Chapter 24
TWENTY-FOUR
Lottie
When I left Wes in his bedroom, I immediately began trying to remind myself that what had happened between us had been a one-off.
It was an exception, a lapse in judgement, a temporary moment of insanity that we would both awkwardly and quietly move past. By the time I dragged myself out of bed the next morning, I was certain there was nothing more to it than that.
It turns out I couldn't have been more wrong.
The next day, Wes came home from work and rather than avoid me, he found every reason to touch me. A hand on my hip as he moved by me in the hallway. His lips on my neck as I cooked. The night ended with his face between my thighs.
The same thing happened the next day, and the day after that.
It didn’t matter what we were doing, Wes’s hands and his mouth always found me.
The low murmur of his voice near my ear when he leaned in close enough for me to catch the clean scent of his soap was all it took before I was turning in his arms and he was stripping me from my clothes and making me come.
Wes seems to be applying his typical focused determination to making me blush, and giving me orgasms, and he’s doing it with tremendous success.
The strange part is it never leads to sex.
It’s like he can’t resist me when we’re together, like whatever restraint he has slips just enough for him to give in. And then, just as quickly, he pulls it back and puts distance between us again. Like he wants me, but he’s afraid of wanting too much.
Despite everything changing between us, most things haven’t changed at all.
Every night, he disappears down the hall to his own bedroom and I retreat to mine.
He still texts me throughout the day and leaves a latte waiting for me on the counter in the morning.
We’re still essentially roommates, only in some ways we’re much more than that.
Because now I've become painfully aware of the weight of his thigh pressed against mine, of the way his gaze sometimes lingers on me a second too long. Those moments are the ones I can’t make sense of, the ones that keep me awake at night as I grow more and more confused about what we are doing.
Aren’t men like Wes supposed to leave? Isn’t that how this works after they’ve gotten you in their bed? Men like him sweep in and make you feel special, then they move on to the next challenge, the next conquest, the next woman.
At least, that’s what I’ve always believed.
A man like him doesn’t stick around after thoroughly destroying a woman’s ability to think straight. Especially with a big, manly body like his and the monster he has tucked away in his pants.
You have to see it to believe it, because Wes is proportionally perfect.
His penis is so perfect that staring feels less like a choice and more like something I’m powerless to stop.
Men built like him are supposed to be confined to romance novels and fantasies, not walking around Deep Cove in T-shirts and baseball caps.
None of it changes anything. I’m not going to be the woman who gets clingy after a few mind-bending orgasms. I can appreciate a beautiful man without becoming attached. That’s what I keep telling myself.
The bottom line is, Wes and I need to talk about what we’re doing, and I plan on doing just that after we have dinner at my parents’ tonight. I figure my best bet is to wait until he’s trapped in a car with me with no chance of escape.
I pull a handful of clothes from the hamper while I wait for Wes to get home.
He had a flight today and just messaged me to say he’ll be home in 20 minutes.
Without thinking, I pick up one of his T-shirts from the pile, a gray one that matches his eyes.
The fabric is soft in my hands as I lift the collar to my nose and inhale a small breath.
It smells like him. My eyes flutter shut.
It’s ridiculous how much I like the way that man smells, and how the scent has become so familiar to me over the past few weeks.
I swear I could pick him out of a lineup blindfolded.
A quiet huff draws my attention to Scout, who is sitting at my feet staring up at me.
“Oh, don’t start,” I mutter, lowering the shirt. “You literally wait by the front door for him every day.”
His tail thumps once.
“Exactly,” I sigh, reaching down and rubbing the soft fur at the back of his head. “Maybe we’re both a little obsessed.” Scout sinks to the floor and rests his head on his paws.
My phone rings from the kitchen and I run to pick it up, Scout on my heels. I smile when I pick it up and see Madeline’s face on the screen.
“Are you ready for tonight?” she asks. “I bet your mom has invited half of Deep Cove.”
I shake my head, knowing she’s probably right. “Half? You know my mom, right?”
Madeline snorts. “Yeah, half was a conservative estimate. So, is Wes prepared for your family?”
“I think so?”
“Lottie, I love the guy, but Wes barely speaks in complete sentences. Your mother is going to have him trapped in the kitchen for three hours asking him questions.”
I laugh. “You’re not wrong, but I think he’ll survive.”
“Okay, so what’s going on with you two?” she asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I was fully expecting you to be plotting his murder by now, but you’ve barely even complained about him.”
I laugh. “He’s not that bad. He’s actually kinda sweet.”
That’s met with silence, until Madeline gasps. “Oh my God, you slept with him, didn’t you?”
I lean my elbows on the counter and drop my forehead into my hand. I could lie to her, but she knows me better than anyone. I could also use someone to talk to about this. “Possibly.”
“I knew it! As soon as I saw the photo of you two kissing in the newspaper I knew you were both in trouble.” Madeline says. “So, how was it?”
My cheeks heat. “It was incredible.”
“I’m not surprised. Wes seems like he has a secret wild side. Should I be concerned for your chiropractor?”
I laugh. “I don’t need a chiropractor.”
“Should I send an icepack?”
“Madeline!”
She laughs. “I’m kidding. Honestly, Lottie, I love this for you. So, what happens next?”
“Nothing,” I sigh. “We agreed it would only happen once. It was amazing, but it also complicates everything.”
As if summoned, I glance up as Wes walks through the front doors fresh from his flight. His dark navy jacket is stretched across his broad shoulders, his tie is gone, dark hair tousled from a day of travel.
My stomach does that swooping thing again.
“I get it. But was it worth it?” Madeline asks.
