by T. K. Leigh
“Don’t think you’ll get away with it so easily, Lo.”
She saunters up to me, hips swaying. What I wouldn’t give to crush her body to mine, to cover her lips with mine, to drink her in. Today has been a test in self-control. But it’s one I’m determined to win.
“But, Wes. I already have.”
“Do you know what my gampy used to always tell me about being cocky? Well, technically, arrogant.”
She tilts her head. “What’s that?”
“Arrogance is a trait only losers possess.”
Before she has a chance to answer, I loop my arm around her waist, tugging her flush with me, transferring the paint covering my body onto hers. She fights against me, arms flailing, legs kicking. If I thought this was triggering a painful memory, I’d stop. But as her laughter mixes with mine, I know she’s enjoying this as much as I am.
My hands become too slick to keep her in my grasp, and she manages to escape, but I run after her, dodging flinging paint. I grab a brush, doing the same to her, paint flying and laughter echoing.
As she runs through the room, she slips in a puddle of paint, losing her balance. She reaches for something to prevent her fall. Since I’m the only thing close by, she grabs onto my t-shirt. Unable to stop her forward momentum due to all the paint on the plastic, I slip, as well, falling back onto the floor, Londyn landing on top of me with a grunt.
Pain radiates through my spine, but I don’t move yet, although I should probably help Londyn off me so she doesn’t realize how turned on I am, despite the ache in my body. Even if my erection weren’t straining against my shorts, she could still see the desire flowing through me, my breathing increasing, eyes darkening, heart visibly thundering against my chest.
I remove my hands from her hips, not wanting to do anything to keep her here if she doesn’t want to be. But even when she’s free to get up, she doesn’t, her body remaining on mine, eyes glued to mine. Her chest heaves with her increasingly rapid breathing as she moistens her lips.
“Londyn…,” I begin, a slight waver in my voice.
She brings a hand up to my face, pushing a few tendrils of hair out of my eyes. “Why can’t I get over you?”
I swallow hard, unsure how to answer. How can one question be filled with so much hope, yet also so much despair?
“Do you want to?”
She pauses, contemplating. It’s both the easiest question and the most difficult at the same time.
“I don’t think I do,” she finally answers.
“Then don’t,” I murmur. “I’m by your side. Whatever you need, I’m with you.”
She closes her eyes, basking in my assurance. When she returns her gaze to mine, there’s a heat within. Gone is the despair and anguish from last night. Now I see hope and the promise for a future.
“And I’m with you, Wes.”
As she inches her mouth toward mine, I hold my breath. A part of me wants to stop her before she does something she’s not ready for. But the other part of me is an addict for her kisses, a craving for another taste erasing all sense of reason.
I close my eyes, bracing to satisfy this unrelenting need, when I make out heavy footsteps on the porch, followed by the front door flinging open.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Londyn scrambles to her feet. I jump up behind her as Imogene and Julia enter.
“Hiya, Uncle Wes. Hiya, Miss Londyn,” Imogene says brightly, oblivious to what she interrupted. And to the fact that Londyn being here is a big deal to begin with. “What happened to all the paint?” She frowns, looking around at the paint splattered on the plastic covering the floor, Londyn, me, and pretty much everything.
“Yeah.” Julia levels a stare on me. I can hear the dozens of unspoken questions. Half about how Londyn came to be here. The other half about why we are both covered in paint.
“Miss Londyn and I were just having a bit of fun. You know how when you’re baking a cake with your mama and she sometimes pipes frosting onto your face? This was kind of the same thing.” I glance around at the disaster we made. “Except we may have gotten a little out of control.”
“I’d say,” Julia remarks.
“It looks like fun!” Imogene turns to Julia. “Can we play in the paint, too?”
“I don’t have a change of clothes for you. Plus, we don’t have a lot of time. We have plans with Daddy later on.”
“He’s not with you?” I ask, a single brow arched.
“Work emergency came up.” She looks in Londyn’s direction. “Nick works as a public relations consultant.”
“I see.”
“He’s constantly putting out fires.” She grits a smile. I can tell she’s annoyed with his absence, especially since it was his idea they spend the day together and come here. “But that’s okay. It gives us a chance to say a proper goodbye before we head back to Charleston tomorrow.”
“So you’ve decided to go back early?”
“It’ll give me time to get everything Imogene needs for the start of school,” she responds.
“Just know you’re always welcome.”
She offers me a sincere smile. “I know.”
“How about we call it quits early and go pay Miss Clara a visit?” I suggest. “I’m sure she’d love to see you one last time before you head home.” I glance at my niece. “And little Imogene, too.”
“Is that the peach cobbler lady we met at the fair?” Imogene asks.
“Yeah, baby,” Julia answers.
“Can we have peach cobbler, too?”
“It’s the last night I get to spoil you for a while. You can have anything you want.” I beam down at her, then shift my gaze to Londyn. “You’re more than welcome to join us if you’d like. I understand if you don’t,” I add quickly, not wanting to pressure her to do anything she’s uncomfortable with. I have a feeling this will happen a lot over the next few months as I try to navigate this new dynamic between us. I don’t want to push too hard, but damn if it’s impossible to not want to include her in every aspect of my life.
