Chapter 3
THREE
Lottie
I marched out of Cove wound so tightly I thought I might actually snap. Who does he think he is? Who does he think I am that I’d go along with something like this?
I drive home faster than I should, replaying every second of our conversation and trying to make sense of it all.
I can’t. By the time I get home, I’m still seething.
Slamming my apartment door shut behind me, I drop my bag on the couch and go directly to my violin, which is leaning against the wall in the corner where it always is.
Pulling it from its case, I take a deep, steadying breath.
Still, the first note comes out too sharp and I wince, lowering the bow slightly before trying again.
“Breathe,” I tell myself. “Forget about Wes Winters.”
I lift the violin back into place, tucking it beneath my chin, and close my eyes as I draw the bow across the strings. This time, the sound is smoother.
Better.
Music has always been the one thing that steadies me.
The one place where everything quiets down and makes sense again.
I picked up a violin for the first time when I was twelve and never really put it down.
I was good at it from the start—the kind of good that made teachers take notice and put me front and center in the school orchestra.
It became mine—this quiet, constant thing I could hold onto when everything else felt too loud.
I play the same piece twice before my shoulders finally start to loosen. By the third time, I can almost pretend that this morning didn’t happen.
Almost.
But the second I stop playing he’s there. Wes Winters. Standing in that stupid glass office acting so damn zen, looking at me like I was overreacting. Like everything was just perfectly fine.
“You don’t need to be pulled into it. I’ll handle it.”
He can’t be sane. I drag the bow harder than I mean to, the note screeching.
“Ugh,” I mutter, lowering the violin and dropping onto my couch.
The silence presses in immediately, and with it, everything comes rushing back. The headlines. The video. My name next to his in the headlines. My stomach twists. I set the violin carefully on the table and fall back against the cushions.
“I told him to fix it,” I say out loud to my empty apartment.
In truth, I completely lost control of the situation. I huffed. I yelled. I stormed out of Cove like a mad woman. And since then, there’s been nothing from Wes. No call, no text, not even a hey, sorry about the whole wife thing.
My fingers curl into the throw pillow beside me. He’s so… I exhale sharply… he’s so… him.
Quiet. Controlled. Always thinking three steps ahead. Wes Winters doesn’t react. He calculates, he absorbs. Then he makes decisions. Today, he apparently decided to let the world think we’re married.
I’m not commenting on my personal life.
I let out a frustrated laugh. Of course, he’s not commenting. Wes never says more than he has to, he never gives anything away. He’s closed off and guarded, and he never lets anyone in all the way.
And yet, somehow, there’s always been this pull between us.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. It’s ridiculous. Infuriating. Completely illogical. But it’s there and always has been.
An image of Wes in Ford’s office this morning flashes through my mind. The way he watches instead of talks, the way he can stand in a room and say nothing at all and still somehow command all of it. The way he looked me up and down. Why is all of it so sexy?
I groan, dropping my hand. I should be furious. I am furious. I want to march back into Cove and shake him until he finally gives me a straight answer. I want to throw my phone at his chest and demand he fix the mess he made. I want—
I pause because my thoughts take a sharp turn and suddenly, I’m not thinking about yelling at him. I’m thinking about the fit of his shirt, his muscular forearms. The way his hand looked on my back in that photo. My panties are damp from just imagining all that muscle under his clothes.
My stomach flips. “Oh my God,” I whisper. “Why am I like this?”
This is a problem—a serious, deeply annoying problem. No matter how much he drives me insane, and no matter how badly I want to scream at him, there’s still that stupid, persistent curiosity of what would it feel like if…
I shove the thought away immediately. Nope.
Absolutely not. Not happening. Not now. Not ever.
Especially not after this stunt he’s pulled.
This isn’t some fun, flirty situation. This is my life.
My name. My reputation. I don’t even want to think about what will happen if my parents find out.
My sister has promised not to tell them, but the headlines are everywhere—it’s only a matter of time before they see them.
My phone buzzes on the couch beside me, preventing me from spiralling into a made-up scenario where my poor, sweet parents stumble across the news of my “wedding” to a man they’ve never met. I pick up the phone to see a text message waiting from Wes. It’s about fucking time.
Wes: We need to talk.
I stare at the message, huffing out a long breath. No hello. No apology. No explanation.
Me: Oh, now you want to talk?
Three dots appear almost instantly before they disappear then reappear. He’s thinking. Of course he is.
Wes: Yes.
I roll my eyes.
Wes: Meet me tomorrow.
I scoff out loud. Absolutely not.
Me: Hard pass.
Wes: Lottie.
My heart stutters. I hate that my name looks good coming from him.
Me: No. You don’t get to drop me into a media nightmare and then summon me like I’m your assistant.
The three dots blink again.
Wes: I didn’t summon you.
I let out a sharp laugh.
Me: That is exactly what you did.
Wes: I’m asking you to meet me so I can explain.
I hesitate for a second because explaining means answers, and I do want answers.
Me: You could have explained what the hell is going on when I was standing right in front of you this morning.
His reply comes quicker this time.
Wes: You were yelling.
He’s definitely not wrong there.
Me: You deserved it.
Wes: Probably.
I blink at my phone. Well, that’s… unexpected.
I press my lips together, trying not to let that tiny bit of accountability soften me.
Me: Where?
Wes: My place.
I freeze. The response is immediate, which makes me think he knew I’d say yes. I grit my teeth, annoyed. I definitely don’t trust myself to be alone with him either. I know better.
Me: A public place.
Wes: You think I’m going to kidnap you?
Me: I didn’t think I’d end up in a made-up marriage, but here we are.
Wes: Fair. How about Brew House for coffee? 3pm?
I hesitate, my thumbs hovering over my phone. If I’m going to get myself out of his mess, we need to talk.
Me: Fine. Don’t be late.
Wes: I won’t.
I stare at the screen for a second longer before tossing my phone back onto the couch.
My heart thuds in my chest, like it’s reminding me it’s there.
It’s a steady rhythm I don’t take for granted, a reminder that I’m still here.
I feel it move through me—chest, lungs, everywhere—grounding me in a way that still catches me off guard. I inhale slowly, letting it settle.
My mind flickers—did I take my medication this morning?
I did. I always do. Still, I press my palm lightly to my chest to confirm everything feels normal.
Still beating. Still here.
And I am too.