I barely hear her as I watch Wes drop his bag by the door. He looks up and his eyes meet mine.
“Yes, absolutely,” I say, my pulse picking up. “But I have to go. Wes just got home.”
I end the call and set my phone on the counter without taking my eyes off my husband. His gaze drags over me before returning to my face as he prowls toward the kitchen to where I’m standing.
And despite my best efforts to not allow Wes to affect me, my nipples harden as I wonder what my husband has in store for me.
The drive to my parents’ house is painfully quiet.
The first thing Wes did when he got home was lift me up onto the counter and remind me exactly how little self-control either of us seem to have around each other. The second thing he did was get in the car and go silent. He’s barely said ten words to me since we left the house.
Now I’m sitting in the passenger seat, turning the same questions over and over in my head. What is happening between us? Does he have any regrets?
Instead of asking any of them, I stare out the window and pretend not to notice how tightly he’s gripping the steering wheel while anxiety and doubt chase each other around my brain in endless circles.
Figuring out Wes Winters is about as easy as solving a Rubik’s Cube in the dark. The man guards his thoughts like they’re classified government documents. Talk to him, I tell myself. Stop overthinking. Stop trying to decode every look and every stretch of silence. Ask him what is going on.
My chest tightens, and I have to remind myself that whatever is happening between us, Wes is carrying things I’ll never fully understand.
I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him to lose his mom when he was barely old enough to understand what death even is, or to have to carry the kind grief that would follow for years afterward.
And then there’s his father—not gone, but so consumed by his own pain that he stopped seeing his three boys when they needed him most. After that came Wes’s arrest and the rumors and assumptions that stemmed from that.
Maybe this silence has nothing to do with me at all. Maybe Wes is just trying to figure out how to get through tonight, how to meet my family and sell them this lie that we’ve created.
He turns the car down my parents’ street, and I point out their home as we approach it. The porch light is glowing, a warm yellow beacon that should feel welcoming. Instead, it feels like a spotlight.
My stomach knots.
Beyond those walls are the people who know me better than anyone and I’m worried that they’ll take one look at me and start asking questions I don’t want to answer. Questions I’m not sure I can answer.
Unbuckling my seatbelt, I shift sideways in my seat to look at Wes. “I know this isn’t an easy situation, but I want tonight to go well,” I start. “I really don’t want my parents to worry, or to cause them any stress. But if we’re going to pull this off, you’re going to have to talk to me.”
Wes glances over, dragging a hand over the scruff of his jaw. “I am talking.”
I snort. “You’ve said two words to me since we left.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m driving.”
“You’re brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Wes, if you look up the word ‘brooding’ in the dictionary, there would be a photo of your expression right now.”
He shakes his head, but at least he doesn’t try to deny it again.
"Wes. We need to talk," I say, before letting out a breath. "This is getting confusing."
His expression tightens slightly.
"We agreed it would happen once, and then you’ve come home every day after and..." I wave a hand helplessly between us. "We rip each other’s clothes off."
He glances at the house before turning to me.
"I’m not complaining. It's just… not helping," I mutter. It’s a relief to say it out loud. I don’t regret sleeping with Wes, but it’s impossible to just move on and pretend it didn’t happen.
And whatever we’ve been doing since then—circling each other, pushing the boundaries—has blurred the line between an arrangement and something else entirely even more.
Wes nods. “I guess it’s not."
I stare at him and he stares right back. I wait for an explanation, wishing he would keep talking, that he would tell me what’s happening in that complicated head of his. Instead, in true Wes fashion, I’m met with more silence.
"It was supposed to be simple," I say quietly. Simple would have been so much easier. Simple wouldn't have me lying awake replaying every look he gives me. Every touch, every smirk, every moment that feels too real for something that’s supposed to be temporary.
Simple wouldn’t have me wondering whether I’m the only one falling.
"But it doesn't feel simple anymore.” He fills in the words before I can, his gaze shifting out the window before returning to mine.
"It doesn’t… and that's a problem."
Even as I say it, I'm not sure whether I'm trying to convince him or myself because if this keeps growing into something that feels like it could be real, then there's so much more at stake than one reckless night. There’s my heart, and his.
His eyes hold mine, and for once, that calm, measured expression he wears so easily isn’t there. He looks torn. Almost vulnerable. "Lottie, what happened between us wasn't a mistake."
My pulse stumbles. "I didn't say it was."
"Good, because I won't pretend that I regret it."
The confession steals the air from my lungs. It’s exactly what I was afraid of—that he’d look me in the eye and make it impossible to keep pretending that none of this matters. Part of me wants him to take it back. A much larger part wants him to keep going.
"Wes, it complicated things."
“But it was worth it." His gaze lingers on me, long enough to make my heart do something embarrassing. "It was the best thing that's happened to me in a long time."
And just like that, every sensible argument I’ve spent the past few days formulating evaporates. That's the problem with Wes. The man can spend twenty minutes saying almost nothing, then string together a single sentence that lands beneath my skin and makes itself at home.
My chest aches. It’s the kind of ache that comes from wanting something you know you shouldn't. The kind that whispers maybe when every ounce of common sense is screaming don't.
When I look at Wes, I see the man who drives me crazy.
The man who disappears into himself when things get hard.
The man who hides out behind a wall I can’t figure out how to climb.
But I also see the man who sends me messages about his day because he knows that’s important to me.
The man who looks for me the second he walks through the front door.
I clear my throat and reach for the door handle. “Come on,” I tell him, needing to get to safer ground. “My mom is going to start planning our vow renewal if we leave her waiting much longer.”
Wes groans and follows me into whatever chaos is waiting for us in my parents’ house.
So much for safer ground.