Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Wes
Lottie is sitting at the kitchen island while I’m making her breakfast when I realize two things very quickly. First, midnight therapy wine is far more dangerous than either of us anticipated. And second, hungover Lottie might actually be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
She’s still in my T-shirt, one cheek pressed dramatically against the cool marble countertop while she squints suspiciously at the cup of orange juice sitting in front of her.
Her hair is still tangled from sleep, falling around her face in soft, messy waves.
Every once in a while, she lets out a tiny groan under her breath that makes me fight back a laugh.
I’m trying very hard not to stare at her. I’m failing pretty badly.
Something about seeing her here like this—bare legs swinging lightly against the stool, wearing my shirt, sleepy and comfortable in my kitchen—does something strange to me.
It feels a little dangerous. So dangerous, it’s making me feel I could get used to this pretend marriage of ours frighteningly fast.
“You’re staring again,” she mutters without lifting her head.
I flip bacon in the pan. “You’re being dramatic again.”
“Oh, sorry. I’m just actively dying.”
“Still?” I shake my head smiling. Fuck, she makes me laugh “You said that ten minutes ago.”
“Things have escalated since then.”
“Do you think you can muster up the strength to eat breakfast? Or will I need to spoon feed you your bacon?”
“Don’t make me laugh,” she groans. “My skull feels loose.”
“Pretty sure that’s not medically possible.”
She cracks one eye open just enough to glare at me. “You’re being very unsupportive for someone who is responsible for my current condition.”
I’m tempted to argue, but because I am the idiot who agreed to open a second bottle of wine after midnight, I guess I’m partly to blame.
To be fair though, when she looked at me over the rim of her glass like that, all flushed cheeks and soft smiles and warm eyes, I lost the ability to make good decisions.
I move around the kitchen as the eggs cook on the stove, catching her watching me every few seconds when she thinks I won’t notice.
Her gaze drifts over my bare chest once, then lower before she quickly jerks her attention back to her orange juice.
Interesting. A slow grin threatens the corner of my mouth. God, she’s cute when she’s embarrassed.
I reach for the electrolyte packet beside the counter and tear it open, then pour it into her drink. The powder fizzes immediately, and Lottie narrows her eyes at the glass like I’ve just dropped poison into her juice.
“What is that?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Electrolytes.”
“It looks suspicious.”
“After last night, I’d say your judgment is questionable.”
Her mouth falls open, offended, while I stir the drink and slide it toward her. I wink, fighting a smile. “Drink your juice.”
Still muttering under her breath, she takes a reluctant sip before pausing, then another. “Oh,” she says quietly. “That’s actually really good.”
“I know, and you’re going to thank me for it once it kicks in and you start feeling better.”
I plate the food a few minutes later, setting eggs, toast, bacon, and fruit in front of her along with a steaming mug.
Her tired eyes lift immediately as she inhales. “Chamomile tea?”
“You said it helps when you don’t feel good.”
She looks surprised. “You remembered that?”
I lean back against the counter, folding my arms loosely across my chest. “Of course I remember, Lottie. I told you I was going to try harder, and that’s what I’m doing.”
For a second, she just looks at me over the steam curling from the mug, her cheeks still flushed from the hangover, and I have the sudden overwhelming urge to walk over there, pull her onto my lap, and kiss her until neither of us remembers our own names.
Instead, I drag my attention back to the kitchen before my brain fully betrays me because the problem is, I’m not thinking about breakfast anymore.
I’m thinking about her.
About the way she looked at me last night.
About her curled against my chest in bed.
About the fact that sometime around one in the morning she’d sleepily grabbed onto my hand and whispered, “Don’t leave.” That nearly ruined me.
“You know,” she says slowly, sipping her tea while watching me carefully, “most people wear shirts while cooking.”
I look down at myself—bare chest, white socks, and a pair of athletic shorts I threw on— before looking back at her. “Most people don’t look this good without one.”
A laugh bursts out of her, but then she groans dramatically and drops her head into one hand. “Bossy Pilot Ken Doll, you’re so smug.”
“Do you blame me? You’ve been staring at me all morning.”
Her face grows even pinker, and it’s absolutely worth it.
I watch her pick at her toast for another second before something settles into place in my head so suddenly it almost makes me laugh.
