by T. K. Leigh
I hold out a chair for Julia, then skirt around to the other side, lowering myself into my seat. I take a sip of the coffee, savoring the familiar, nutty flavor. I don’t know what it is about the coffee she sources, but there’s nothing like it anywhere else in the South.
After another sip, I set my mug onto the surface, meeting Julia’s gaze.
“Jules—” I begin.
Just like before, she speaks at the same time.
“I’m sorry.”
We both laugh, breaking the tension.
“Normally, I’d let you go first,” I say, reaching across the table and clutching her hand in mine. “But I’m the one at fault here, Jules. Not you.”
“I shouldn’t have gone off on you,” she protests. “I’m an adult. I should have handled the situation better.”
“No. I’m the one who should have handled the situation better. I guess all the stress caught up to me and I snapped. Unfortunately, you were the only one around, so you bore the brunt of it. For that, I’m sorry.”
“You did what any good brother would. If I were in your shoes, I’d question things, too.”
“But you told me at the hospital there was nothing…questionable going on. I should have believed you.”
She smiles sadly. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
I swallow hard, but don’t press her. If I do, I fear she’ll cut ties with me altogether. Or worse, Nick will make her. I need her in my life. Need to provide her some sort of escape. Some sort of semblance of normalcy. All I can do is be here for her and pray that by doing so, whatever chains Nick has wrapped around her will weaken. Now that I know he sees me as a threat, that’s precisely what I plan to do.
On a deep inhale, she pulls her hand away from mine, bringing her mug to her lips. “No one else has.”
“Has what?”
“Asked me anything. Of course, Mom refuses to even consider Londyn’s version of events.” She pauses, pressing her lips together, hesitating. Then she leans toward me. “Promise you’ll watch out for her.”
“I am.”
“Mom’s got it out for her.”
I roll my eyes. “She’s just pissed I’m not dating someone with good ‘breeding’, as she’d put it.”
I expect Julia to laugh at this, as she typically would, but she doesn’t, her expression remaining serious. “I mean it, Wes. Some things I’ve overheard…” Her brows scrunch together as she peers into the distance before looking back at me. “When you were seeing Brooklyn, she was pissed you weren’t dating someone with good ‘breeding’. This is something…more.”
“What have you overheard?”
“Just some things that don’t make sense. She’s never been Nick’s biggest fan. But the second she learned Londyn was the one who shot him, she rushed to support him. Booked the first flight back to Atlanta from Aspen.”
“He is her son-in-law. For better or for worse.”
She pinches her lips together. “That’s the thing. She didn’t care he was shot until she found out who shot him. It’s like she was…happy about it. I just have a bad feeling in my gut that she’ll do whatever it takes to force her from your life. And she’s using this to achieve that.”
“I don’t know, Jules,” I say after a beat. “Sounds like a lot of effort for what? So I’ll stop dating her?” My voice lacks the conviction I wish it had. This is exactly something my mother would do, as my father reminded me last week.
“I know it sounds crazy.” Julia laughs under her breath. “I’ve tried to tell myself that dozens of times. Just…keep Londyn close.” She lowers her head, fidgeting with her mug. “Despite what my actions may indicate, I do care about her.”
“She cares about you, too. She just wants you to be safe.”
“Imogene is safe. That’s all that matters right now.”
I nod, following her gaze as she glances in my niece’s direction. “What have you told her?”
“Nothing. She’s young. She doesn’t need to be saddled with all of this.”
I arch a brow. “And Nick’s injury?”
“I told her Daddy hurt his shoulder. One day, I’ll tell her everything.”
“Everything?” I ask, unable to stop myself.
“I hope to. Someday.”
“Someday is better than no day.”
Her expression lights up at the memory of yet another one of Gampy and Meemaw’s words of wisdom.
“Yes, it is.”
“So…” My voice brightens. “What size shirt do you wear?”
“Shirt?” she asks, confused.
“Yeah.” I bring my mug to my lips. “I need to know what size to order when I buy you a shirt that says ‘I still live with my parents’.”
“Asshole,” she mutters, grabbing a sugar packet and throwing it at me.
“But you love me.” I waggle my brows.
She draws in a deep breath, fighting the grin crawling across her face. “Always.” She reaches across the table, holding out her hand.
With a smile, I place mine in hers, squeezing. “Always, Jules.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Weston
The aroma of bacon envelopes me the instant I turn the corner into my kitchen, a growl rumbling from my stomach. I pause, unable to stop from smiling at the scene that greets me. Londyn stands at the stove, pushing the crackling bacon around a frying pan, dressed in one of my oversized t-shirts. Her tight curls are piled on top of her head, a pink headband securing any flyaways away from her face.
Over the past three weeks, this has been the precise scene that’s greeted me every weekday morning. After my alarm goes off, we make love before I jump into the shower. By the time I get out and dress, Londyn’s already made her way downstairs to cook breakfast. I’ve never asked her to, and certainly don’t expect it. I’m happy with a bowl of cereal or a bagel. But I love walking into my kitchen to see her here. Makes this house feel like a home. I thought it felt like a home whenever Julia and Imogene stayed with me.
I was wrong.
