Wes tries to stifle a chuckle, but it rips out of him anyway, drawing a glare from Chip.
“Are you going to move out of my way so I can enter my house?” I step forward, letting go of Wes’s hand.
Chip retreats immediately, leaving enough space to walk inside the house.
“Let’s get this shit over with,” Brooks mumbles as he strolls past us, leading the way toward the sitting room where my parents always wait as their chef prepares dinner.
I go to follow Brooks when Chip’s hand lands on my upper arm, stopping me from moving deeper into the house. He leans in close and whispers, “Bringing along some schmuck to pretend to be your date is so desperate, Isla.”
My head spins toward him, and our eyes meet. The intensity has me trying to take a step back, but his arm constrains my movements. Wes steps in front of me, glowering at Chip, primed to confront him.
Chip releases my arm. “I thought you were better than that.” He hurls the insult directly into my ear before striding away in the direction Brooks went.
The animosity stuns me into silence. I’m transported back in time, to Chip telling me I was useless after some business dinner where I didn’t perform to his standard. People never see this side of him, which allowed him to play the victim in our divorce. The husband whose wife chose her career over him.
I’m frozen to the spot, the words curdling in my gut. I want to cry over the time I wasted with him.
Wes squares his shoulders to mine. “What did that asshole say to you?”
I stare at the floor. “Nothing important.”
“Isla, your entire body tensed. That wasn’t nothing.”
“It’s fine. Let me handle it.”
He tips up my chin, and my stomach bottoms out at the fire in his stare. “What did he say to you?”
I purse my lips, remaining silent.
“Isla.” The soft command—a plea of concern—knocks a dent in my defenses.
“You’re acting like you give a shit, Davidson.”
“Maybe I do, Covington.”
His words carry the tone of our usual banter, but with the intensity of his stare, they feel different. I can’t pinpoint exactly when this shift between us began, when our banter became fueled by something other than annoyance.
Maybe it wasn’t any single moment, and the dynamic between Wes and me has been changing for weeks, but I never allowed myself to notice.
I let out a slow sigh before I give him the real answer. “He thinks you’re not my real date, and I brought you to dinner to piss him off.”
Wes’s fingers trace along the side of my face, dark eyes searching mine. “How badly do you want him to believe us?”
My mind is a jumble of tangled thoughts. Wes is acting like my boyfriend, like I asked, but persistent questions won’t stop bubblingto the front of my mind.What if it’s more than that? What if Iwantit to be more than that?
“Isla, we can leave. Say the word.”
“And let him think that he got to me? Hell no.”
“That’s my girl.”
My cheeks heat remembering the last time he said those words to me, right before he made me come.
“I want him to believe it.” My gaze slips to his. “Badly.”
“He will.”
Wes holds his hand out to me, and I place mine into his waiting open palm. He tugs my hand until I’m pressed up against his firm body. My breath catches from the sudden movement. I lose every ounce of brain function when he brings his lips to mine.