I’m sitting here taking care of my hungover fake wife while she wears my shirt.
I’m not sure how this became my life, but I’m enjoying it. I think I want more of this.
Lottie notices the shift in my expression as that realization hits me square in the chest. “Why do you suddenly look like you have an idea?”
I push away from the counter slowly, walking toward the island until I am standing directly across from her. “Because I do.”
Suspicion flashes across her face instantly.
“I want to take my wife on a date.”
Five minutes after Lottie disappears upstairs to attempt to get dressed, I decide I need to get out of here. Being around her this morning has felt dangerously close to torture.
Between drinking with her in my kitchen last night and waking up with her curled against my chest this morning, I’ve started to want things that I absolutely shouldn’t.
I blame the way she looks at me like I’m someone safe to lean on.
Lottie has this way of making me feel needed without ever asking for anything, and I don’t know what to do with that.
So, I do the only thing that feels remotely smart right now.
I grab Scout’s leash and leave before I completely lose my head and march upstairs to fuck my wife senseless.
The cold ocean air should help. It usually does.
Walking Scout has always been the easiest way to clear my head after long flights or bad days or nights where my thoughts feel too loud to sit with.
This morning, every thought circles right back to her.
Specifically, the look on her face after I told her I wanted to take her on a date.
Lottie had looked at me like I’d gone temporarily insane.
“Wes, I know I’m hungover, but I’m pretty sure we’re already married. You don’t need to date me.”
Fair enough. But still, I meant it. In the past twenty-four hours, something shifted in me, and now I can’t stop thinking about taking her out on a date. A real date. Not for the cameras or the arrangement or because Victoria thinks it’ll help the story we’re selling.
Scout suddenly lunges toward a seagull, yanking me hard enough that coffee from my cup sloshes onto my hand. “Absolutely not,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the leash. “Unless you’d like to lose off-leash privileges for the rest of your life.”
“He knows you’re bluffing. That dog literally sleeps in your bed with you. Nobody’s buying the tough guy act.”
I glance up to find Jesse leaning against the railing ahead, Noah beside him. Scout immediately forgets I exist and barrels toward them. Noah crouches down, scratching behind the dog’s ears while the big fur-ball practically folds himself in half with happiness.
“You look rough,” Jesse says as I stop beside them.
“I’m hungover as shit.”
His expression immediately lights up. “This should be good. I’m glad you called us.”
“It’s not good.”
“If you’re hungover, that means you’ve probably got a good story.”
I roll my eyes before dragging a hand over the back of my neck. My body’s tired in that heavy, sluggish way that comes from too much wine and not enough sleep, but underneath it, there’s something else buzzing around inside me too.
“How’s the Misses?” Noah asks, one eyebrow raised.
“Suffering. She invented something called midnight therapy wine and now we’re both paying the price for it this morning.”
Jesse bursts out laughing. “That sounds like your worst nightmare.”
“It kind of was.”
Jesse’s grin widens. “Details, please.”
I lean against the railing beside them, staring out toward the water while Scout sprawls across Noah’s shoes demanding attention. “We drank too much. Started talking about family stuff. Her dad is pretty sick and the two of them are close.”
Noah’s expression shifts to concern, understanding flickering in his eyes immediately. Out of all of us, Noah’s always been the most sensitive, always picking up on everyone’s feelings.
“And?” Jesse presses.
“And…she ended up sleeping in my bed.”
Jesse slowly lowers his coffee. “Wesley.”
“We didn’t have sex.”
“That’s not the important part.”
I look over at him. “Feels like a pretty important part to me.”
“No,” Jesse says patiently, like I’m stupid. “The important part is you sound like a guy who’s already emotionally attached.”
“I’m not emotionally attached.”
Both of them just stare at me. Noah gives me an assessing look. “You left the house to clear your head.”
I don’t answer, because I know what he’s getting at. Jesse notices immediately, grinning like a psychopath. “Oh my God, four weeks in and you’re already spiralling.”
“I’m not spiralling.”
“You made her breakfast this morning, didn’t you?”
My eyes narrow. “How the hell do you know that?”
“You’ve got that look, man. It’s the one Ford gets around Landyn, where he acts like taking care of her is the reason he gets up in the morning.”