Page 69 of Back for More
Lily
*Whether You Like it or Not*
Fucking bad luck lingerie and cursed replacement panties and kiss of death condoms. I never should have packed them into my bag. They jinxed me. Or maybe I jinxed myself. Who am I kidding?
Yeah, this is all on me. I get it. I won’t be getting any nookie, but at least I don’t have to feel quite so guilty anymore. At least Wes Carver will know how I really felt. If he reads the letter, that is.
I actually feel lighter now.
Or maybe I’m just light-headed.
Or maybe I’m about to have a panic attack.
Oh God.
What have I done?
I just gave my boss a cheesy letter that I wrote when I was a teenager. A letter that told him I love him.In French.Because I thought that would make it easier to face him every day.
What is wrong with me lately?
I finish changing into my sweatpants and T-shirt. I can’t spend another minute thinking about Other Wes today or for the rest of the week. I go downstairs to the kitchen. I’ve set up a workspace at the kitchen counter, and I will stay there, in work-mode, until I am too tired to work anymore, and then I will go to sleep, and then I will get up and work again. At the office with Wes. And it will be fine.
Maybe I can get a new prescription for beta blockers.
I check the fridge to see what Vicky left me for dinner and then fill the electric kettle with water for tea. I glance out the window above the sink and see that it’s raining. Pouring rain. The sun is just starting to set. I look out, down toward the gazebo. It looks like it has been fully built, but it needs to be stained. Toby Carver does good carpentry work. So does his son.
I groan, thinking about that glorious morning wood that I will never be able to work with.
When I walk over to the island counter, I pass by the patio door and scream.
There’s a man pacing back and forth at the edge of the patio in the pouring rain.
Theman.
Wes.
His hair and clothes are soaked through.
I can see that his fists, his jaw, every single muscle in his body is tense.
I run to the sliding door, out onto the patio, still barefoot.
He stops and faces me. I take one step down so I’m at eye level with him, and I throw my arms around his neck. His hands are immediately clutching at my waist, equal parts pulling me to him and pushing me away.
I don’t even have to ask what he’s doing out here. I know.
“I read it,” he says, trying to slow his heavy breaths.
My fingertip tracks the bulging vein that runs down the side of his wet neck. “Good.”
He speaks through clenched teeth. “You really wrote that five years ago?”
I shower his whole face with quick wet kisses, coming at him faster and harder than the raindrops. “Yes.” I kiss his cheek.
“You wanted me to come find you?”
“Yes.” I kiss his forehead.
