Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
Lottie
Watching Wes with Poppy in the yard was probably a mistake.
I should have looked away or gone inside, found anything else to do other than stand there and witness how sweet, protective, and vulnerable he was with that little girl.
And now I can’t stop replaying in my head the way she launched herself into his arms without hesitation, knowing he would be there to catch her.
Until now, it’s been easy enough to focus on the obvious things: Wes’s smile, his broad shoulders, those steel gray eyes, and of course the whole pilot thing, which is so incredibly hot.
I’ve been able to keep my attraction to Wes in a box, packed away and neatly contained.
But watching him play hide-and-seek in the backyard with Poppy has shifted the ground beneath my feet.
Poppy adores him, that much is obvious, and it’s easy to see why.
He’s patient with her, and also protective.
He’s genuine. There was nothing flashy or performative about it.
When Poppy laughed, the lines around Wes’s eyes softened.
When she asked him a question, he crouched down to her level.
I keep thinking about the flash of panic on his face when Poppy briefly wandered out of the yard and the relief that followed when she came running back to him.
Now that I’ve seen how sweet he is with his niece, I’m finding it very hard to convince myself that he’s just a handsome stranger passing through my life.
If anything, it feels like I just accidentally got a glimpse of what the future could look like. And that is a very dangerous thought.
I’ve always liked my life the way it is.
It’s busy and full and predictable. I plan things out well in advance, everything neatly arranged and accounted for.
It’s how I’ve built my wedding planning business.
It’s how I’ve built my entire life, and it never occurred to me that I might want something—or someone—that didn’t fit inside those carefully drawn lines.
It’s not that I’m against relationships, I’ve just never met anyone who’s made me want to rearrange my world to make room for them.
No one has ever tempted me to loosen my grip on the future I’ve mapped out, and not a single man has ever kissed me hard enough to make me wonder if maybe I’ve been wrong about everything.
Until Wes.
I’ve spent the morning buried in work, hoping that might quiet my brain.
I had an online consultation with a bride, a vendor issue to resolve, a revision for a wedding that’s somehow doubled in size in the last two weeks.
Normally, I love this part of my job—organizing, planning, problem solving.
But today, I’m distracted. My cursor blinks in the document I’m supposed to be working on for a full minute before I realize I haven’t typed a single word.
Wes has been away for the past couple of days.
He didn’t say where he was headed this time, just that he’d be out of range for much of it and to be ready to leave for our honeymoon when he got back.
Now I find myself staring out my bedroom window wondering where he is, what he’s doing, and who he is with.
The thought lands somewhere beneath my ribs, sticking there long after I’ve tried to shake it off.
The days Wes is away have all started to blur together. I work, go to the gym, wander through rooms that feel too big for one person, and count down the hours until he’s home again.
The house feels too quiet. I miss the clatter of a coffee mug against the counter, the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing, Wes’s voice carrying through the house when he’s on the phone.
I wish he’d wander into my bedroom doorway and distract me from this spreadsheet I’m staring at, lean against the doorjamb and ask me if I’ve eaten lunch, tell me to take a break, that I’m working too hard.
I miss him. I hate admitting it, but there’s no point in pretending it’s not true. And I wonder if he misses me too.
I think back to dinner at my parents’ house. I can’t get one image in particular out of my mind: Wes sitting beside my dad, listening to his stories, looking far more at ease than I ever would have expected him to be.
Wes is the kind of man who says what he needs to, but not a word more than that.
So, it caught me off guard to see him with my family that day—chatting and laughing together so effortlessly, like he’s known them for years.
It all felt so real, like he didn’t just see them all as my family, but as his family too.
I sigh, trying to shake that thought from my head before it can take root.
By the time I finish my last client call, my mind is still circling the same questions that have been following me all day, and I’m no closer to figuring out any of them.
I shut my laptop and head downstairs in search of chocolate, cookies, ice-cream.
I’m not picky when it comes to sugar and right now, I need junk food.
The second I step into the kitchen, a rich, familiar aroma wraps around me. Garlic, tomatoes, basil. Angelina stands at the counter, knife in hand, chopping an onion that, strangely enough, is not making her cry.
I inhale deeply, catching the sharp sweetness of tomatoes beneath the herbs. “I was so deep in my work, I didn’t hear you come in. What are you making that smells so good?”
She glances up at me and smiles. “Sauce.”
“It smells incredible.”
“It will be when it’s done.” She points the knife at me. “You want to help?”
