"No more than usual," I replied, still occupied with my napkin. "Riley, that's Shannon's youngest brother, and Andy, she's Patrick's fiancée and he's Shannon's oldest brother—"
"I know," Wes interrupted. "You don't have to draw the family tree for me. I met them all at my sister's wedding and I talked to Andy about Isfahan and Tehran for, I don't know, probably an hour."
"It's good of you to remember all those people." I shot him a tart glance. "After all this time too."
His brows arched up, a smirk firmly in place, he lifted the glass to his lips. "You're fuckin' adorable when you pout like that." After a long sip, he said, "You want a sip of this, baby? It's nice."
"No, thank you."
"All right, all right." Wes studied me as he ran his tongue over his teeth, his lips parted just enough to remind me what I was missing. "Then tell me what Andy and Riley did this week." He tipped his chin up in a manner that seemed to codify his request, making it a law I was bound to obey.
"They dropped a five-ton HVAC unit into a brownstone in the North End," I said, a laugh seeping into my words as I spoke. I still couldn't believe they'd pulled it off without incident. "It was extremely close to turning into an epic disaster but it worked out beautifully. We didn't even pay overtime fees to the crane operator because we nailed it on the first shot."
"It must've required a lot of work to make that happen," he said.
"On the day of the delivery, it was mostly a matter of prayer and crystals and begging everyone to do their jobs. But yeah, there was a fair amount of planning ahead of time too," I said, toying with the napkin again.
"That must be why I haven't seen you since last week."
With a sigh, I rested my elbows on the table and pressed my clasped hands to my mouth. I wanted to explain but that would mean exposing my soft, vulnerable underside and I wasn't ready for him to see that. I wasn't ready for anyone to see it. And he was leaving soon enough anyway. It didn't matter.
"Did I do something?" Wes continued. "Or did I just totally misinterpret the vibe?"
I snapped my head up, meeting his gaze. I opened my mouth to refute his comment but the server arrived with our meals and fussed over our need for drinks, condiments, and anything else short of world peace until I couldn't remember a time when she wasn't glued to the end of our table.
When she finally departed, Wes lifted his glass toward me, saying, "You're adorable when you pout but you're fuck-all hot when you're annoyed. It was actually quite enjoyable for me to sit here, watching while you seethed with impatience."
After shooting a disinterested glare at the salad I had no intention of eating, I glanced away, blowing out the pained breath I'd stored somewhere between my shoulders for the past seven days. The one I'd held since stepping into that hot, hot shower with Wes. The one I'd held like a life raft while everything inside me kicked and screamed for oxygen. But I was doing the right thing, I was sitting with my discomfort and accepting it as a part of growing and healing.
Right?Right?
It wasn't possible I was suffocating in my own air because I was wrong. I was learning how to take care of myself. This misery and loneliness and want was supposed to teach me something. It wasn't supposed to make me want to sweep the plates away and climb over the table into Wes's lap where he'd fist my tie and bite my lip.
Sucking in a jagged breath triggered a shift somewhere inside me, somewhere hidden behind vital organs and the muscle memory of trauma. It pulsed like the first bursts of a panic attack but then it mellowed, becoming something bordering on pleasurable. I'd lived through plenty of panic attacks but none of them knew anything of pleasure and I didn't know where that left me. My internal world was rearranging itself and I seemed to be enjoying it.
So what if he's leaving? So fucking what?
"As a matter of my own information gathering," Wes continued, "will there ever be an instance where you want ketchup? What about scrambled eggs? I'm sure you eat eggs but I'm getting a distinctly soft boiled to medium poached feel from you. How about turkey burgers where you use lettuce for the bun? I'm betting you're into that. Turkey burger, probably some avocado, maybe some roasted poblano if you're feeling frisky. Ketchup wouldn't make sense in that situation but you know where I'm going with this. And I can't imagine potatoes have a place in your starch-free life but I'm looking for a clear go/no-go on the ketchup. Any response would be appreciated, Tom."
My eyes narrowed, I watched as Wes demolished his cheeseburger while going on about—I wasn't even sure what. "What the actual fuck are you talking about?"
He laughed in a way that made me want to run my hand over his belly and feel his joy. "It's nothing important." Then, his expression sobering, he asked, "Why does it look like you're solving a massive problem over there?"
"It's not important," I echoed.
He ducked his head, his eyes creased in the corners as if he was listening closely because he didn't trust my words. "Yeah?"
For the first time since finding Wes seated beside Shannon, I gave myself permission to say exactly what I wanted. "I was just thinking I won't be happy until I get you out of those jeans."
When his eyes widened and his lips parted, Wes growled. "Say that again."
"I want to tear them off you. I don't care if they rip. I'd probably be happy about it," I said.
He tipped his chin up as he regarded me from across the table, still doubting my words. That was fair. I'd given him plenty of reason to doubt me with my wild swings between hot and cold. Then he said, "Yeah. I can see how you might enjoy that."
I pointed to his martini. "Are you going to finish that?"
Wes shook his head, pressed two fingers to the base, and slid it toward me. "All yours, baby."