I hadn’t realized something so profound and impactful was missing until Londyn barreled her way into my life. Now I can’t imagine my world without her, regardless of the obstacles we’ll have to face in the weeks and months ahead. That doesn’t matter. Moments like this make it all worth it.
Luckily, we haven’t had many obstacles to face these past few weeks. As Sophia predicted, court proceedings are a lot of hurry up and wait. Since Londyn turned down the DA’s initial plea offer, they’ve been going through the discovery process, sharing any and all evidence with Sophia for Londyn’s defense. There have been a few small victories with certain pieces of evidence being excluded, which has given Londyn hope that she has a fighting chance to beat this. Luck finally seems to be on our side. I hope it stays there.
Sauntering up to Londyn, I pull her against me, her back to my front, her body molding perfectly against mine.
“Mmm…,” I moan, feathering kisses along her neckline. “I love that smell.”
She giggles, the sound lighthearted and devoid of any anxiety. It’s almost like we’ve gone back to the way things were before. But they’re even better, our connection impenetrable.
“Who doesn’t love the smell of bacon?”
“Communists,” I joke back. “And probably vegans, although I’ve known a few who’ve admitted to loving it, too. But that’s not what I’m talking about anyway.”
She spins in my embrace, draping her arms around my neck, batting her lashes. “It’s not?”
I slowly shake my head, eyes flaming, my arousal springing back to life, even though it hasn’t yet been an hour since the last time I was buried deep inside her. “No, honeybee.” I bend toward her, feathering my lips against hers. “I was talking about you. Powder, lilac…just a hint of sex.” I grind my hips against hers. “Makes me want to cancel all my meetings and spend the day in bed with you.”
She playfully swats me away. “Fiend. The only reason I still smell like sex is because I haven’
t showered yet. Someone can’t seem to keep his hands off me first thing in the morning and insists on marking me like a Neanderthal.”
“Perhaps.” I waggle my brows. “But I didn’t hear you complaining. If memory serves, all I heard from you was ‘Oh, Wes. Yes. Right there’,” I jest, doing my best Londyn impersonation.
She pushes against me again, but I don’t let her escape, drawing her closer.
“Come on. Admit it. You like it when I go all caveman on you.”
Rolling her eyes, she wiggles away, returning to the stove. With a quick glance behind her, she tosses me a “Maybe” before removing the bacon to a waiting plate.
I head to the one-cup brewer and make a cup of coffee, then sit at the eat-in kitchen island, savoring that first sip. I tap on my phone, bringing up my calendar for my day packed with meetings, including a pitch to yet another one of the firm’s long-term clients. And like with all them lately, what was once just a formality, since it was a given the firm would win the contract, is now an actual pitch.
“Busy day?” Londyn asks as she sets a plate with two eggs over easy, bacon, and toast in front of me before sitting in the chair beside me with her own plate.
“It seems they’re all busy these days. If I’m not trying to convince old clients to stay on, I’m reaching out to potential clients in the hopes of making up the shortfall.”
She offers a sad smile, averting her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey.” I cup her cheek. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I said it months ago, and I’ll say it again. If these assholes are considering pulling their accounts because my girlfriend isn’t white or because I choose to stand by her when she says some asshole assaulted her, I don’t want to do business with them in the first place.” I stare into her dark pools, wanting her to see the truth in my words.
Then I drop my hold on her, placing a napkin across my lap. “If anything, this has been good for the firm. I said when I took over that I wanted to bring it into this century with new and innovative ideas. This has brought a vulnerability to the forefront I hadn’t noticed before.” I slice into one of the eggs.
“And what’s that?” she asks over her coffee mug.
“That the firm has been relying on the same few dozen clients for over ninety percent of its revenue for too long now, often turning down new clients. Not to mention, with the economy as it is, a lot of our former clients are trying to cut costs and have decided to hire their own in-house architects. So now’s the perfect time to explore some ideas that have been simmering for quite a while now.”
She shakes some hot sauce onto her eggs, then cuts into one. “What kind of new ideas?”
I smile. “Historic renovations.”
She tilts her head to the side. “Is that right?”
“There’s quite a big market for it. And it’s something I’ve always wanted to get involved in. Like you, I’ve always been fascinated by history. How every building has a story to tell. My father always shot down the idea of adding it as one of our firm’s services, but… I don’t know.” I shrug. “I loved renovating Gampy and Meemaw’s house with you. It was the first historic project I’d worked on since leaving Boston. And remember how you gave me that whole spiel about doing one thing every day that brings me joy and maybe my job wouldn’t suck so much?”
“I do.”
“I think this might be the answer. It’s time to stop depending on the relationships my father forged and build my own.”
“I’m proud of you, Wes.” She offers me a heartfelt smile, squeezing my thigh. “Life without passion isn’t a life worth living.”
I lean toward her. “Good thing I have you then. Because I’m extremely passionate about you.” I brush my lips against hers.
“Such a charmer,” she jokes.
“Always.” I wink, then glance at the TV in the living room as the morning news plays on the screen. I’m about to return my attention to my breakfast when I do a double take.
