It shouldn’t surprise me that I dream of Weston. Of his large, rough hands running up the back of my thighs. Of his lips against mine as he kisses his way down my neck, over my breasts and down my stomach. He yanks off my panties and dives between my legs, and his warm tongue against me is the best thing I’ve ever felt.
I wake up with my hand between my legs, body begging to go back to sleep and finish the dream. Rain patters against the window and I let out a breath, no longer cold. I close my eyes and try to get comfortable, but I’m too hot and bothered to peacefully fall back asleep.
What am I doing wrong here? Well, besides wanting to cheat an honest man out of money—don’t judge me on that. That’s a topic for another day, one that will require confession, ten Hail Marys, and hours of community service.
Weston isn’t a wealthy asshole with money to burn. I can’t convince myself I’m a sexy Robin Hood with him, stealing from the rich to give to the poor—aka me. I can’t take anything from him. I don’t want to.
I hoped to get through to him, to knock down his walls and see what makes him tick. But I think he’s going to get to me first…and he’s not even trying.* * *
I plunge my hands into the warm, soapy water. I didn’t sleep well last night, and around five AM I gave up and came downstairs to start breakfast. Wes works today and said he leaves the house around seven.
So far, I’ve made blueberry muffins, cooked an entire package of bacon, and have eggs whipped up and ready to scramble once the boys come downstairs. They’re best fresh out of the pan and don’t take long to make. I’ve piled the bacon onto a plate and put it in the oven to stay warm. The muffins are neatly arranged in a bowl on the table. I even found a white cloth napkin to put in the bowl first, making it look all fancy and proper.
And now the dishes are almost done, and the table is already set. Show me an attractive single dad and suddenly I turn into Betty fucking Crocker.
What.
The.
Fuck.
Compartmentalizing and not dealing with my feelings is my thing. My claim to fame. The only reason I’ve been able to get by this well for so long. My deck has always been stacked a few cards short, and in a dog-eat-dog world, I’ve never had the chance to stop and think about a better life.
And I mean really think.
Like muffins and bacon kind of thinking.
Opening the oven, I grab a piece of bacon before making a pot of coffee. The smell of French roast fills the air, and something inside me relaxes.
“Morning,” Wes says when he comes into the kitchen. He’s dressed in his uniform and he looks so good I don’t think I’d be surprised if someone started playing “Hot in Here” and he started taking off all his clothes in a private strip show just for me.
I’d grab the bacon, sit back, and watch.
“Morning,” I say back, going to the cabinet to get him a coffee cup. Assuming he’ll have his coffee the same way he did yesterday, I fill the cup and add just a little bit of cream and sugar. “Do you want eggs? I was just about to make some.”
Wes’s brows move together, and he looks around the kitchen as if I finger-painted the furniture, not made him breakfast.
“Sure.”
“Okay. Have a seat, it’ll only take a few minutes.” I already preheated the pan. With my back to him, I focus on the eggs, doing my best not to turn around and make small talk, because I know if I look into Weston’s dark eyes, there’s a good chance I’ll turn into a pile of goo on the floor.
And then who’s going to finish making breakfast?
“You didn’t have to do all this,” Weston says in a level tone. “We usually eat cereal or Pop Tarts in the morning.”
“I was up, and that’s the kind of thing I usually eat too. Something hot for breakfast sounded nice.”
I turn down the burner and risk a look back at Weston. He’s pulled his hair away from his face and is leaning back in the kitchen chair. He looks right at me and something burns behind his stormy eyes.
“Yeah, a hot breakfast is nice every now and then.”
He’s literally agreeing with words I just spoke, yet I’m feeling flush like he’s filling every syllable with a secret innuendo. And dammit—I want him to. And now there’s no denying that Weston Dawson has done the impossible: gotten under my skin and is weaseling his way into that dark cavity in my chest that some call a heart.