Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Lottie
It’s been four days since Wes stood shirtless in the kitchen and casually informed me that he wanted to take me on a date. And in those four days, I’ve barely seen him. He’s been flying for most of the week, so a lot of my time has been spent rattling around his giant house.
At least I’ve had his housekeeper to keep me company.
Her name is Angelina. She’s in her fifties, and she wears bright floral blouses and chunky jewelry.
I adore her. The first morning Wes was gone, she arrived carrying grocery bags and informed me that I looked “far too skinny for someone living under the roof of a man with an Italian housekeeper.” Then she made coffee.
Angelina is one of those women who has a deep maternal instinct.
You feel it as soon as you meet her. One afternoon last week, she walked into the kitchen as I was taking my medication.
Her eyes dropped briefly to the prescription bottle in my hand before lifting back to mine.
“Everything alright, sweetheart?” she asked, concern in her tone.
I hesitated for half a second before nodding. “They’re for my heart.”
“Oh, honey,” Angelina said softly.
“I’ve had this condition since I was young. It’s managed, but…” I shrugged lightly. “The medication is permanent.”
For a second, she didn’t say anything, then she reached across the island and squeezed my hand gently. “Well,” she said firmly a moment later, standing up from her stool, “then we’re definitely making sure you’re eating properly while that stubborn man of yours is away flying.”
Her quiet kindness made my chest ache a little.
On the bright side, my work is keeping me from thinking too much about missing Wes.
In fact, I think work is trying to kill me.
One of my clients has decided she suddenly hates peonies three weeks before her wedding despite peonies being the entire theme for the last eight months.
This sent her into a spiral, because what will her wedding be without peonies?
I spent nearly two hours assuring her that her day would not, in fact, be ruined by roses.
Wedding planning is glamorous like that.
By the time I get home most nights, the house is quiet and dark and way too big for one person.
I usually shower, change into pajamas, and curl up on the couch with reality TV while Scout sprawls across my legs like a weighted blanket.
I’m pretty sure we both spend the evenings trying not to notice how empty the place feels without Wes wandering through it.
To my complete surprise, Wes has started sending me text messages throughout the day, which still catches me off guard every single time.
He checks in to let me know when his flight lands or if it’s been delayed by bad weather.
And every day since he’s been gone, he’s asked me how I’m doing, which turns out to be an alarmingly dangerous quality in a man.
Today, though, he’s coming home and taking me on our date, despite the fact that I am a hundred precent sure it’s not a good idea for me to spend any more time with Wes than I have to.
Anxiety curls sharply beneath my ribs. These nerves feel unsettling, reserved for feelings I’ve been trying very hard not to examine too closely because everything between Wes and me was easier when this arrangement felt simple.
Temporary. Just two people helping each other through a situation neither of us expected. Now, it doesn’t feel so simple.
I rub my damp palms against my leggings with a quiet exhale.
The thought of tonight—of being alone with Wes while he looks at me the way he’s been looking at me lately—makes my stomach twist in a confusing mix of nerves and anticipation.
I could stress-eat chocolate. I could throw myself into work emails or mindlessly binge reality TV until my brain shuts off for a while.
But when I feel like this—too full of emotion, too trapped inside my own head—what I really crave is my violin.
The familiar weight of the case in my hands relaxes something inside me almost immediately as I carry it to the bench near the window.
Early afternoon light spills softly across the hardwood floors while the ocean moves quietly in the distance beyond the glass.
The scent of wood and resin hits me instantly, grounding and familiar and comforting in a way few things are anymore.
My fingers slide carefully along the polished body of the violin before I lift it out, cradling it against my chest for a second like something fragile.
This violin was my dad’s gift to me when I was twelve years old.
He used to joke that he regretted it approximately six months later when I was practicing scales before school every morning.
A small smile pulls at my mouth at the memory before I tuck the instrument beneath my chin, my shoulder relaxing into the worn shape that feels like muscle memory at this point.
I pick up the bow, rolling my wrist once before positioning it carefully between my fingers.
