Chapter 20 #3
I know better than to read into things—especially with him—but I can’t stop.
Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Lane. I definitely shouldn’t have lied.
And underneath all of it, there’s this awful voice in the back of my mind whispering the thing I don’t want to admit: maybe the problem isn’t Lane.
Maybe it’s me.
Emmett finally emerges from the house, clearly in no rush as he slowly climbs into the passenger seat, slamming the door too hard to be an accident.
No one speaks.
The silence is brutal and heavy. Suffocating. My pulse pounds in my ears, louder than the hum of the tires on the packed dirt. Not even the low, familiar murmur of Luke Combs touches the tension stretching between the three of us.
Wesley stares straight ahead, shoulders tense beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, jaw carved from stone. Emmett ignores us both, glaring out the passenger window.
I shift, unable to sit still, hyperaware of every inch of my skin. The memory of his mouth on me is inescapable—his hands gripping my thighs, the scrape of his stubble, the way he held me through it. Heat curls low in my stomach just thinking about it, a traitorous pulse throbbing at the memory.
Then his eyes lift to mine in the rearview.
It’s one second. Maybe less.
But it feels the same as if he’d reached back and touched me.
His jaw flexes. His grip tightens on the wheel. Something hot and sharp flickers in his eyes before he smothers it—too late. I saw it. Felt it.
My breath is caught in my throat and my skin tingles everywhere.
He remembers, too.
The moment fractures as headlights sweep across the bunkhouse porch. Wesley throws the truck into park and resumes tapping his fingers against the wheel, eyes straight ahead.
Neither of them moves. The silence thickens again, settling across the cab.
The weight of it presses on my chest until I can’t bear it anymore. I lean forward between the seats. “Okay. What is going on?”
Nothing.
Wesley doesn’t flinch, his expression unreadable. I turn to Emmett, my voice soft. “Did I do something?”
He turns his head to look at me, and his shoulders rise with a breath.
And then—
“It’s nothing,” Wesley says, cutting him off, eyes still locked on the windshield.
Emmett sighs and closes his mouth. Whatever he was about to say vanishes.
I glance between them, confusion scraping at my ribs.
“Bullshit. You guys are being weird. Why?”
Emmett swallows hard, shifting in his seat. “It’s not—you didn’t do anything,” he says quietly, voice tight. “It’s just…complicated.”
Wesley’s knuckles whiten around the wheel.
Complicated.
The word sinks into me, cold and heavy.
“How?” I ask, barely above a whisper, trying to understand.
Emmett opens his mouth—
“It doesn’t matter,” Wesley cuts in again, finally glancing up at me in the mirror. His voice is harder this time, shutting it down completely.
I wish I could turn my brain off. My chest aches and my cheeks burn. I feel it everywhere—under my skin, between my ribs, in the space where his hands had been.
It shouldn’t matter. We agreed it wouldn’t.
So why do I feel like this?
Finally, the front door swings open.
Landon walks out, rolling his shoulders and tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he strolls to the truck. His hair is damp and messy. He’s relaxed, calm, and effortlessly charming in a way he never seems aware of. A small half-smile tugs at his mouth, revealing his dimples.
Guys have it so easy.
“Evening, everyone,” he says to the group as he slips into the back seat beside me.
His thigh presses against mine as he adjusts in his seat. It’s light and accidental, but he doesn’t shift away. Instead, he gets comfortable, stretching his arm along the seat behind me.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low. His eyes flick over to Wesley before landing back on me. “You smell nice. You doing alright?”
Wesley’s hand tightens around the steering wheel, knuckles pale.
Before I can answer, Lydia darts down the porch steps, an oversized denim jacket sliding off her shoulders and a silver flask dangling from her fingers.
Instead of heading to the back seat, she marches directly to the passenger door.
“Move it, cowboy,” she calls, tugging at the handle.
Emmett blinks. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” she says sweetly, flashing him a devilish smile. “Back seat.”
He mutters under his breath but climbs out, slamming the door as he squeezes into the back seat beside me, squishing me between him and Landon.
Landon leans forward, gesturing for the flask. Lydia sighs and rolls her eyes, reluctantly handing it back.
He takes a long swig, then offers it to me with a quiet nod.
I feel Wesley’s eyes in the mirror before I even look up. His gaze is dark, watching as I take the flask from Landon.
“What is it?” I ask, not breaking eye contact with Wesley as I bring it to my lips and tip it back. The burn sears down my throat, and I force myself not to cough.
Lydia turns in her seat, grinning. “Tequila, obviously. It makes everything better.”
Landon leans close, voice brushing my ear. “I know better than to offer you whiskey.”
I turn my head, and he’s closer than I expected. His eyes drop to my mouth, fleeting, like he didn’t mean for me to see it. I take another slow drink before handing the flask back.
