Chapter 8
EIGHT
Wes
There is nothing in the world that feels quite as free as being up here.
The cockpit is quiet except for the steady hum of the plane and the low, clipped exchange of routine between me and the other pilot.
Outside the windshield there is nothing but clear sky stretching out in every direction, blue so deep it looks endless.
For a few hours the world feels simple again.
There’s no press to hound me, no board making demands, no courthouse wedding waiting on the horizon. And no Victoria.
I keep one hand on the controls and let my attention stay where it belongs, on altitude and speed and the long, practiced movements that come so naturally now I don’t even have to think about them most of the time.
Flying has always done that for me. It strips everything else away until there is nothing left except the present moment and the sky in front of me.
Up here, there is no room for distraction.
No space for second-guessing. No time for anything that does not matter.
As we begin our descent, the coastline comes into view beneath us, the water dark and glassy in places, bright where the light catches it. The touchdown is smooth, the kind of landing that barely earns a second glance from anyone sitting in the back of the plane.
After the usual final checks and goodbyes, I make my way through the airport with my bag slung over one shoulder and my phone already buzzing in my pocket with messages I am not in the mood to look at yet.
I exit the airport and head for my car—it’s sleek, and expensive enough that I should probably be embarrassed by it, but I stopped being embarrassed by money a long time ago.
The drive home is quiet—the kind of quiet I usually like, but tonight it feels different. My mind keeps circling back to things I don’t want to deal with. It’s frustrating. I have never had much patience for thoughts that refuse to stay in their lane.
I make a quick stop along the way, not dwelling too much on the errand because I know that if I start calling it what it is, I am going to spend the rest of the drive thinking too hard about why I am doing any of this in the first place.
I get back in the car and deposit the bag on the passenger seat and then make one more quick stop to pick up some take-out for Lottie and me.
I’m sure she feels like her life has been turned upside down, so I figure dinner is the least I can do.
I pull into my driveway with both bags on the passenger seat beside me and as my house comes into view, it occurs to me that coming home tonight is very different because I’m coming home to my wife.
Well, she’ll be my wife soon enough. I kill the engine and think, not for the first time, that this was just supposed to be a little white lie.
We’re way past that now.
Closing the front door behind me, I can feel the shift in the house immediately and I know Lottie is home before I even see her.
I follow the sounds drifting from the kitchen—music and the soft clink of dishes. I see Lottie before she sees me, and it only takes a second for everything else in the room to drop away. My gaze drags slowly over the length of her body, taking in more than I should.
She’s in workout gear—tiny, barely-there shorts that barely cover her ass cheeks and an athletic top that shows off her toned, flat stomach.
It’s modest enough to cover her but tight enough that it does absolutely nothing to hide what’s underneath.
It sits higher on her chest than I’d like, and I catch myself wondering what it would look like if it didn’t—if I was able to see a hint of cleavage.
Her legs go on for days, toned and strong, and her hair is pulled up in a messy knot, loose pieces framing her face.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I’ve spent three days trying like hell not to think about her, only to come home and find her dressed like that in my kitchen? How the hell am I supposed to act normal around her?
She looks up when she hears me and smiles, looking completely at ease, completely unaware of what she’s doing to me just by standing here in my kitchen.
Jesus. My cock is already half hard in my pants. She looks—no. I need to stop. I drag a slow breath in, forcing my attention back up to her face before it lingers somewhere it shouldn’t. This is a business arrangement, that’s it. I don’t get to touch. Dammit.
“Before you ask,” she says, walking back to the counter, “I’m making us a charcuterie board.”
There’s a cutting board on the counter stacked with crackers, sliced fruit, cheese, olives, cured meat, and little bowls I didn’t even know I owned. The rest of the kitchen is a disaster—open jars, utensils, and parchment paper spread over every available surface.
“Is that a fancy way to say snack board?” I ask, setting the take-out bag on the counter.
Her brows lift, gaze dropping to the paper bag of food from Wave and Wharf. “It’s a sophisticated snack board, Wes. What’s in the bag that smells so heavenly?”
I pluck an olive from the board and toss it in my mouth. “I picked up dinner for us. Two orders of fettuccini Alfredo and two green salads. I didn’t realize you had gone to so much effort here.”
Her cheeks flush, staining them the same shade as the raspberries on her elaborate snack plate. “Well, I was hungry, and I thought you might want something to eat when you got home.”
I’m momentarily speechless.
“Thank you,” I say. “That was thoughtful, but not necessary.”
“It’s nothing,” she says, glancing up at me. For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. The tension between us thickens until she finally turns and moves toward the sink.
My gaze drops before I can stop it, catching on the curve of her round ass in her shorts. I regret it immediately because now I can feel my dick plumping further in my pants. But like the masochist I’ve become with this girl, I keep going, moving my eyes down her long, tan legs.
“Like the view?” she asks as she turns around and catches me staring. She dries her hands on a towel, trying to hide a smile.
What the fuck do I say to that? Admit that if her shorts ride up even another millimetre, I’m going to have to go upstairs and fuck the life out of my cock with my hand? Instead, I manage, “I’m not answering that.”
Her smile widens. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
There was a time where this is the position which I’d flirt back with a girl, let her know I’m interested. But Lottie is not any other girl. “It’s not a yes.”
“It’s definitely a yes,” she says, picking up a knife to cut through a wedge of Brie.
