16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Joss
I ’m having an internal battle of epic proportions. Luxuriate in this bath forever, or get out and drink the coffee that I can hear calling my name from the other room. Decision made, I lean my head back against the cushion and allow myself one final minute. I thought I could untangle the chaos of my feelings while I was in here…
What happened last night?
You lost control of your emotions, Joss. That’s what.
And then there’s Wes, who’s waiting in my living room with coffee and breakfast. Wes, who stayed with me all night, cared for me. Wes, who has become one of my closest friends in only a few weeks. And something tells me if I don’t get out there soon, that very friend might barge in here to make sure I’m alive .
I slip out from the tub and grab my fluffy towel, snuggling into its warmth, and then wrap a second around my damp hair. Giving myself a once-over in the mirror, I give into the reality of just how sick I am. Despite sleeping well, the dark circles under my eyes rival my favorite vampire characters from my youth. My body aches, and I’m already missing the hot water of the bath. I may be feeling better than I was yesterday, but the medicine has definitely worn off.
I peek my head out and spot Wes standing in the kitchen with his back to me, forearms leaning on the bar. His head tips back as he takes a drink of coffee, and I recognize the cup. This man. He walked down to Harbour Grounds for me this morning. He lets out a little groan of satisfaction, and it vibrates through my body like someone struck a tuning fork deep down inside me. Turning my back, I shake my head to clear the thoughts that pop up about what else might make him groan like that.
I flip the light switch, illuminating my closet as I walk in. It’s split into two distinct sections. My uniforms hanging neatly, everything ordered and tidy, pressed to perfection. Then there’s my everyday clothes—all leggings and jeans, knit tops and T-shirts. I rarely dress up, so the few pieces of nicer clothes hang abandoned with my work wardrobe.
I pick a pair of buttery soft leggings and a cozy hoodie. Wes has already seen me at my worst—I doubt he will judge this look too harshly. There’s not a version of you that wouldn’t be hot to me. His words glide through my head once more. My chest tightens at the earnestness of them, the truth in them, even if I can’t seem to believe it .
Feet in slippers and damp hair in a messy bun, I walk out in search of Wes. A pang of disappointment resonates in my chest when I don’t immediately see him at the counter. Did he leave? I turn on the spot until I find him, standing alone on my balcony, in the same clothes he wore yesterday, feet bare, dark hair blowing softly in the breeze.
He’s so at ease with himself, so comfortable here in my space, and so damn sexy. A tiny voice in my head whispers mine , but I shove that into the box. He’s not mine. He never will be, and the sooner I accept that the better off I’ll be.
Like he can sense me, he turns around and joins me in a few long strides. I’m stunned silent by the way his beautiful blue eyes roam over me. I blush, even though I know he isn’t doing it to be flirty. He sets his coffee on the bar, and I see the conflict on his face, like he isn’t sure what to do next. Me neither, Wes, me neither. We stand and look at each other for a beat, neither of us moving, just sharing the same air, the same space.
His fingers twitch by his side. Will he finally move to touch me, save us both from this tense moment? Those fingers curl into a tight fist, his eyes moving to the floor. Okay, then. Should I say something? Thank him for being here, tell him he doesn’t have to stay…? If he’s this uncomfortable after last night, I don’t know what that means for us.
He looks up and his eyes pin mine. I catch the glassy, misty look in them. There is so much feeling written on his face right now. Even after all his concern last night, this is different .
“Can I hug you?” His throat bobs with a swallow. “Please.” The words are hushed, almost pleading. I’m so taken aback that all I can do is nod.
He wastes no time reaching for me and crushing me to him in a hug that tops all hugs. His hold is soft. Careful. My body melts into his as I wrap my arms around his torso. His breath tickles the shell of my ear where he’s bent low. I feel his next inhale like it’s my own. It’s labored, shaky, and when he lets it out, a “Thank you” comes with it.
“For what?” I ask, moving my hands to his arms. If I could push back, look in his face, maybe I could understand what he’s feeling right now. But he doesn’t let up, holding me to him.
“For the hug.” His voice is tight. “You really scared me last night, Grey.” The underlying loss and pain in his words wrecks my heart. I know, somehow, this has less to do with me than it does with him.
“Wes?”
I finally manage to put a few inches of space between us. His eyes are red-rimmed and he looks a little frantic.
“I’m okay, I promise.” I reach down to grab his hand and place it firmly over my heart so he can feel it beating. “I’m right here. I’m just sick. I’ll get better. I’m okay.”
I can feel it in my bones that he needs the reassurance. He leaves his hand over my heart but brings his forehead to rest against mine as his eyes slip closed. I’m unsure how long we stand this way. A few minutes? Hours? Time seems to stop when we touch, and I can’t bring myself to pull away. In the end, it’s Wes who does, but only to bring his hand up to my forehead instead.
“You’re warm again, how are you feeling? ”
“Better than last night, but still not great. Can you grab me more medicine? And where’s that coffee you promised?” I joke, trying to bring some levity to the conversation.
His lips quirk and he finally lets me go. “Coffee is right there. I’ll be right back.”
He points to the second cup on the counter before heading back to the bedroom. I grab it, turning it in my hands to warm them up, which is when I see Jaz’s untidy scrawl.
“Oh my god, I forgot about Jaz.”
I slap a hand to my forehead and instantly regret it because it jostles my pounding head. I scan the room, looking for my phone. My eyes land on the luggage stacked by the door where Frank must have left it last night. Oh man, Frank. I owe him a big thank-you as well. I dig through my purse and retrieve my phone. It’s dead of course. I’m antsy knowing that I bailed on Jaz last night without a word—she’s probably worried sick.
