Chapter 9
NINE
Lottie
Wes hops off his stool and disappears out of the room. I frown after him, a piece of cheddar halfway to my mouth.
“What are you—”
He reappears before I can finish, a small, turquoise bag in his hand.
The kind of bag that doesn’t need a logo because the color alone says enough.
My stomach dips. He sets it down on the counter between us, keeping his expression unreadable in that way he does so well. “For you. I hope you like it.”
I glance at him, then at the bag, suddenly very aware of the thump of my heartbeat. “Wes…”
“Just open it.”
I slip my hand inside and pull out the small turquoise box, my breath catching before I can stop it. “Oh my God,” I whisper, holding the box in my hand. “That is definitely not an special.”
He laughs. “It had better not be. It would be an absurd amount of money to spend on a fake.”
I look up at him, something fluttering low in my chest, and for a second, I wonder if this whole thing is a dream. My life isn’t supposed to feel like this.
“Open it, Lottie.” He’s looking at me intently now.
I swallow and flip the lid. The large oval cut diamond catches the light immediately, throwing it back in sharp, brilliant flashes that make it impossible to look at anything else.
“Wes—” My hand flies to my chest. “This is… it’s insane.”
I look up to find that he’s watching me instead of the ring, like my reaction means more to him than what’s sitting in the box. His steady gaze holds mine. “I hope you like it.”
“Like it? It’s the most beautiful ring I’ve ever seen. Wes, you didn’t have to do this.”
He shrugs. “It needed to be believable.”
I look back down at the ring. “I think this would convince people from outer space.”
That earns me the smallest flicker of amusement.
“Better make sure it fits,” he says, quieter now.
Carefully, I slip my grandma’s rings from my finger before lifting the ring from the box, the weight of it surprising in my hand. It warms almost instantly against my skin as I turn it, watching the light catch every angle. If I could conjure up my dream ring, this would be it.
Before I can overthink it, I slide it onto my finger.
It fits perfectly. Of course it does—this is Wes after all, the man who leaves nothing to chance.
I turn my hand slightly, watching it flash.
It’s beautiful. And yet I can’t help but think about how I slid it onto my own finger.
No hand steadying mine, no shared moment between us.
Just me pretending this is something it’s not.
My thumb brushes absently over the edge of the band, grounding myself in the feel of it. This man just gave me a diamond ring most girls would lose their minds over and all I feel is this strange, hollow feeling where something else should be.
I glance up at him, suddenly aware of how quiet it’s gotten between us—how the moment has shifted into something awkward.
“It really is gorgeous, Wes,” I say, slipping off my stool to face him, doing my best to lift the moment back to something that feels safe. “Thank you. I would have been happy with anything.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “I should be thanking you for agreeing to all of this. And you’re crazy if you think I would buy you any less than three carats. You deserve a beautiful ring on your hand, Lottie.”
He gives me the smallest hint of a smile and I return it.
“No one’s going to question our marriage with that ring on your finger,” he adds after a beat, his tone shifting slightly, and I wonder if he’s reminding me why he gave me the ring.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, my hand drifting to rest lightly against my stomach. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I don’t think they will.”
The words linger in the air between us, neither of us quite sure what to say next.
Wes’s gaze drops, landing on my mouth like it was always meant to end up there, and my breath stutters. My lips part before I can stop them and I watch as he grabs his tongue slowly across his bottom lip. And just like that, every coherent thought I had disappears.
God. What is happening?
Is he going to kiss me?
I should feel more in control of this moment—I should throw out something clever, keep it light—but my mind refuses to cooperate, leaving me standing here with absolutely nothing.
Wes’s eyes lift back to meet mine, searching like he’s caught somewhere between stepping closer and pulling away. I don’t help him find the answer. I don’t say a word.
The music I put on earlier hums quietly in the background, but it feels miles away. All I can focus on is him.
He’s too close.
I can feel it before I fully understand it—the way the space between us has narrowed, the way his attention has settled entirely on me. When he steps a fraction closer, gaze lowering to my mouth again, slower this time, like he’s not even trying to hide it, something in my stomach flips.
Oh, this is bad.
For a second, I don’t move. I don’t look away. I don’t do any of the things I should be doing. My lips part, breath catching, and I hate how aware I am of him. How easy it would be to just—
No.
No, no, no.
This is exactly how this goes wrong.
He shifts, and that’s enough to snap me out of it. “Okay,” I say quickly, the word coming out a little too loudly as I take a sudden step back from him. “We should probably call it.” I clear my throat. “I’ll clean this stuff up.”
The moment fractures. Behind me, I feel him watching me.
“It’s not even eleven,” he says, his voice edged with something that makes my pulse jump, “we could have one more glass.”
I close my eyes for half a second, steadying myself before I turn back to him. “We have to be at a courthouse in, like, twelve hours. I need to at least pretend I’m well-rested when I get married for the first time.”
His expression changes—it’s small, but I notice it. He studies me for a second. “Lottie, there isn’t a version of tomorrow where you don’t look beautiful.”
My breath catches, but I turn back to the counter. “You can’t distract me with flattery.”
“Wasn’t trying to,” he says. “Just stating a fact.”
I focus on rinsing the dishes, stacking plates that don’t need stacking, giving my hands something to do besides reach for him.
We fall into a quiet rhythm after that, cleaning up the kitchen without much conversation, the ease from earlier in the evening replaced by something more careful. By the time everything is back in place, it’s like the moment never happened.
“I’m going to head to bed,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel. I turn to look at him, allowing my gaze to linger a little longer than I should.
“Good night, Lottie,” he says, his expression calm and controlled.
“Goodnight, Wes.”