“It’s a refusal to participate in this line of questioning.”
That gets a real laugh out of her, and she points the knife at me like she’s caught me in something. “See? You do have a sense of humor.”
“I do,” I say, moving to the other side of the island. “It just takes a little more effort to get it out.”
“I’ll give myself a pat on my back then,” she says, entirely too pleased with herself as she adds the freshly sliced cheese to the board.
“Go ahead,” I nod. “You earned it.”
She hums, then adds casually, “I earned a lot more than a pat on the back this weekend. I unpacked all my things, organized my clothes, and then worked out in your gym. I had to burn off the weird energy from the last couple of days.”
“Is that why you’re wearing… that?” I ask, looking her over in an appreciative glance. It takes all of two seconds for my brain to head in a direction it has no business going. Jesus. I drag my attention back to her face. These thoughts need to stop.
“You’re very focused on my outfit tonight,” she notes with a smirk.
“Just making conversation,” I say. “And okay, I admit…you wear booty shorts well.”
“Mm,” she murmurs, with a wicked grin on her face. “For the record, your home gym is ridiculous. Do you know how unnecessary half the equipment is? Wes, there are more machines in your private workout room than there are at the gym I used to go to, and that one charged people by the month.”
The corner of my mouth twitches despite myself. Lottie is quick and funny and entirely too good at pushing my buttons. I have to admit, I like the way she moves through my kitchen like she belongs here. I already like having her here.
“It’s well equipped,” I say, watching as she pops the jar of olives back in the fridge. “So, did you go shopping? Did you find something you like at Holts?”
She lets out a sigh. “I did. But I’m still not sure I’m comfortable with you buying it for me.”
She smooths her hand over the counter, brushing a crumb into the sink. I can see she’s still grappling with the thought of letting me do something like that for her. If that’s where her line is, she’s definitely not going to be comfortable with what I’ve got waiting for her tonight.
“Everything feels a little unreal” she says, like she’s trying to wrap her head around it all. “I have the dress, the shoes, even a hair appointment on the morning of the wedding, thanks to Victoria.” A small, disbelieving laugh escapes her.
“You are going to look stunning,” I tell her, meaning every word. “I can’t wait to see what you picked out.”
She finally meets my eyes and when I see the teasing look in them, I feel something squeeze in my chest. “You’re not going to fall in love with me for real when you see me, are you?”
Her eyes widen once she realizes what she just said, but it’s too late to take it back.
Our eyes lock.
She presses her hand into her chest, and I can tell she’s searching for the words to correct her mistake. “Of course, you won’t,” she says. “Besides, I’ll probably trip on my way down the aisle. That should help.”
“It may not be real, but we can still enjoy the day,” I say, crossing the kitchen and grabbing the takeout bag. “And I still plan on taking you for a nice dinner afterwards.”
I put the food in the fridge and then move to the cupboard where I keep the wine glasses.
“Ready to eat?” I ask.
I set the glasses on the island next to the charcuterie board and pull out a chair.
“What are you doing? What about the takeout?”
“We’re eating your situation tonight. We can have the fettuccine for lunch tomorrow,” I say, extending a hand for her to join me.
Her brows lift. “My situation?”
“Yeah. This very elaborate, very beautiful snack board of yours that you spent so much time on.”
Lottie’s hand slips into mine, our eyes locking as she lowers herself onto the bar stool next to me. I’m unprepared for the smile she gives me. It could light up a skyline.
My God, she’s easy to get caught up in.
“Can I pour you a glass of wine?” I ask, reaching for the bottle.
“Please,” she says. “Especially since I know this bottle probably costs more than my rent.”
Lottie lifts her wine glass to meet mine in a cheers.
“To my beautiful wife-to-be,” I say.
“To us,” she adds.
Our glasses meet with a soft clink, and I take a slow sip, watching her over the rim of my glass. The air between us is electric.
She’s devastatingly gorgeous. Perfectly put together. Irresistibly sweet. And she’s mine.
But no, not really. I need to remind myself that we’re just playing house.
“This is exceptional. The smoothest wine I’ve ever tasted.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
She leans back in her chair, assessing me. “I’m enjoying myself here with you, Wes. I have to admit, my first weekend in the Winters mansion isn’t all that bad.”
I study her face, really taking her in. Her green eyes flecked with flakes of gold, outlined by thick, dark lashes that make her eyes appear even brighter.
The soft curve of her mouth, lips so full, they make me want to suck on them.
My eyes continue down to the line of her jaw, the smooth curve of her neck, her smooth skin.
I find myself wanting to know what it would feel like if ran my fingertips over it.
I’m willing to bet that Lottie Hart looks mouth-watering under her clothes.
I watch her as she reaches across the board, how her fingers move with grace, selecting a grape and lifting it to her lips before sucking it into her mouth.
An unexpected chill rushes through me and the intensity of it catches me off-guard.
I can picture Lottie’s lips around my cock mimicking the same illicit motion. Fuck.
She shifts her attention to me and I’m sure she can sense the salacious thought that just ran through my mind. She doesn’t say anything, but the way one corner of her mouth quirks up all but confirms my suspicion.
She leans in toward me a little closer. The tension is thicker than a slow, rolling fog. “I’m not as mad at you as I used to be.”
I chuckle. “You’re full of surprises,” I tell her softly. “And speaking of surprises, I have one for you.”