“I’d like that.” Then she pauses, looking down at her body. “But I’m going to need some time to shower and get all this paint off me.”
“You and me both.” I laugh. “You shower first. I can always just go for a swim in the lake with Imogene.”
My niece’s expression lights up. “Can I, Mama?”
“I don’t have a suit with me, sweet pea.”
“I still have the one you left here a few weeks ago.”
Imogene peers up at Julia with pleading eyes.
“Fine,” my sister huffs. “Go up to the bedroom and grab it.”
“I’ll show her where it is,” Londyn offers. “I’m heading up there to shower anyway.”
“Thank you, Londyn.”
With a nod, Londyn places her hand on Imogene’s shoulder, steering her past paint cans. My gaze follows her, unable to look away until she disappears from view.
But I still don’t face my sister, knowing I’m about to be subjected to an inquisition.
“So…,” Julia begins after a beat, her voice bright. “She’s back.”
I shrug her off, attempting to clean up the mess we made, paint brushes and rollers strewn all over the floor. At least we covered it in plastic. If we hadn’t, I doubt Londyn would have flung paint at me, not wanting to ruin the original flooring.
“Yes. She is.”
“How did that happen?” Julia follows me.
“By chance, I suppose. I ran into her yesterday.”
A smile plays on my lips as I recall the instant I noticed Londyn heading toward me in the crosswalk. I was about to cross the street toward her, but I didn’t, even though I had plenty of time to make it. Even though I was supposed to meet a client for dinner. I stood at that intersection, some bigger force keeping me locked in place. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was divine intervention. I don’t care. Because whatever it was brought Londyn back to me.
“Is that right?”
“Yeah.”
> “And?”
“And we talked. She explained things.” I lean toward her, lowering my voice. “Suffice it to say, she’s been hurt, Jules. Bad.”
“So have you.”
I level my gaze on her, my expression severe. “Not like this. Think of the worst possible thing that could happen to someone. That could happen to a woman. That’s what happened to her.”
She arches a brow, a question in her gaze. “Was she…”
I nod subtly, feeling guilty about saying anything at all. The last thing I want is to betray Londyn’s trust, but I need Julia on my side. On our side.
“On top of that, imagine how you’d feel if your own family didn’t support or believe you afterward.”
She wraps her arms around her stomach, staring out the window. “I don’t even know what to say.” There’s a distance in her expression and voice.
“Neither did I.”
“So that’s why she freaked out. Why she was scared.” Her words are more like a statement than a question.
I nod. “More or less.”
“So where does this leave you?”
“Where we were before. She’s not ready for anything else.”
Julia gives me a knowing look. “But when she is, you’ll be there. Right?”
“I promised I wouldn’t wait around for her.”
“And you actually plan to honor that promise?” She smirks.
I laugh to myself, marveling at how well my sister knows me. “What Londyn doesn’t know can’t hurt her.” I grin, then skirt past her when I hear footsteps zooming down the stairs.
“Uncle Wes! I’m ready. Let’s go swimming.”
“Okay, munchkin.” I extend my hand, taking Imogene’s tiny one in mine.
As I turn the corner and start down the hallway, Julia’s voice stops me.
“Hey, Wes?”
I pause, glancing over my shoulder.
“You’re a good man.”
“I hope to be.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Londyn
The aroma of coffee fills my darkened kitchen on a Saturday morning in October. The world outside is quiet. Only an occasional dog barking or car driving along the street finds its way into my solitude. There was a time I hated waking up before the sun. That’s no longer the case, a peacefulness enveloping me before the world wakes up.
Once my coffee is prepared the way I like, I sling my duffle bag over my shoulder and make my way out of my condo. A chill envelopes me as I step outside. There’s a briskness in the air this morning now that it’s technically fall, but once the sun comes out, the temperatures should near seventy, making it the perfect day for some home renovations.
While this project certainly has taken a lot longer than I originally anticipated, I wouldn’t change it for anything. Spending all this time working on the house with Wes has given me a creative outlet I didn’t realize I’d needed. Plus, it’s allowed me to get to know Wes better. We’ve even begun spending time together outside of our weekends at Gampy and Meemaw’s house.
While I do have a few interior design projects for other clients, they’re on a smaller scale. A bathroom remodel here. A kitchen renovation there. So it’s easy for me to sneak out and meet Wes.
The truth is, even if I had to rearrange my schedule, I’d do it just to spend time with him.
Once I lock the door, I continue down the walkway, stopping abruptly when I see Wes’ black Range Rover idling on the street in front of the driveway. The door opens, and he jumps out, heading to the passenger side.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, slowly making my way toward him.
When I’d left him at Meemaw and Gampy’s less than six hours ago, I told him I’d be back at eight this morning. I certainly didn’t expect to see him at my place a few minutes before seven.
“There’s been a change of plans.” He crosses his arms in front of his chest as he leans against his car.
If his statement weren’t a dead giveaway that we’re not working on the house today, his clothing definitely is. Instead of an old t-shirt, paint-covered pants, and work boots, he’s dressed in a navy blue Henley, jeans that fall perfectly from his hips, and casual shoes.
