* * *
"Fuck me, that was good."Wes pushed away from the coffee table and leaned back against the base of the sofa, his legs folded in front of him. "Remind me about the time we met," he said, running his palm over the nape of his neck.
I busied myself with dragging the tips of my chopsticks through the dish of soy and wasabi between us. "Do I have to?"
"Yeah," he replied, laughing. "I hate that I can't remember. I never forget people."
As if that made it any better. "Mmhmm." What did it mean that I was the one-off Wes forgot? Was I both unmemorable and unremarkable, leaving him with a mental dead zone where I was concerned?
Ugh. Stop that.
I hated when my insecurities went off like a too-early alarm clock, clanging away until I chucked them out the window.
He tipped his chin up as he studied my legs. "I can't believe I forgot someone like you."
I pointed my sticks at him. "Meaning?"
His brows arched up as he stared at me another beat. "Meaning you're someone I'd like to remember."
I shook my head, not wanting to take possession of the heat behind his words. It wasn't for me. Even if he was fuzzy and employed and I was someone he'd theoretically remember, this unlikely gathering was even more unlikely to occur again. He'd leave and go wherever he went, and he'd stay there.
"It's all good," I said. "It was your sister's wedding. You had other things to notice. And I was making my way through a lot of issues back then."
"What kind of issues?"
He tipped his chin up again. Somehow, that tender gesture was enough to cut right through my bullshit and bring me to heel because I didn't think twice about saying, "Everything. Family stuff, work stuff, boy stuff."
His forehead crinkled. "What's your boy situation now?"
"There is no situation," I replied with a tight grin.
Wes drummed his fingertips against his lips as he hummed to himself. "I was fucked-up that weekend," he murmured.
"More than you are right now?"
He laughed at his brace. "Somehow, yes. It was the first time I had my heart broken. This is just my arm."
I wanted to ask. I wanted to know. I wanted a detailed accounting of who hurt him and how. Instead of requesting any of that, I asked, "And that's the only part of you fucked-up right now?"
He shrugged. "Maybe." Then, "I'm sure you were a pretty young thing at that wedding."
Talk about backhanded compliments. "What does that make me now?"
"Still pretty," he replied with a laugh. "But now you're old enough to stay on the right side of my conscience."
"That's funny," I started, eyeing his brace, "I don't get the impression your conscience calls all the shots." When he replied with a small shrug, I continued. "How did you hurt your arm?"
"I can't tell you that, and even if I could, I wouldn't. You don't need to know what I've seen, sweetheart. You don't need those horrors in that pretty head of yours."
"Oh, you're one of them," I drawled. "You know what's best for everyone. Got it. Good to know."
A smile pulled at his lips. "And what about you? Are you one of those thoroughly excessive Thoms with an h? The t-h-o-m variety?"
"I'm only basically excessive, I'm a t-o-m Tom. I have a friend who is a p-a-w-l Pawl and I admit I thought about making the switch a few years ago." Because I was more than a little masochistic, I asked, "Would it surprise you to know I've seen plenty of horrors?"
He ran his tongue along the seam of his lips, silent for a beat. "Nothing surprises me," he replied. "But it would be a big help if you could tell me who needs a one-way ticket to a watery grave rather than making me do the legwork on my own."
As much as I wanted to curl up in his lap and drown in the safety of his arms, I shook my head, waved away his words. That was the proper response. "None of that, please, 007."
