Page 78 of Full Circle

There was no way a pair of his sweatpants would fit me, but I appreciated the kindness all the same. I needed to right myself and get the hell out of here to face the inevitable shitstorm my mind was cooking up. Not to mention Maggie and her game of Thousand Questions before we could go home to River’s Run.

It was in this sort of mindless daze that I buttoned up the shirt, not paying an ounce of attention to the fact that my entire lower body was on full display. When the man returned with a pair of dark gray sweatpants, I didn’t hesitate to bend over and pull them on, causing him to gasp.

“Sugar bee?” he asked incredulously.

On my eighteenth birthday, Maggie and I had gone out and gotten tattoos, as most kids determined to prove they were adults did. While I intentionally selected the outside of my hip to prevent anyone from ever seeing it (there was no way Desiree would have forgiven me for a tattoo), it was still a momentous occasion that I used to honor my daddy. I had missed him more than ever on that birthday and getting a minimalist design of a bumblebee landing on a pile of sugar felt oddly fitting.

No one had ever seen it before, though, not even Maggie. I had been too tearful afterwards to show her, so we returned home where I could cuddle toddler Iris and watch Mickey Mouse while I bawled my eyes out.

Letting a random, one night stand—someone who couldn’t ever possibly mean anything to me—not only see the tattoo but recognize what it represented rattled me. It was better than any other form of sobriety, and I darted to the elevator in a mad scramble. The sweatpants were still too long for me to properly move in, but thanks to the glossy floors, I slid into the elevator more than I walked.

“Hey, WAIT!” the man yelled behind me.

It was only as the doors closed on him that I realized he had removed his mask, revealing an angular, clean shaven face that would have made angels weep. It was the kind of face that belonged on billboards and commercials, and without the conscious part of my brain to make the connection, I surprised myself by talking to my mirrored reflection as the doors closed between us.

“Wes?” I breathed.

CHAPTER 35

HOME SWEET HOME

WESLEY

Waking up with a hangover wasn’t something I had done in years. I did my fair share of partying in college, before I realized all the alcohol in the world couldn’t chase away the ghost of lost love, and the tabloids always had a field day with it. Headlines frequently labeled me as a partying bad boy and grossly exaggerated the damage and alcohol involved. But even those days had nothing on the migraine putting my brain through a blender now.

Phillip breezed in, throwing open the heavy curtains to reveal bright sunshine outside. Literal birds chirping type-shit.

I threw a pillow at his back as hard as I could. The corresponding grunt was only mildly satisfying.

“Go away!” I groaned and fell back into the pillows, an arm stretched over my eyes. I needed an IV with the heaviest painkiller we could find.

Phillip snorted. “If we don’t leave in the next half hour, we’ll be late meeting the attorney in River’s Run.”

It was my turn to snort. “I can get us out there in under thirty minutes if you just let me drive!”

“A driver is already arranged and waiting down in the lobby,” Phillip countered. The tablet was once again out as he swept through emails and the calendar. “Not that you asked, but the costume party garnered around $500,000 in donations. It was a great turn out for such a last minute affair.”

Affair. Why did that send a trickle of unease down my spine?

I sat upright, still squinting at the bright-ass sunshine, and realized how sore I felt. “Did I fall or something?”

Phillip glanced up at me and blushed, immediately diverting his eyes back to the tablet.

Confused, I clambered out of bed and into the immense bathroom, turning on the light to face the floor to ceiling mirror on the wall. Yeah, I was naked, but Phillip had seen me naked for years. That wouldn’t have even gotten a reaction out of him at this point in our relationship.

No, it was definitely the bright red lipstick smeared all around my dick. Thanks to all the modeling shoots, my pubes were groomed regularly and kept at nearly transparent levels. But now that only served as more canvas for the desecrated artwork trailing down my shaft.

What. The. Fuck.

I had never been so blacked out drunk that I hooked up with someone. It just wasn’t in me. Celeste was the only woman I ever wanted my dick in, and now that the evidence alluded to someone else getting up close and personal with the junk in my trunk, all of last night’s dinner came hurling back up. I barely made it to the toilet in time.

Phillip poked his head through the open doorway. “Are you ill?”

“Please tell me I didn’t have a one night stand last night.”

He grimaced. “I swore I’d never lie to you.”

I sneered. “You lie to me all the time.”

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