This time, I don’t hesitate. I turn and walk away, forcing myself not to look back. Because I know that if I do, I might not make it out of the room.
I’m usually a good sleeper. Like, a head hits the pillow and I’m out kind of sleeper. No tossing, no turning, no overthinking every decision I’ve made in the last twelve hours.
So, the fact that I’m wide awake right now is very annoying.
I lie in my new bed in my new home and stare up at the ceiling. For the record, the bed is heavenly. It’s like sinking into a cloud. The pillows are exactly right. The blankets are exactly right. Everything about it is exactly right. So why does sleep feel so impossible?
I know exactly why: Wes Winters.
My evening with Wes is replaying on a loop in my head and I can’t shut it off. What makes it even more frustrating is knowing that he’s probably fast asleep in his room across the hall right now, completely unaffected.
I blow out a slow breath and drag a hand over my face. After I left him in the kitchen, I took a shower, the water as cold as I could stand, like somehow that would reset whatever short circuit happened in my brain.
It didn’t.
I crawled into this ridiculously perfect bed and actually considered reaching into the drawer for my vibrator because I couldn’t shake the image of Wes in a leather jacket and faded jeans walking into our home tonight.
I groan softly, grabbing a cushion and pressing it into my face.
I will not get myself off with Wes Winters sleeping ten feet away.
So instead, I lie here, awake, restless, and incredibly frustrated.
Ten minutes later, I give up. Deciding a hot cup of tea will help, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, adjust the hem of my tank and shorts, and pad quietly down the hall past Wes’s bedroom.
In the kitchen, I flick on the light and then freeze.
Wes is sitting at the table in nothing but a pair of athletic shorts and ankle socks, his hair a tousled mess.
There’s a plate in front of him with what looks like half of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
It’s the most casual I’ve ever seen him, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.
He looks up, brow furrowed as he meets my eyes. “Couldn’t sleep either?”
I shake my head, moving quickly toward the stove, trying to act like I wasn’t just tossing and turning in my bed trying to forget about our almost kiss—even though I’m not one hundred percent sure that’s what it was. “Nope. I didn’t realize you’re up too.”
I fill the kettle, keeping my back toward him, desperately trying not to look in the direction of his shirtless body. I already caught a glimpse of his broad chest, smooth skin and defined pecs with small blush nipples. And my God, he looks downright sinful.
I bite back a groan and turn on the kettle, feeling the heat wash over my skin.
“I’d guess most people don’t sleep much the night before they get married,” he says.
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” I say, turning to face him, trying to keep my eyes on his, but my brain refuses to cooperate.
Instead, my gaze dips down to his chest again, to the sharp lines of muscle in his shoulders.
He has no hair on his chest, and I immediately wonder if he waxes it.
My eyes drop lower, but I can’t see past his sculpted abs.
I wonder if he has a trail of hair there leading to the promise land?
And I would bet Wes has a very impressive promise land.
You need to stop.
I look up quickly and realize that I’m not the only one staring. My mouth curves into a grin as I catch him staring at my chest before he snaps his attention back to his sandwich like he’s suddenly remembered it’s there.
But my stomach drops when it suddenly occurs to me what he was looking at: the scar that runs right down the center of my chest, the one I’ve had since I was a little girl. It’s less noticeable now—a pale, vertical line that runs between my breasts—but still impossible to miss.
Heat creeps up my neck as I fight the instinct to cover myself. I never wear anything that shows it. If I’d known he was awake, I would have thrown on a T-shirt.
“I…I’m making chamomile tea if you’d like some,” I say, hoping my voice sounds normal enough to hide the way my pulse is still speeding.
He looks up from his plate, eyes meeting mine. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” he says sheepishly.
I try to cover my chest with my arm. “It’s okay. It’s… from a long time ago.”
“But you’re okay now?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, reminding myself to breathe. “Yeah. It’s under control. I have it managed.”
Wes’s expression tells me he’s not entirely convinced, but he lets it go. “I’d love a cup.”
I turn before he can say anything else and grab two teacups from the cupboard. Casually, I try to tug my tank up a little higher on my chest hoping it covers most of my scar.
“You think it will help us sleep?” he asks.
“My mom used to drink chamomile tea when I was younger. Said it helps calm your brain when it won’t shut up. She used to say it was the cure for anything.”
I reach for the package of teabags I found earlier in his cupboard when I was snooping and drop one into each cup. After I’ve poured the hot water, I bring the steaming mugs to the table, carefully sliding one in front of him.
“Is tonight one of those nights when your brain won’t shut up?” he asks with a hint of a smile.
“Maybe,” I answer, slipping into the chair across from him, holding the mug in front of my chest, doing my best to cover my scar.
“Must be something big, then,” he says, leaning into the table, the muscles in his forearms flexing. I hate that I notice. “So, chamomile fixes all of that?”
I look back down at my tea, tracing the rim of the mug with my thumb. “Allegedly.”
“Good to know.” He lifts his mug, taking a slow sip, his eyes still on me. I can’t tell if he’s just lost in his own thoughts or studying me. “Might need to stock up then.”
No, we definitely shouldn’t. That’s a terrible idea.“We probably shouldn’t make this a habit.”
“Insomnia?” he asks.
“Middle-of-the-night kitchen meetups,” I clarify, meeting his eyes, fixating on their warm flecks of gold.
“Right,” he says. “That’s probably smart.”
I nod, like I’m satisfied with that answer. “Goodnight, Wes. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Night, Lottie.”
I pick up my mug and head back to my bedroom, leaving Wes alone at the kitchen table. It’s a very bad idea to be spending time alone with my half-naked husband at three in the morning. I know that.
So why did part of me hope that he would ask me to stay a little bit longer?