me more than any fever. "And in my defense, Bernard was very distracting."
"Bernard's always distracting," Emma says wisely. "That's his whole personality."
Jake settles at the table, clearly having no intention of leaving. "Speaking of personality, Martha wants to know if you two are well enough for festival planning tomorrow. Apparently, there's some kind of emergency involving square dance formations."
"Square dance?" Emma perks up. "Are you going to dance together?"
"No," I say, just as Paisley says, "Maybe."
Our eyes meet across the kitchen, and something electric crackles in the air between us. The same something that's been building since she first stepped onto my porch in those ridiculous boots, looking like every dream I wasn't allowed to have.
"Well," Jake drawls, looking entirely too pleased with himself, "this should be interesting."
And isn't that just the understatement of the year?