Chapter 7
SEVEN
Lottie
The movers left Wes’s house just after eight p.m., depositing the last of the boxes in my bedroom. I locked the door behind them and stood in the middle of my new home feeling mildly panicked and more than a little in awe.
Wes sent me a long text before his flight to give me a layout of his house.
It read like he was giving me a description of a luxury Airbnb property—how to lower the blackout blinds, how to adjust the hot tub temperature, where to find the guest room that will be mine for the year—instead of handing me the keys to the strangest day of my life.
His home is absurdly gorgeous. That is the only way to describe it.
It’s all clean lines and expensive taste, the kind of house that looks like it was designed by a person who has never once had to worry about paying a bill in their life.
The walls are light, the floors are dark, and every piece of furniture looks like it was plucked straight from a page of Architectural Digest. There are huge windows that overlook the water, glass so clear it feels like the ocean is just part of the room.
The space around me is so big and so quiet that I’m suddenly very aware of the sound of my own footsteps as I wander around exploring.
The kitchen is massive, all brushed steel and spotless marble counters that look too perfect to use.
Two empty bowls sit on the floor tucked neatly against the cabinets for his dog, Scout.
He told me the dog wouldn’t be here this weekend—he goes to one of his brother’s houses whenever Wes is away.
The living room opens up beyond the kitchen, wide and airy, with a sectional that could probably seat twelve people and a huge fireplace that looks like it’s used once a year for ambiance.
There is a whole wall of bookshelves in the den, though from the way they are arranged, I’m pretty sure they are more for looking impressive than for actual reading.
Everything is gorgeous. Everything is expensive. Everything is perfect. But none of it feels very homey.
I return to the living room, where I stand and slowly look as if it might all somehow become less intimidating if I stare at it long enough.
It does not.
The first thing I find that feels vaguely personal is in the hallway leading to his office: a striking black-and-white photo of a small plane, snapped at an angle against clouds that look almost too dramatic to be real. Of course, even his taste in art is annoyingly cool.
In his office, on the big, mahogany desk, sits another photo: Wes and his brothers standing around a woman I assume must be their mom. Even though the photo was taken many years ago, it’s obvious how much Wes takes after her. He has her eyes, and the same mouth too.
I wander farther into the house, telling myself I’m just exploring the place, not snooping—but of course I’m snooping.
This is a morally gray area, but I have decided that since this is technically my home too, at least for the time being, I am allowed to look around a little.
Besides, I’m giving up a fair amount of my own privacy in this deal. Fair is fair.
When I finally reach my bedroom upstairs I realize that it’s just across the hallway from Wes’s, which feels a little too close.
The room itself, like the rest of the house, is stunning.
It’s large and airy. The bed is piled high with crisp white linens, a fluffy comforter, and an absurd number of pillows.
In the corner is a tall mirror with a slim, elegant frame and next to that is a low, white oak dresser with polished brass drawer pulls.
My own apartment with its inherited, handed down furniture suddenly feels very humble.
Beside’s Jesse and Madeline’s place, I’ve never stepped foot in a house like Wes’s, never mind slept in one.
I stand in the middle of the room for a second, looking at the boxes of my clothes and the walk-in closet where I’ll put them away. There is something deeply unsettling about how fast my life has been moved from one place to another.
I should get started on unpacking, but there is no point pretending I am not very aware of the fact that when he’s back in town, Wes will be sleeping right across the hall from me.
I am curious to know how this very private, quiet man lives when no one is watching.
I leave the boxes untouched and move quietly down the hall, slowing when I reach Wes’s door.
It’s half-open—practically an invitation—and my curiosity wins out.
His room is dark, all moody vibes with charcoal walls and low lighting and that same masculine calm the rest of the house seems to have.
But in here, it feels more personal. There is something deliberate in the way the room has been put together.
The bed is made with crisp, dark linens, the furniture is clean-lined and sturdy, and the whole place has that quiet, brooding kind of elegance that makes me think of Wes immediately.
I move further into the space—just looking, not touching anything, I tell myself to ease my guilty conscience.
His closet is large and immaculate. Dress shirts are organized by color and sleeve length, pants are lined up beneath them, jackets spaced apart with the kind of precision that suggests he would notice if one hanger was out of place by even an inch.
His shoes are in rows, polished and perfect.
It all gives me the impression that the man does not just get dressed in the morning but commits to the process with military levels of discipline.
It’s weirdly attractive.
I keep going, walking into the ensuite and admiring the huge stone tub, double sinks, and massive windows that look out over the yard and beyond it to the mountains.
I stand here for a second, just taking it in, and have a very brief, very unhelpful thought about how a person could probably live out an entire fantasy in this bathroom alone.
Returning to the bedroom, my eyes catch on a framed photo that sits on the bedside table.
It’s a picture taken from a cockpit, a view of soft clouds and open sky stretching out in front of the plane.
It feels calm and endless and a little lonely.
It tracks for Wes. Something in me softens, and it catches me off guard.
And then, in a moment of weakness, I set the photo down and open the bedside drawer.
I freeze.
Well, this is interesting.
There is a strip of condoms, a bottle of lube, and tucked beneath them, a neatly folded silk tie.