“What’s wrong?” Londyn asks, following my gaze. When she sees, her fork clatters onto the plate and she pushes out of her chair, her legs on autopilot as they carry her into the living room.
I follow, grabbing the remote to raise the volume, the newscaster’s animated voice filling the room.
“For those viewers not familiar with this case that’s gotten national attention over the past several weeks, this is Sawyer Ross. He’s married to Londyn Bennett, the defendant in this case.”
“Was married,” I mutter under my breath.
“Although Sawyer Ross is well known in his own right as being an influential civil rights activist, often advocating for men and women of color who’ve been discriminated against.”
“Yeah.” Londyn crosses her arms in front of her chest. “When it serves to get his name in the headlines. Otherwise, he doesn’t give a shit. Pious asshole.”
The newscaster flashes a congenial smile as she turns from the camera and toward Sawyer sitting on a couch catty-corner to her chair. “I have to say, I was somewhat surprised to learn that the Buckhead shooter is your wife.”
“As was I,” Sawyer offers.
“Do you believe this is just another case of racial discrimination by the police?”
“Actually, I don’t. That’s why I’m here. I’ve toiled over this for weeks now, but I feel it’s my duty to set the record straight about Londyn Bennett, considering all the conflicting reports out there.”
I notice Londyn’s muscles clench, her breathing growing faster. I wrap my arm around her, wanting to turn this off. She doesn’t need this. Things have been going so well. She’s reconnected with her father, often meeting him for lunch when I’m at work. She’s even started working on her up-cycling business, having moved a lot of her materials from her tiny garage into mine, spending hours a day in there. I fear this will set her back yet again.
“According to some of our sources, Ms. Bennett has claimed she acted in self-defense,” the reporter says. “That the man she shot had sexually assaulted her in the past, which sparked quite a few ‘Me Too’ protests across the country recently.”
“And I can absolutely empathize with a woman who has been sexually assaulted. But Londyn Bennett hasn’t.”
“What a fucking asshole,” Londyn spits out.
I pull her closer, wishing I could put a stop to all of this. But I can’t. All I can do is offer her my support, prove to her that I’m still here, that I’m not going anywhere.
“What kind of insight can you offer us as her husband? It’s my understanding you’ve been estranged for nearly six years. Is that correct?”
“Not by choice. In fact, I took a trip to Atlanta a few weeks ago, hoping to reconcile.”
“Even with the charges against her?”
“You can’t just turn off love, ya know?” He swallows hard, a forced expression of heartache crossing his face.
If I hadn’t interacted with him, I might believe it. But I’ve seen firsthand that he’s nothing but a fake, an opportunist, a man who is so desperate for attention and fame that he’ll throw anyone under the bus in order to achieve it.
Like he’s doing to Londyn right now.
“We were childhood friends.”
“You both lost a parent in the infamous Virginia church shooting, correct?”
“Yes. And I suppose it was that event that kind of…connected us. From an early age, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her. I mean, when we were kids, it was just a cute thing. But as we both matured, I fell for her. Hard. It was like my heart physically beat for her and her alone.”
“She was your soulmate.” The host places her hand over her heart, giving Sawyer a sympathetic smile.
“Does she actually believe this shit?” Londyn hisses.
What can I tell her right now to make her feel better? I wish I could encourage her not to worry about this, but I refuse to lie to her. Sawyer did threaten she’d regret her decision to serve him with divorce papers. I have a feeling this may have
been his Plan B all along.
“She was. Still is. And because of that, I tried to give her everything she asked for. Sure, we married young, but we were in love. Why wouldn’t we get married? I will admit, those first few years were difficult. She hadn’t yet finished college, and I was all too happy for her to complete her degree, even if it meant living apart for most of the year.”
“She didn’t go to college close by?”
He slowly shakes his head. “In retrospect, I should have done the right thing and sacrificed my job to go with her. Because that’s what a good husband does. Makes sacrifices for those he loves. I thought our love was strong enough to endure any separation. Unfortunately, I misjudged Londyn’s commitment to me. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the reason she’d insisted on returning to that same college was because she’d been having several affairs, including one with a professor.”
“And that’s Domenic Jaskulski, correct? The man she’s accused of shooting?”
“That’s correct.” Sawyer’s chin quivers as he looks upward for a moment, as if collecting himself. “When I learned the truth, I blamed myself. Convinced myself that if I’d been more present, she wouldn’t have felt the need to stray. Londyn was deeply troubled.”
“Troubled?” the host asks, brow scrunched. “How so?”
“She never got over losing her mother. She constantly placed the blame for her failings or mistakes on other people instead of accepting responsibility herself. Her therapist insisted it was common in children who’d experienced a traumatic loss. That they often lied or made up stories because it was better than the reality of their lives. But despite the years she spent in therapy, she never seemed to make any notable advances. Always insisted there was nothing wrong with her. That she didn’t need therapy.”
“Is he fucking shitting me right now?” Londyn chokes out, muscles tensing.
I can physically feel her frustration and anger radiating through her. What I wouldn’t give to haul Sawyer back here on a silver platter for Londyn to give a piece of her mind. Or use as a punching bag. Instead, I just hold her tighter, not letting go for anything.