I grab my bag and head to the guest room to get ready for bed. I open the door and stop dead in my tracks. I had completely forgotten. Delilah had told me she and Wes went to the store after hiring me to get some things for the room. I had just assumed it was a throw blanket, or another pillow, so there wasn’t just the one I saw during the tour.
Before, it was just a queen bed on a frame, with one pillow on a white sheet set and comforter. Oh, and a lamp on the floor I’m pretty sure.
Now, there are two nightstands, about four more pillows, a different duvet, and throw blankets. There's a new rug at the foot of the bed. Holy shit, is this a new bed frame? I could’ve sworn it was just a plain metal frame, but this is wood. There are candles, matching lamps, and a couple plants on the nightstands.
The feel of the room is comfy like Delilah promised, the creams and greens accent the dark hardwood floors perfectly. I spin on my heel to the opposite wall, and I come face to face with a T.V. that definitely wasn’t here before. I’m going to kill him. I do not need all of this.
I nervously walk into the ensuite, wondering if I’ll find a marble statue and fountain. I thankfully don’t, but I do find a fully stocked shower and cabinet under the sink, with any hair product and toiletry you could ever think of. Even curly hair products. He must be well versed, considering Delilah's wild mane.
This was incredibly sweet, but incredibly unnecessary. A slow, honeyed warmth creeps through me at the thought of him doing all of this. It makes me feel taken care of for the first time in a very long time. Even as pathetic as it is that he’s my employer, and probably felt hehadto do this, it still feels nice.
I force myself to brush away the thought, and decide to make good use of the walk-in shower. Time to try every soap known to man-kind.
————
I’m snuggled up in a large, dark green knitted blanket on the giant leather sofa, freshly showered, and in my pajamas. My glasses are on, and my laptop is open. Writing has been going really well, and I find I'm actually excited to open my computer every night when I get home. The ideas have been flowing out of me, with no sign of slowing.
I’m in the middle of working out the logistics of a sex scene that involves coffins and wooden stakes when I hear keys, then a door knob, followed by thecreak of the large wooden front door. I glance up to see Wesley sneaking in, practically tiptoeing. He’s obviously unaware that I’m still awake and in the room with him. The lighting in here is dim, the only light being the soft glow of the lamp in the corner.
I watch him as he takes off his boots, and sets his bag down by the door. He drops his wallet, keys, and phone on the entryway table, and I’m about to speak up, but then I don’t.
Some sick curiosity tells me to keep watching.
His white T-shirt stretches across his chest and biceps, contrasting against his tattoos, making every single muscle standout. His broad back and shoulders steal the show, straining against the fabric. His dark hair is messy as usual, and of course, because the universe hates me, one rogue strand is falling perfectly over his forehead and into his eyes.
I watch as he quietly pads his way into the kitchen and opens the large industrial sized fridge. He grabs a beer from the top shelf, puts the cap to the edge of the counter, and slams down on it with his hand, wincing at the noise. The metal cap clatters to the ground as he tips the bottle back and takes three long gulps. I watch, entranced by his adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.
If he only knew what a creep I was being right now. I can’t be a stalker anymore. I need to make myself known. It’s been too long though, if I say something he’ll know I’ve just been watching him, which is weird. If I don’t say anything, it will be weirder.
Damn it.
He goes to take another swig of his beer when I finally choose to speak.
“Long night?” My voice is unintentionally loud in the quiet space.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” he shouts, his body jolting in surprise.
Whoops.
He sets his beer down and places his hand over his heart, breathing rapidly. His eyes are wild and locked with my equally wide ones.
“You scared the fucking shit out of me, Ivy!” he sputters.
He braces his hands on the countertop like he’s trying to collect himself, his shoulders rising and falling dramatically with each breath. He looks so shocked, I can’t help it. I try to, but I can’t.
I slap my hand over my mouth to try and physically stop the laughter. It’s useless. I full-blown belly laugh. I throw my head back and laugh so hard it becomes silent. I can feel tears running down my temples. I laugh, and laugh, and laugh.
When I finally lift my head up and wipe the wetness away, I look back at Wesley and my heart stops. He is smiling so wide, his eyes are crinkled at the corners. His teeth are white and straight.
Dimples, he hasdimples. That’s where Delilah got them.
My stomach bottoms out, and I couldn’t break our stare if I tried. No one speaks for a moment. We just continue to stare and smile at one another.
I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually—his smile fading only a little—he says, “Hi.”
11
Wes
