“Wasn’t planning on it.”
His answer makes me look up. “Why? You think you’ve invaded my privacy enough for one night?”
“I shouldn’t have pried into your business.”
“You said that already.”
“Well, I meant it.”
“Well, I’m not going to marry you.”
He finishes his drink and pushes it across the table toward the back of the booth. I watch, dumbfounded, as his hand slides across the table and grazes the inside of my arm. His touch is rough and callused, the hands of a man who spends his days working under an Arizona sky. “Think about it, Dakota. It’s mutually beneficial. And it’s not like we hate each other.”
“Now that you’ve brought it up, what do we feel for each other? Are confusion tactics another delightful lesson you learned in the military? You send signals most people would understand as attraction, then you take what is supposed to be a sacred institution and make it a business proposal. I can’t figure you out.”
His face is impassive, and his eyes harden as if guarding a secret. “You don’t want a man like me, Dakota.”
“That’s not for you to decide, Wes.”
“I’m a special brand of fucked-up.” He speaks with detached certainty, like he’s a book that has already been written and the writer has thrown away their pen.
I laugh once, a mirthless sound. “Aren’t we all?”
I look into his eyes, and what I see there breaks my heart. He doesn’t believe he’s worthy of love. It’s as simple as that.
Suddenly, I’m exhausted. Maybe it’s the whiskey. Or maybe it’s Wes. Either way, I’m done. “I need to go back to my room. I have to move two sleeping children into my bed so they can wake up beside me.”
One side of Wes’s mouth tugs up into a sad smile. “That sounds like a good way to wake up.”
I squint at him, willing him to hear what he has just said. That very sentence is exactly what I mean about confusion tactics.
I don’t have the energy for more discussion. Instead, I slide from the booth. Wes follows me out to the lobby.
“Will you at least consider my offer?” He looks hopeful, and it strikes me just how much he wants me to say yes.
Seeing this makes me… well, pissed. His mixed signals would make any woman angry.
I reach up, cupping his cheek, my fingers scraping over his coarse five o’clock shadow. His head moves the tiniest degree, leaning into my touch.
“No,” I answer, my voice sweet. “And also? Go fuck yourself.”
14
Wes
“The fuck’s wrong with you?”Warner strides across the backyard toward me, his eyebrows pinched together as he studies me.
“Nothing,” I grit out, continuing my work of cleaning the grill because the last person who used it was apparently too busy to clean it. I highly doubt the people who come to our annual barbecue want to eat charred bits of who knows what.
“Did the grill hurt your feelings?” Warner asks, grinning as he gets in my face.
I shoulder him away and keep scrubbing. “Unless you want our guests to eat whatever was last cooked on here, shut up and let me clean it.”
“I think it’s clean, Wes.”
He’s right. It’s clean. But damn, the physical exertion feels good. My nerves are snare-drum tight.
“When was the last time you got laid, Wes?” Warner sinks down into a seat and leans back, his legs stretched out and his hands cradling the back of his head. “By something other than your own hand?”
