Chapter 4 #2
“I’m sure she was.” I wrap my hands around the cup anyway, because I’m not about to waste a perfectly good coffee on principle. “Don’t get any ideas,” I warn, pointing at him over the lid. “You can’t butter me up with coffee and expect me to just forget everything.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, and my stomach does this annoying little swoop. “That wasn’t the plan.”
“Good,” I say, taking a sip of the warm foam like it will somehow calm whatever is happening in my stomach. I remind myself that I’m not supposed to be charmed by him, even if I’m finding that harder than I’d like it to be. “Because it’s not going to work. Even though this is very good.”
He doesn’t smile, but I can see he’s enjoying this from the subtle shift in his beautiful gray eyes.
I set the cup down. “Start talking,” I say, meeting his gaze. “Because this mess you’ve created—” I gesture between us. “—we’re fixing it.”
“Fair enough,” he says. “Let me explain.”
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Please do.”
He tugs his hat off, runs a hand through his hair, then puts it back on. “This wasn’t my idea,” he starts. “The photos hit, then the headlines followed, and before I could shut it down, Victoria—our publicist—already had a plan.”
My brows pull together. “A plan?”
“She saw it as something we could use,” he says.
“After everything Cove’s been through with the eco backlash last year.
Then my past coming up again more recently.
” His jaw tightens slightly. “The board didn’t want any more damage and having me painted as the guy with a bad track record and a revolving door when it comes to women isn’t great for the brand. ”
I blink at that. A revolving door of women?
I’ve never actually seen him with a woman. Not once. Not on a date or with some random girl hanging off his arm. But if he’s admitting to a “revolving door” then he must be a player. I guess he’s just been good at hiding it.
I watch him more carefully now.
“They need people to see me differently,” he continues, his voice even but softer than before. “Not as the guy from that story. Not as the version of me that everyone decided I was back then. And this gives them that. It gives them something else to look at.”
I tilt my head. “So, this was your publicist’s idea and you just…went along with it?”
He exhales slowly but doesn’t break eye contact. “Not at first. I told her to shut it down. I told her it wasn’t right to spin a false story involving you without asking. But she wouldn’t back off and before I had a chance to stop her, she put the story out.”
“Did you think I wouldn’t see the headlines?”
“It all happened so fast, I didn’t really have time to think,” he admits. “Once the story was already out, I thought about it, and I realized Victoria wasn’t wrong about what it could do.”
“What it could do for you,” I say pointedly.
“For Cove,” he corrects. “For my brothers. And yeah,” he adds, quieter now, “maybe for me, too. I spent a long time trying to get out from under that scandal,” he says, his expression less guarded.
“And it doesn’t matter how much time passes—one story comes back and suddenly it’s like the past ten years didn’t happen.
As far as most people are concerned, that story is me. ”
It hits me unexpectedly, how hard it must be to be judged the way Wes has been.
How exhausting it must be to carry around a version of yourself that isn’t the real you.
I’ve read the articles about Wes, about the trouble he got into when he was younger and the arrest that followed.
They make him sound like a guy with a chip on his shoulder, someone who doesn’t care about who he’s hurt.
But I know that’s not the whole story. Madeline hasn’t told me everything, but she’s said enough to make me feel that Wes didn’t really get a fair shake.
“I’m not that guy,” he says, echoing my thoughts. “And this… you… it gives me a way to remind people of that.”
“Why me, Wes?”
He thinks on his answer for a moment like he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Because I can’t think of anyone who would look better next to me,” he says finally.
“You’re smart. You carry yourself like you know exactly who you are, and you don’t bend for anyone.
People respect that.” His gaze holds mine.
“And you’re beautiful, Lottie. The kind of beautiful that isn’t just what people see—it’s what they feel when they’re around you. ”
My breath hitches.
“I’d be lucky to have you as my wife—real or fake. But I know it’s a big ask,” he continues. “I’m not expecting you to just go along with it for nothing.”
I swallow, trying to catch up.
“I want to help you, Lottie, and I’m in a position to do that.
” He pauses for a second, long enough to make the unease in my chest settle.
“I know your dad is sick,” he continues, quieter now.
“Madeline mentioned it once. She didn’t betray any trust. She was just concerned.
And I know he’s been going down south for treatments and what that kind of care costs. It adds up fast.”
My fingers tighten around my cup thinking about my dad and how terrible this year has been for him. How hard his declining health has been on the entire family.
“I’ll take care of it all, Lottie. The medical bills. All of it.”
My eyes widen. It’s a lot of money.
“But if we’re going to do this,” he adds, “it has to look real. Victoria wants the marriage to last at least a year, and you’d need to move in with me. You wouldn’t have to think about rent, or bills, or any of the day-to-day things that add up. It would all be taken care of.”
I blink, trying to process what he’s saying, and the way he’s saying it like it’s nothing.
“My house is big and private,” he goes on, like he’s laying out a plan he’s already walked through a dozen times. “It’s right off the water, and there’s more than enough space for both of us without it ever feeling like we’re on top of each other.”
My head is spinning. “Wes—"
“There’s a full gym, a pool, a big yard and no neighbours. A housekeeper. It’s quiet and you’d have it all. You’d have your own space. I’d want you to be comfortable, to make yourself at home.”
My head spins. I stare at Wes as he rambles on, trying to process what’s happening.
“I’m not around half the time anyway,” he says, like he’s afraid I might shut this down if he gives me a chance to speak.
“Most weeks I’m flying, so you’d have the place to yourself more often than not.
Anything you need. I don’t want this to be about you having to make sacrifices.
It’s about making things easier. For you. For your family.”
“And in return, we just need to make it look real,” he says finally, leaning back in his seat and watching me like he’s trying to gauge my reaction.
For a second, I’m speechless. This isn’t hypothetical anymore.
It’s not just some ridiculous headline or a misunderstanding I can walk away from.
It’s a house I’ve never stepped foot in but can already picture.
A life that feels so far removed from mine it shouldn’t even be an option.
And my dad’s medical bills—gone, just like that.
My mind is trying to catch up. Things like this don’t happen to people like me. Not in a small coffee shop in the middle of the day. Not ever.
It feels unreal. And yet, I can also feel the relief of taking everything off my family’s shoulders in one breath.
“You’ve really thought this through,” I say quietly.
“I have,” he says, gray eyes steady on mine. “So, what do you say?”