God. He’s going to care.
Maybe later. When there’s alcohol. Or daylight. Or courage.
I sit back on the bed, watching him fold shirts—calm, methodical, unfairly hot. What is he exactly? Boyfriend? Fake fiancé? Emotional support lumberjack?
All of the above? None?
Maybe it’s fine. Maybe it’s better this way. One quiet night before everything implodes.
Let tomorrow deal with tomorrow.
“You’ve been somewhere else all day,” Wesley says, glancing up.
I blink and force a smile. “What?”
“You keep drifting.” He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls me between his knees. “Where are you?”
“Just thinking about the next few days.” I touch his jaw. “Meeting my family.”
His hands settle on my hips, grip gentle but uncertain. “Did I—last night, was it too much?”
“No.” I cup his face. “Last night was perfect.”
Relief flashes across his expression. “Good. Because I—” He stops himself.
“Because you what?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just thinking about the next few days too. But I’m sure they’ll love me. Everyone loves me.” He grins.
“Confident much?” I try to joke, then falter. “Wesley?”
“What?”
“There’s something I should tell you,” I start, voice shaking. “About my family?—”
He goes still, reading my tone. “What about them?”
My throat closes. The words are right there:My uncle owns the Defenders. I’m not who you think I am.
“They’re…they can be—” His expression shifts, concern, curiosity, then patience. All of it making this worse.
If I say it, everything changes. He’ll put distance between us, the way people always do around Preston money. He’ll think I was auditioning him, that this—us—was strategy. I can survive my mother being disappointed in me; I cannot survive him looking at me like I’m another version of her.
Say it. Just say it.
My throat closes.
Coward.
“JOY! WES!” Lars yells from downstairs. “COME OUTSIDE! AURORA!”
Wesley’s face lights up. “Seriously?”
“Wesley, wait?—”
But he’s already pulling me toward the door, grinning. “You have to see this. Come on.”
The moment shatters.