I stare at it for a second, heat creeping into my face as thoughts of the sort of life Wes Winters leads inside this bedroom suddenly come to mind.
The idea that he is dirtier than the straight-edged, reserved, disciplined image he presents is exciting, and it kickstarts my imagination.
The sudden ring of my iPhone sends my heart dropping so fast it feels like a free fall. I clumsily grab it from my back pocket, feeling as though I’ve been caught in the act.
Oh God, I say to myself when I see Wes’s number on my screen. He’s Face-timing me, probably because he somehow knows I’m in his room rifling through his things. I practically sprint back to my own room, launch myself onto my bed and then jab at the screen before it can ring again.
His face appears a second later, dark haired mussed. The moment his eyes land on me, his expression shifts just slightly.
“Lottie?” he says. “Are you okay?”
I blink, trying to appear calmer than I am. “Yes?”
He studies my face for a second longer, and I suddenly become very aware of how warm my cheeks are and how guilty I probably look.
“You look flushed,” he says, sounding concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay? Is it your room? Is the bed okay? If you don’t like it, I can have another one brought in.”
I stare at him on my screen. “You’ll get me a new bed?
” I echo in disbelief. It’s such a thoughtful and unexpected offer that I’m not sure I’ve understood him at first. Wes doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would care all that much about how I sleep, yet here he is going out of his way to make sure I’m comfortable.
“Of course. It can be there tomorrow,” he says, and I notice the now familiar crease appear between his eyes.
“No, no. There’s no need. It’s a very nice bed, Wes.
I do not need a replacement. Any nicer and I might never leave it.
” The corners of his mouth tip up, though he doesn’t quite smile.
He seems to accept my answer. It’s then that I notice he’s sitting on his hotel room bed leaning back against the headboard and it immediately becomes difficult to keep my thoughts PG.
“Okay, good. Is everything else okay at the house? Any issues? Questions?”
“No, I think you covered every square inch of the place in your text messages.”
Wes smiles for real this time and I get the sense he’s starting to find me mildly amusing.
“Victoria arranged the details for Monday at the courthouse,” he says, settling back a little deeper against the bed. “And I’ve set up a private appointment at Holt Renfrew for you so you can pick out a dress for the ceremony.”
I blink. “You did what?”
“A private appointment,” he repeats. “My card is on file. Just get whatever you need, don’t worry about the cost.”
I go still. “You have a card on file at Holts?”
“Yes.”
“That is one of the most millionaire things I have ever heard.”
“I’m aware. And I’d like to take you to dinner afterward.”
I nearly choke. “Dinner?”
“Yes, dinner,” he says, smiling again.
There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectations, and that somehow catches me more off guard than anything he’s said so far. Again, it’s unexpected; the kind of sweet gesture that slips past my defenses before I have time to decide whether it’s okay for me to feel touched by it.
“Look,” he says, his tone more serious now. “I know this is not how you pictured your wedding day.”
My chest tightens.
“I know it’s not your dream wedding,” he continues. “And I know how much I’m asking.”
My mind wanders to my family not being there.
My dad, even though he’s sick, would absolutely want to walk me down the aisle and give me away.
My sister would have been my maid of honor.
I know this isn’t a relationship, but there is still something that feels hollow about doing all of this without them being there to see it.
“I just want to make it as good as I can for you,” Wes says. “If you’re going to do this, then I want it to be nice. I want you to look back on our wedding day and remember something good.”
My throat goes tight and I have to look away for a second to get myself back under control.
He said it like he means it, like he actually wants the day to feel special for me.
But if I allow myself to keep noticing how sweet he’s being, it’s going to be a lot harder to not blur the lines between fake and real.
I have to stop noticing the way Wes’s voice softens when he’s being kind, and the way he looks at me like I’m someone he’s already taking care of.
That is a very fast path to trouble, and I am not in the mood to make my own life any harder than it already is.
I sit up a little straighter and force myself to maintain a neutral expression.
“That’s nice of you, Wes,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can. “But a fancy fake dinner is probably unnecessary, as nice as it sounds.”
He does that small, maddening almost-smile again, the one that does things to my pulse. “Lottie, I’m serious.”
“Wes, you really do not have to do all that for me.”
“I know I don’t have to,” he says. “I want to. You deserve to be taken care of.”
The words land softly, but I have to remind myself to breathe because that is exactly the kind of sentence that can get me into trouble if I let myself sit with it too long.
“Okay,” I say, a little too quickly, desperate to move the conversation to safer ground. “Um. Right. On that note, I should probably go.”
One brow lifts slightly. “You need to go?”
“I do. I have to finish unpacking.”
His mouth twitches. “Are you sure you’re okay? You have everything you need there?”
“No,” I blurt, then immediately wince. “I mean—yes. Yes, I’m sure. I just need to go. I have things to do.”
He studies me for a second longer, and there is something dangerously soft in his expression before he nods. “All right.”
“Great,” I say, sounding entirely too breathless for someone who is supposedly fine. “I’ll, um, talk to you later.”
“Yeah,” he says, steady and low. “Later.”
I end the call before my face can betray me any more than it already has, then sit in silence with my phone in my hand and my heart doing entirely too much over a man I know better than to fall for.