“A change of plans?” I repeat, arching a brow.
“Yeah.” He pushes off his car. “I think we’ve both earned a day off, especially after turning that hidden closet into a laundry room yesterday.”
“I’m assuming you have an idea for this day off.” I smirk.
“You know me so well, don’t you?”
“Either that, or maybe you’re extremely transparent.”
“I’d prefer to believe the former.”
When he winks, a warmth rushes through me, my fingers aching to reach out and touch him. To run my hands through his hair. To pull him toward me. To revel in the scruff of his unshaven jaw as he nuzzles the crook of my neck. But I know the power Wes’ kisses have over me. I’m not ready to go there with him again. Not yet.
“Okay then, Mr. Bradford. What do you have in mind?”
“It’s a surprise.” He extends his hand toward me.
I stare at it, hesitant. As he knows by now, I don’t like the unexpected. I find safety and comfort in making plans, knowing what I’m walking into ahead of time.
“Come on, Lo,” he begins, his voice gentle and deep. “I promise there won’t be heights or snakes. Do you trust me?”
I lift my gaze, locking with his. Do I trust him?
For years, I only trusted myself. Refused to even consider the idea of putting my trust in another human. After all, every person who was supposed to support me, help me, love me had betrayed that trust.
It wasn’t until I met Hazel that I learned I could trust someone. It didn’t happen overnight, but after I learned her story, I didn’t feel so alone in my pain anymore. But it took me over a year to finally trust Hazel. I’ve only known Wes a total of four months. Can I really trust him after such a short amount of time?
Is length of time the only indicator of trust, though? I knew my father and Sawyer my entire life. I’m not sure I’ll ever trust them again. At least not Sawyer. He should have stood by my side. Instead, he used my predicament to his advantage, drawing sympathy from high-ranking members of his church, all while throwing me to the proverbial wolves.
But Wes has stood by my side. And, as promised, he hasn’t pressured me to do anything I’m not ready for. He’s remained true to his word, despite how difficult it must be for him to spend time with me knowing there may never be anything more between us than what we have now. That has to count for something.
“I do trust you,” I admit in a strained voice.
“Good.” He blows out a relieved breath, almost as surprised as I am about my admission. “Then let’s go.”
“What are we doing here?” I glance around the dirt lot abutting an abandoned drive-in theater about forty-five minutes outside of the city. Then I return my attention to Wes as he puts the Range Rover in park.
“Figured you’d enjoy this.” He nods at the open field in the distance, rows upon rows of tables and pop-up tents.
I squint, trying to figure out what’s going on. Then I dart my wide eyes back to his. “A flea market?” I shriek excitedly.
“Last week, you’d mentioned how much you missed going to these, since they’re only on weekends and you’ve been spending all your weekends since June with me. So I did some research. Found one with decent reviews, saw it was today, and here we are.”
“You researched flea markets?” I ask in disbelief. “For me?”
His lips quirk up into a gentle smile as his fingers flinch, as if wanting to reach out and push away the few curls that always fall in front of my eyes.
“I’d do anything for you, Londyn,” he responds, his voice laden with sincerity.
I swallow hard through the heaviness in my throat. As much as I should tell him he can’t say stuff like that, not when I’m trying to finally make peace with my past and heal, I’m simply
unable to utter those words.
The more he’s slipped in the occasional compliment or words of encouragement over the weeks, the more I’ve begun to crave them. They help me through the bouts of depression that plague me every once in a while. Although, lately, I haven’t experienced many instances of depression. Haven’t had days where I physically couldn’t get out of bed. Haven’t felt the need to storm over to Hazel’s and spar with her in the gym until my muscles give out under me. Things have been…good. Better than good. And I have a feeling I have the man at my side to thank for that.
“Shall we?” Wes arches a brow, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Yes.”
He jumps down from the car and rushes over to my door as I open it. He touches my elbow, helping me down.
Excitement buzzes inside me as we walk through the lot, immersed in the familiar atmosphere of a weekend flea market. Deal-hunters haggle on price with vendors. Wood chimes jangle in the slight breeze. The smell of musty fabric mixed with spices surrounds me. All familiar sounds and smells, ones I didn’t think I’d miss as much as I have.
As I stroll beside Wes down the first row of vendors, sticking to my rule of not buying anything unless I absolutely must have it and it’s a bargain, I steal a glance at him, his expression bewildered, eyes darting around, like a stranger in a strange land. For someone like Wes, he probably is.
“I’m guessing you’ve never been to a flea market before,” I remark as we pass a vendor who seems to do exactly what I do — finds crap and up-cycles it to resell at a hefty profit.
“Is it that obvious?”
“A little.” I playfully nudge him, skirting a few little boys chasing each other, their mother darting after them.
“Let’s put it this way. My mother would consider going to a discount superstore beneath her. So a flea market, which in her mind is like a giant yard sale, is certainly out of the question. Lydia Bradford doesn’t buy anything used, except for Julia.”
I fling my wide gaze to his, jaw dropped, surprised he’d say something like that about the sister he adores more than life itself.