And I play. The first note fills the room, low and aching and beautiful enough that I immediately feel my entire body exhale with it.
My eyes close as the melody carries through the room, the movement of the bow becoming smoother with every passing second as tension slowly unwinds from my chest.
I never overthink when I play, there are no nerves here, no wondering whether the way Wes looks at me actually means something, or whether I’m already getting too attached to a man who’s spent most of his life keeping people at a distance.
There’s only music. Only feeling. I lose track of time completely until the sensation of being watched prickles suddenly across my skin.
My eyes open, and there he is. Wes stands motionless in the bedroom doorway, one hand resting against the frame like he stopped walking when he heard me playing.
His tie hangs loosened around his neck, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled halfway up his forearms, and his expression— God.
I’ve never seen him look at me like that before.
He’s usually looking at me with some combination of careful restraint or curiosity.
Right now, it feels like he forgot to hide what he’s really thinking, which makes my gut clench and my hand falter slightly on the bow.
Our eyes lock, the music trailing unevenly for half a note before I instinctively start lowering the violin.
Wes immediately shakes his head once like he’s asking me not to stop. The gesture is small, almost hesitant, but something about it sends warmth blooming low in my chest.
I lift the bow again, fingers settling back into place against the strings while Wes slowly pushes off the doorway and walks into the room, watching me the entire time.
He’s not looking at me in a way that makes me self-conscious.
It’s more intimate than that, like he’s trying to understand me through the music.
He sits on the edge of my bed while I continue playing.
Nobody’s listened to me play like this in a long time.
Not really. Most people hear music in the background.
Wes is listening to it like it means something.
When I finally let the last note fade softly into silence, neither of us speaks right away.
Wes just looks at me, his expression unreadable in a way that suddenly makes my pulse feel unsteady.
Then, quietly, “You look happy when you play.”
The words hit me so unexpectedly that my fingers tighten around the bow. I lower the violin carefully, setting the bow across my lap while trying to ignore how intimate this suddenly feels.
“Most people don’t notice that,” I admit softly.
Wes’s eyes move slowly over my face. “I seem to be noticing everything about you lately.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. The way he says it isn’t flirtatious or cocky.
Wes doesn’t say things to fill silence or to impress people.
He’s careful with his words, which means when he admits how he feels, he means it.
My pulse flutters wildly beneath my skin while silence stretches between us again, heavier now.
Wes absently spins the platinum wedding band on his finger. Something about seeing that ring on him—seeing this heartbreakingly handsome man wearing proof that I belong to him—sends a shiver down my spine.
“How long have you been playing?”
“Since I was twelve.” My fingers trace the polished wood of the violin. “My dad bought me an inexpensive one for my birthday, not realizing I would become obsessed.”
A small smile touches Wes’s mouth. “Your practise paid off. You’re incredible, Lottie. I stood outside the door for like five minutes before you noticed me.”
My stomach flips. “You did?”
He nods. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”
Something about that almost undoes me. Wes isn’t a man who seems naturally gentle.
He’s controlled and steady and occasionally infuriating, but gentleness feels rarer somehow.
Yet lately, with me, it keeps surfacing in all these quiet little ways.
My throat tightens slightly around the emotion building there.
“So,” I say softly, desperate to break whatever this dangerously vulnerable thing between us is before I melt into a puddle on the floor, “is this the part where you finally tell me where you’re taking me tonight?”
One corner of his mouth lifts. “Nope.”
He pushes to his feet a second later, towering over me again while he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. “Get ready, Peach,” he says casually, tugging the loosened tie from around his neck free. “We need to leave soon.”
I huff at the nickname, shaking my head, but the truth is it hits me square in the chest every single time I hear it.
“Are you ever going to tell me why you call me Peach?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Because every time you’re near me, you smell like peaches.”
Warmth spreads deep in my chest.
“Do I at least get a hint where you’re taking me?”
Wes glances over his shoulder at me as he’s walking toward the door. “Just trust me, Peach. I think you’ll like it.”