Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
Wes
Lottie Hart is far more persuasive than she looks.
That is the first problem. The second problem is that I already wanted her badly enough to make questionable decisions before she’d smiled at me over her shoulder in my kitchen and suggested opening a bottle of wine.
Somewhere between the pool and her saying come on, one glass won’t kill you, I lost whatever survival instincts I had left.
Because what I’m doing right now—sitting across from my fake wife at midnight while tension crackles so relentlessly between us it practically needs its own seat—feels like an objectively terrible idea.
Not that it’s stopping me.
I’ve always had a hard time walking away from things that pique my interest. Curiosity, attraction, adrenaline—it all scratches at the same part of my brain.
The part that pushes instead of retreats.
The part that wants to know what would happen if I stepped closer instead of backing away.
And Lottie—Christ. It is quickly becoming impossible not to move toward her.
Maybe it’s her quick mouth, or the way she challenges me without realizing she’s doing it, or the fact that every time I think I have her figured out, she says something that cracks the whole theory wide open again.
Or maybe it’s just the simple fact that earlier tonight, she’d looked at me like she wants me too. That certainly isn’t helping.
I turn the wine glass slowly between my fingers as she moves around the kitchen barefoot, opening cupboards like she’s lived here a lot longer than three and a half weeks. She glances back at me. “You know, for someone who owns this giant house, you have surprisingly limited snack options.”
“I travel a lot for work,” I remind her.
“That’s not an excuse for not owning chips.”
The oversized sweatshirt she changed into hangs off one shoulder, exposing smooth skin that absolutely does not help the situation currently unfolding in my head. Neither do the tiny sleep shorts. Or the fact that her hair is still slightly damp from her shower. Or the wine.
Definitely not the wine.
“You’re staring again,” she says casually, reaching into another cupboard.
I lean back slightly on the stool, completely unashamed. “Can you blame me? This whole situation is your fault.”
That makes her laugh softly as she pulls a bag of popcorn out of the cupboard in victory. “Hey, you’re the one threatening to pin me against walls.”
Yeah, probably shouldn’t have said that part out loud. The problem is, I meant it. And judging by the slight pink rising in her cheeks as she walks back toward the island, she knows that I meant it.
Lottie pops a piece of popcorn in her mouth, crunching thoughtfully before pointing at me. “You know what’s weird?”
“That’s a dangerous way to start a sentence.”
“You don’t really act like a rich person.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry?”
She shrugs, fighting a smile around another sip of wine. “I don’t know. I expected more… billionaire energy.”
I sit back in my chair, wondering where she’s going with this. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“Like…” She gestures vaguely around the room. “A private chef. A helicopter pad. Yacht shoes.”
“How do you know I don’t own yacht shoes?” I ask.
“If you do, I need to see them. Immediately,” she teases.
“Fine, I don’t. But I’ll get some if it means that much to you.”
“It does.” She grins into her glass.
“For the record, I do own a watch that cost an offensive amount of money.”
“There it is!” she says triumphantly. “I knew it. I knew you had at least one terrible personality trait.”
“Just one?”
“Oh, I’m sure there are more. We’re still getting to know each other.”
Something about the way she says it settles warm in my chest. Getting to know each other, not just surviving each other. Not just waiting out the year.
“You act like I grew up like this,” I tell her after a second.
Her expression shifts. “You didn’t?”
“Not even close.”
She studies me curiously now, chin resting lightly in her hand.
“My brothers and I built Cove into what it is from the ground up,” I continue.
“Before that, things were pretty rough for a long time.” She stays quiet, listening, waiting for me to continue.
And weirdly, I want to tell her more. “My mom died when I was ten,” I say finally.
“After that… things in our house changed.”
Something softens in her expression instantly.
I stare down into my wine glass, rolling it slowly between my fingers. “My dad didn’t handle it well. Started drinking too much. Got angry a lot. The four of us mostly just learned how to survive our house until we got older.”
“Wes,” she says softly. “I’m sorry.”
I give her a small shrug, because talking about this still feels unfamiliar. “You don’t have to be sorry. It was a long time ago.” I look down at the floor. “You can’t miss what you don’t remember.”
“I’m still sorry,” she says. “It’s not fair that you had to lose your mom that young.” She gives me a soft look. “You’re not mourning memories, Wes. You’re mourning everything you never got to have.”
My chest pulls painfully tighter at the way she says it. She’s not trying to fix it, I think she’s just trying to understand me.
