That face—why does that damn runway face get me every single time. I grab his jaw and squeeze his lips together. “Stop doing that thing you do with your eyes and mouth."
Wesley won't stop until he gets what he wants even if that means wearing me down until I'm a lump of putty in his hand. He leans forward and presses his puckered lips into mine, wetting half my face. “Knock it off," I tell him.
“Let go," he mumbles.
I release my hand from his face, and he stretches his mouth out as if I caused damage to his perfect pout. “Fine, I'll go, but I can't promise I'll keep my mouth shut if she says something stupid."
“Deal," he says. “I also told her you're my girlfriend, so if you could just go along with it, that would be great."
I feel sideswiped by his comment, but not for a good reason or a bad one. I'm so used to taking everything so slow and day by day that I haven't gotten far enough with any man to consider myself a girlfriend since my last relationship ended four years ago. He's not really calling me his girlfriend but the topic still makes me hiccup, and it's noticeable. “Sure," I tell him, knowing I sound weird and unsure.
“Hey guys," Layla says.
“Yeah," I respond.
“I realize I work from home, and my office happens to be in the living room, but is there any chance you can have these super awkward conversations in private somewhere else, like your bedroom, or your apartment, Wesley? You live alone, and Madelyn doesn't. There are better times to have the birds and bees conversations when there isn't a third party listening."
“I didn't think it was a big deal," Wesley says, sounding hostile toward Layla.
“Oh, it's abigdeal," Layla says, tilting her head to the side to clarify her expression. “Madelyn has commitment issues, yet she hears her biological clock ticking at the same time. She's what we call loco en la cabeza. No one can hear their biological clock ticking because there is no clock, and therefore, it can't be ticking, but oh, she hears it. Yet, Mr. Perfect, which may or may not be you, will need to tread on thin ice—sorry for the pun—until Madelyn decides it's okay to put her feelings on a tightrope, then swing the damn thing all around, just for fun."
I can't believe Layla just said all that in one breath, or that she said it to Wesley, whomaybe Mr. Perfect. I would have elaborated on my commitment issue in due time, but a sensitive topic like this hasn't fit into a conversation yet. “Hey thanks for that," I tell Layla. Our friendship is on the rocks—it's been on the rocks. I don't know what her deal is, but I'm not sure I can put up with her crap much longer. I'm good at dishing out crap and giving it back, which is why we've lasted as long as we have, but she's crossed so many lines this past month. She's out of control.
“That's a lot of information to take in, Layla," Wesley says. “I think I should hear Maddy's feelings about commitment from her before getting a dose of her past from you, don't you think? You're her friend. That was shitty." Wesley stands up and reaches for my good hand. “Can I cook for you tonight?" he whispers the question even though Layla is back to hiding behind her computer screen.
“I mean, I was planning to have leftover frozen pizza, but if you insist, I think I'll take you up on your offer."
“That's disgusting," he says, snarling. “People don't do that, just so you know."
“Some people do," I argue. “Do you mind if I pack an overnight bag if I'm going to your place?" I make a face at Layla's computer, hinting at him to follow me, so he doesn't get stuck in here with the queen of crabs.
Once inside my bedroom, safe from Layla's wrath, I grab my shoulder bag off my chaise lounge chair, uncovering the happy sappy book I was reading two weeks ago before my life became a walking explosion. “And then there's this stupid thing …" I pick the book up and toss it onto my bed. “That needs to go in the trash. It’s bologna.”
Wesley picks it up and thumbs through it while I continue to pack with my one good arm. My arm is fine, but I have a small fracture in my wrist, so I have to have it braced and in a sling for a few weeks. I'm just glad it doesn't hurt like last week. Now, it's just annoying me.
“I've read this," he says as I'm walking out of my room toward the bathroom.
“So you know it's crap too," I shout. I don't know if he responds or not because I can't hear him while I'm grabbing my toiletries, but since he hasn't had the best of luck lately either, I'm sure he agrees. “It's amazing how it was sitting on the New York Times list for a month straight, and all these celebrities were swearing by the content." I hold up my injured hand and point to it. “I think the book is a scam."
“I don't know," Wesley says. “I enjoyed it. There are valid points made, and it gave me a different way to understand the difference between logic and reason."
I don't think I got to that part of the book. “Oh, well, that's good then," I tell him. I now realize I'm dating an intellectual man. This is a first for me. There were hints that this might be the case, but now I know for sure, and I feel a little basic compared to this man with his well-working brain and perfect looks. This is why I can't be in relationships. I don't like to feel inferior, and I don't want to be with a moron. As ridiculous as it is, if I can't feel equal to the person I'm with, I think we'll always be unbalanced.
Wesley holds the book out. “I mean, it's just a book. Who knows what's what, right?"
“You can cook better than anyone I've ever met, and that's on top of everything else you do well. What are you bad at, Wesley Moon? Because right now it seems to me that you’re the best at everything you do.“ I eat leftover frozen pizza regularly, and he whips up a dish called pasta puttanesca with ingredients he had lying around. I bet I'm not even pronouncing it right.
“I'm not the best at everything," he says, appearing confused by my question. “I'm a glorified milkman. I wouldn't consider that to be a talent."
“Well, you seem like you have a decent handle on your life. It's more than I can say about myself most of the time. I'm fine batting off what life pitches at me, but sometimes I wonder why I haven't been the best at just one thing in my life, you know?"
Wesley cleans his hands off on a dish towel and tosses it onto the counter before making his way over to where I'm sitting at his kitchen island. “Why do you need to be the best at anything right this second? You are beautiful, smart, witty, and have balls of freaking steel. I think you are more than amazing, Maddy, and you don't give yourself enough credit. You have your whole life ahead of you with so many chances to be the ‘best’ at whatever it is you want to be the best at.”
My head falls to the side as I stare into his soulful eyes. “You even lecture me better than anyone ever has."
Wesley cups his hands around my cheeks and leans forward. “I know what Layla said about your commitment issues, and I want you to know, it went in one ear and out the other. If you want to be more than just a casual dating thing, I will scoop you up and keep you as mine for as long as you'd let me, but if you're more comfortable doing what we're doing, I'm okay with this too." He kisses me softly on the nose and pulls away, leaving me with a sincere smile that's surrounded by his complimenting five o'clock shadow.
“Stop being so perfect," I tell him. “You're giving off this vibe of: Oh, I'm the guy who gets to milk the cow for free."