“Wes? Did you see Jaz this morning?” I holler back to the bedroom as I grab my phone charger, but a movement at my side causes me to jump.
“No need to shout.” He gives me a little smile and sets some medicine on the counter in front of me. “And, yes, I saw her. I explained what happened, but she’s still worried about you. I told her you’d text her.”
“Okay, thank you. I can’t believe I forgot. I feel so bad.”
I’m watching my phone like a hawk, waiting for it to power back up. The little apple appears on the screen, and I let out a sigh of short-lived relief as it begins pinging with notifications from the last fifteen hours or so. Most of them are from Jaz, getting progressively more frantic the longer I wasn’t responding. I decide to reply to the last one, which is from this morning.
Jaz
Bloody hell Joss. Would you text me back already?
My hands fly across the screen. I love her for how worried she was; it’s nice to know someone cares.
Me
I’m so sorry, Jaz. Wes just told me he saw you and filled you in.
Jaz
Don’t apologize, I’m just glad you’re ok. You’re ok, right?
Me
Yeah, still not feeling great, but better than last night.
Jaz
Is Wes still there? Do you need me to come over?
Me
He’s still here. I think I’m good. Call you later?
Jaz
Yes please. Will you thank Wes for me again? I’m glad someone was there for you.
The last two words tumble in my brain for a minute. Not there with you—there for you. It’s a subtle difference, but in the context of my life, it’s kind of eye opening. How many people have been with me but have never truly been there for me? Jaz has been my best friend for as long as I’ve been in Sydney, and she’s the only one who could possibly understand how much it means to me that Wes stayed last night. I’m not even sure I fully understand how badly I needed that.
That stinging feeling in my nose and behind my eyes returns. Man, what is happening to me? I haven’t been this emotional in… well, about seven years. Goose bumps prickle on my arms at the reminder of that time. I guess the floodgates were bound to open eventually.
My gaze lifts to find Wes watching me intently, like he’s just waiting for me to pass out again. Or waiting for me to explain why I look like I might start to cry— again .
“What are you hiding over there in that pastry bag?” I wiggle my eyebrows, trying to break the tension before it pulls so tight we break instead.
“This bag?” He opens it just a little and makes a show of sticking his nose in and inhaling deeply. “Mmmm, I don’t know if I want to share.” His tone is teasing, and there’s a little flutter in my stomach that I have to ignore.
“But I’m sick.” I give him my best puppy-dog eyes and force a couple of fake coughs into my hand. Unfortunately, the action leads me into an actual coughing fit, and I have to brace my hands on the counter to ride it out .
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says with a cheeky grin. “And that I know just how sick you are, or I really might keep these all to myself.”
He moves on and starts pulling pastries out of the bag. There’s an apple fritter and a cranberry orange muffin. My mouth waters at the sight. My favorites . I make a note to thank Jaz later.
My stomach chooses then to let out a loud grumble, and it’s enough to remind me that I haven’t eaten in far too long.
“I guess you’re hungry, that’s a good sign,” Wes says as he hunts through the cabinets, looking for plates. Instead of telling him where they are, I enjoy the feeling of watching him make himself at home in my space. “Table or patio?” he asks once he’s located them.
“How about couch?” I ask. My energy is waning again, and I’m not sure the sunlight would agree with the pounding in my head. He nods in a lead the way motion, so I settle into one corner of the couch and get comfortable.
Wes puts the food on the coffee table and has my feet in his lap across the couch before I even have a second to think. My eyes catch on the corded muscles of his forearm as he grabs the blanket off the back and covers my legs. Then he casually reaches for his coffee as if he didn’t just make my heart melt. How did I get so lucky to have found such a good friend?
I’m still not used to having someone who sees me, who sees what I need and actually acts on it. His big hand gives my foot a little squeeze through the blanket. There’s a naturalness to the way we sit and eat in silence. I never feel the need to fill the quiet spaces with Wes. We sit like this a lot when we’re surfing, just listening to the waves and taking in the beauty of the world .
He finishes eating before I do and starts rubbing my feet through the blanket. I let out a low moan at how good it feels. Last night was hell, but right here, I think I might be in heaven. My head falls back and I get lost in the feel of his hands on me.
“Oh my god, that feels incredible.”
His hands still, just for a second, before resuming their ministrations, but my eyes snap open to find his gaze locked on me. That look is pure fire, and a part of me wants to burn with him. Damn the consequences.
I have to shift my eyes away as a heat that has nothing to do with the fever spreads through my body. I’m sick after all—this is not the time to let those thoughts take hold.
“Um, would you mind grabbing me those meds from the counter?” I say in an attempt to shift the vibe.
I continue to stare resolutely at my muffin, breaking off a piece and popping it into my mouth. I hold back the moan this time, not wanting to reignite the spark I just thoroughly doused. He sets my feet down on the couch and is back a minute later, meds in one hand and a fresh bottle of water in the other.
“Thank you.”
“Welcome.” There’s gravel in that one word, and I avoid looking at him for fear of what I might see in his eyes.
He moves back to sit at the other end of the couch, but he doesn’t immediately pull my feet into his lap. Is he trying to reestablish our boundaries the same way I am? The ones we blasted through with the hand holding and cuddling last night?
I feel sleep pulling at me again, so I curl onto my side, feet just barely brushing his thigh. He gently brings them back to his lap, readjusting the blanket as he kicks his own feet onto the coffee table. It’s like he can’t stand not touching me, kind of like when he asked if he could hug me earlier. Normally, I would scold him about feet on the table, but he looks comfortable enough to make me bite my tongue.
I close my eyes and let the world fall away, wondering if he’ll still be here when I wake up.