“I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent like that, it must have been so hard,” she says, and I can hear the emotion in her voice. “My dad’s still here, but ever since he got sick, it feels like the clock started ticking in the background. I hear it constantly.”
“Every time my phone rings at night, I feel sheer panic before I answer it.” Her eyes lift to mine.
“And every time I leave their house, I have this horrible feeling in my stomach wondering if things are going to be worse the next time I see him. Or if…” She pauses and I wait.
“If there might not be a next time. He tries so hard to act normal, and my mom pretends too, but I can see it in both of them. They’re scared.
” She swallows hard. “And honestly, so am I.”
I stare at her for a long second, taking in the tears welling in her eyes, the way she’s curled into herself, and suddenly I understand her in a way I didn’t before. Maybe Lottie is breakable too, beneath all of her beauty and sharp edges.
“I think we’ve officially crossed into midnight therapy territory,” she says, trying to lighten the mood. She tops off my wine glass before lifting her own dramatically, changing the subject.
I’m not sure I heard that right. “Midnight what?”
“It’s a game,” she says. “I invented it.”
“It sounds dangerous.”
“It is dangerous,” she says matter-of-factly. “That’s what makes it fun.”
I laugh in spite of myself and she points at me. “See? It’s already working.”
She disappears briefly behind the bar before returning with another bottle.
“Absolutely not,” I tell her, raising my hands in surrender.
“Oh, come on.” She sets it down between us, grinning. “Don’t you like games?”
“This sounds like a terrible idea, Lottie.”
Her smile widens. “I only have fantastic ideas, Wes. You should know that about me by now. “So,” she says as she twists the corkscrew into the bottle. “We’re going to take turns sharing embarrassing or depressing life stories. Whoever has the worst one wins.”
I blink once. “That’s the most unhinged game I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you,” she says, pulling until the cork pops out.
“And what does the loser get?”
She starts pouring wine into our empty glasses. “Emotional damage, mostly.”
I laugh. “You are a deeply strange woman.”
“And yet here you are.” She slides one of the glasses toward me. “Participating.”
I should say no. Lottie already gets under my skin sober. Adding alcohol and late-night honesty seems like handing gasoline to two people already standing too close to a fire. But she’s smiling at me like that again, cheeks pink from the wine.
“Fine,” I mutter.
“Excellent.” She settles onto the stool next to me, tucking one leg underneath her. “I’ll start easy. Biggest teenage humiliation.”
“You planned categories?”
“Oh, Wes.” She takes a sip of wine. “This isn’t the first time I’ve played this game. I invented it, remember? I’ll go first.”
She taps her fingers against the counter thoughtfully. “Okay. When I was sixteen, I passed out during orchestra regionals because my dress was too tight, so I refused to eat lunch.”
A laugh escapes me instantly, and her jaw drops. “You’re laughing at my biggest humiliation? That’s cruel, Wes.”
“You literally fainted?”
“On stage. In front of everybody.”
“That’s hilarious.”
“I hit the floor hard. You’re a terrible person.”
I lift my glass and knock back the wine. She watches me with entirely too much satisfaction. “See? Midnight therapy wine is fun.”
“Pretty sure this is just alcoholism with better branding.”
She laughs loudly enough that Scout lifts his head from where he’s sprawled across the floor at her feet. “Okay, your turn.”
I groan. “I already regret agreeing to this game.”
“Too late.” She grins. “Tell me your worst teenage humiliation, Wes Winters.”
I press a hand into my eyes. “This is going to make me sound deeply pathetic.”
“Oh, even better.”
I sigh. “When I was sixteen,” I start, “I dated this girl for almost a year. First serious girlfriend. I was completely gone for her.”
Lottie’s expression softens immediately, which somehow makes this worse.
“She used to come watch my baseball games after school,” I continue. “Cheered for me, sat with my brothers, all my friends loved her.”
“Oof,” Lottie murmurs.
“Yeah. Oof.”
I knock back another sip of wine before continuing. “Anyway, one Friday night she tells me she’s sick and staying home, so naturally I spend the entire evening being a very concerned teenage boyfriend.”
“Naturally.”
“The next day, Jesse informs me that she was not in fact sick, she was making out with one of the senior football players at a bonfire.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.”
“But that’s not the most embarrassing part.”
Lottie’s eyes widen. “Would it be wrong to say I can’t wait to hear how it got even worse?”
“Yes,” I reply sarcastically. “But don’t let that stop you.”