“Put it away,” Wesley growls. “The last thing I need is a fucking ticket for an open container.”
Lydia twists in her seat, squinting at him. “What’s your problem?”
“Nothing,” Wesley answers, his voice eerily calm.
Landon passes the flask back to Lydia, who continues to stare at Wesley like she’s fitting pieces together.
“Right.” She snorts. “I’ve known you my whole life, Wes. You think I don’t know when you’re lying?”
“For fuck’s sake, drop it, Lyddy.” Emmett’s voice is low.
She throws her hands up. “Fine, whatever. Enjoy your pity party.” Then she turns forward and connects her phone. “Chasin’ You” fills the silence.
Landon taps the beat on the seatback. Lydia sings along under her breath.
On the surface, everything is normal—but I still feel it.
In the tension thrumming beneath the surface.
In the heat of Landon’s thigh against mine.
In the hurt lingering in Emmett’s gray eyes.
But most of all, in the way Wesley’s eyes keep finding mine in the mirror.
Over and over.
And over again.
The gravel lot crunches beneath the tires as we pull into Lucky’s. Wesley catches my eye in the rearview mirror one last time before he kills the engine, cutting the music mid-chorus.
“Hey! That was my favorite part, dick,” Lydia pouts, dragging out the last word.
“You’ll get over it,” Wesley mutters.
Emmett scoffs, soft but sharp. He doesn’t look at Wesley or anyone else before slipping out of the back seat.
Lydia loops her arm through mine, tugging me toward the door as she scans the crowd for potential love matches. Landon falls into step at my other side, close enough to brush against my shoulder.
Wesley follows close behind. I don’t have to look to see him. In each and every step, I feel him.
As we squeeze through the narrow entryway, fingertips brush against my lower back—barely there, a ghost of a touch that should mean nothing.
Except it isn’t nothing. Not to me.
No feelings. No emotions. Just sex.
No matter how many times I repeat the words, all it takes is one simple brush of his hand against my skin and my whole body betrays me.
At the bar, Landon orders two beers and slides one to me without a word. Not flirty—more thoughtful. Measured.
“Everything okay between you two?” he asks, quiet enough that no one else can hear.
I take a sip and nod slowly. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”
He tilts his head, studying me for a beat before leaning closer—not enough to touch, but enough for my breath to stutter.
“You should dance with me,” he murmurs. “He would lose his mind.”
I almost laugh, but it comes out choked. “Landon…”
He lifts his beer to clink it against mine. “I’m just saying.”
I blink, but before I can respond, Lydia spins toward me, eyes bright. “What about Mr. Clark Kent over there?” She jerks her chin at a clean-cut guy by the pool table. “He looks like he knows what to do with his hands.”
I laugh nervously, taking another sip, trying to drown the memory of Wesley’s hands gripping my thighs.
Landon’s still watching, eyes shifting between Wesley and me like he can see straight through us. He drains his beer and shrugs. “Your loss.” The words are light, but he gives Wesley a look before slipping into the crowd, twirling around a tall girl with sleek black hair.
I’m still processing when someone sits on the stool next to me. He’s tall and broad, wearing a shirt that clings to the gym body he clearly wants everyone to notice. A tourist. The perfect candidate for a one-night stand.
He’s playing it cool, pretending to study the very limited drink menu scrawled on the chalkboard behind the bar before angling himself closer.
Wesley’s suddenly beside me, and all the air is sucked from my lungs. There isn’t an open stool, so he leans against the bar. His scent takes over my senses and I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Hey,” the tourist says casually. “Saw you walk in. You’re wearing the hell out of those jeans. Can I buy you a drink?”
Before I can fake-laugh my way out of it, a hand appears between me and the gym bro.
“She’s good,” he says, calm and controlled. “Thanks.”
The guy takes one look at Wesley and falters, smiling awkwardly as he backs off.
Lydia raises a brow. “Didn’t realize you were her keeper.”
Wesley doesn’t even acknowledge her. His eyes stay locked on mine, unreadable and burning.
My stomach flips, and then—
“Come dance with me.”
Not a question.
Not a suggestion.
It’s a you know what this is.
My brain is still playing catch-up when his fingers lace around mine. Warm. Firm. Claiming.
The crowd parts for him like they always do in movies. The music shifts to something slower, bass thrumming through the wooden floorboards.
He pulls me in, his hands settling low on my waist. Possessive. Like he knows exactly what he wants—and he’s done pretending otherwise.
I lean into him and he lowers his chin to the top of my head, swaying us slowly to the beat. His thumb strokes lazy circles into my skin. I’m burning, but I can’t bring myself to pull away.
“I thought you didn’t dance.”
His hold tightens. An answer without a word. And it’s taking everything in me not to come undone.