A laugh escapes me. “Absolutely not. I’ll ruin it. I love to cook, but I’m nowhere near the cook you are.”
She shakes her head and turns to the pot on the stove, pouring in a generous amount of olive oil. “Everybody can make sauce.”
“Not as good as you,” I point out.
Angelina laughs. “Cooking isn’t about being perfect. It’s about love.” She gestures to the pot. “You make food for people because you care about them. And that husband of yours has the appetite of three grown men.”
I smile. “That’s true.”
“If you’re going to be married to him, Bella, you’re going to need to feed him.”
Something in my expression must change because Angelina immediately goes still. “What is it, honey?”
I exhale, looking down at the counter when I feel tears prick my eyes.
I can’t exactly tell her that I spend half my time thinking about Wes and what might happen if we stopped pretending we could keep our hands to ourselves.
But I can give her a version of the truth.
“I just… I don’t know what I’m doing.” I shake my head.
“Half the time I’m here in this giant house alone. ”
“Oh, honey.” She sets the knife down and gives me a look that’s equal parts affection and amusement. “Do you know how long I’ve watched that boy come and go?”
“A long time.”
Her smile softens. “A very long time. And I know one thing for certain. He doesn’t fall for just anyone.” My chest tightens. “He cares about you, that much is obvious. But when he’s away on a charter, and when he’s gone, you need to go live your life.”
I nod.
“Work. Spend time with your family. Have dinner with your friends. Don’t sit around worrying about when he’s going to come through that door. Wes cares about you, and he will always come back.”
“How can you be so sure that he even likes living with me?”
Angelina is quiet for a few moments, smiling softly as she scrapes the onions off the cutting board into the pot with the blade of the knife.
“Because I’ve known that man for years.” She stirs the onions once before looking back at me.
“I’ve watched him keep everyone at arm’s length.
He doesn’t let people in easily, honey. He doesn’t share himself with anyone else the way he does with you. ”
My heart stutters.
“The way he looks at you? The way he worries about you? The way he talks about you? That’s real.”
My heart squeezes. “He talks about me? What does he say?”
“Not much. That’s not his way,” she laughs softly. “But he asks if you’re eating the meals I leave in the fridge for you.”
My stomach drops. “He does?”
“And he asks if you’ve taken those pills,” she pauses. “He doesn’t even know what you take them for, does he.”
I shake my head.
Angelina must see the panic in my eyes, because she comes to where I’m standing and puts a hand over mine on the counter. “When are you going to tell him, honey?”
My entire body goes still. “I don’t know.”
Angelina doesn’t push. “Okay. But he deserves to know. He’s your husband.”
I know Wes wouldn’t judge me or respond with anything other than concern.
He’d look at me with those steady gray eyes and he’d listen.
He’d ask thoughtful questions, the kind that would make it impossible to hide from.
And afterward, he’d worry; not because he’d think less of me, but because he cares.
And that’s the problem. I’ve spent most of my life trying to make sure this isn’t the first thing people see when they look at me.
That I’m more than just a patient, a victim, a survivor.
I’m more than the scar that runs down my chest, than the surgery, the years of medical appointments and hospital visits, the whispered conversations that took place just outside my bedroom door.
I’ve worked hard to be Lottie. A wedding planner, an optimist, a woman who can take care of herself.
Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that if people knew my past, it would change the way they see me.
It would become part of every conversation.
I’ve never wanted an illness to be the most interesting thing about me.
Angelina puts down the spoon and wipes her hands on her apron. “Wes carries more than he lets people see, honey.” She glances over at me and I see the emotion in her eyes. “That man lost faith in people a long time ago. But it’s different with you. You can trust him with this.”
My chest tightens. “He’s so hard to figure out. Some days I feel like I’m finally getting close, then he goes and does something that leaves me completely confused again.”
“Of course he does.” Angelina snorts. “He’s a Winters man.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth.
“The problem is, ignoring a hurt doesn’t make it disappear. He keeps busy, keeps flying, keeps working, keeps taking care of everyone around him.” Her eyes meet mine. “But that doesn’t mean he’s healed.”
I think about the walls Wes keeps around himself. The look on his face when he talks about his mom. The way he looks out for his brothers. The way he is with Poppy.
“I know,” I tell her. “But it doesn’t make dealing with him any easier.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Angelina says, before nudging a cutting board toward me. “Now stop worrying about that stubborn man for five minutes and help me chop some basil.”