“If I say good morning, are you gonna bite my head off again?” he asked.
I snorted, pulling out the stool that had becomemy spotat the counter to watch him work.
“We haven’t done good mornings yet,” I said.
“Well, good morning,” Wes said. “Did you sleep okay?”
“There’s something kinda weird about that bed,” I said, watching Wes crack a second egg.
“Yeah?” he raised an eyebrow, glancing away from his work to look at me.
“Yeah. Someone kept waking me up,” I teased, offering him what I hoped read a conspiratorial smile.
“Gosh. Maybe I should sleep in it with you. Y’know, in case they come back.”
Relief I hadn’t realized I’d been hanging out for washed over me. Okay. We weren’t done.
That was good, becauseIwasn’t done. Clearly. I’d already jerked off over the thought of Wes once today, and it wasn’t quite ten-thirty in the morning yet.
I laughed, resting my elbows on the counter and my chin in my hands to watch Wes work.
It was exactly as sexy as I’d imagined it would be.
“So should I be jealous that you apparently make my dad breakfast every morning?” I asked as Wes got out a frying pan, butter, and oil. He knew what he was doing—if you wanted to fry something in butter, adding oil as well stopped the butter from burning.
I had high hopes for these pancakes.
“Not every morning,” Wes said. “We have meetings on Saturday mornings at ten-thirty. Write up a schedule, update the to-do list, that kind of thing. Helps keep us both organized.”
“You do a lot for him,” I said. I still hadn’t figured out exactly what Wes’s job title was—but I didn’t think I was alone, there. I guessed the closest thing would have been personal assistant, but honestly? He seemed to be a slightly better son.
“He does pay me,” Wes said. “And besides, after his heart attack, he needs the help.”
The world came to a screeching halt so fast I felt like I had to grip the counter to stop myself flying off.
“I’m sorry,heart attack?”
13
Wes
I’d fucked up.I’dreallyfucked up, so bad I wasn’t sure I’d still have a job by this afternoon.
“Why wouldn’t youtell me?” Hayden’s voice travelled into the kitchen from the living room, the semi-open plan of the downstairs part of the house offering less privacy than would have been ideal at the moment.
Mr. Lewis said something quiet, his low rumbling voice a familiar background sound to me. I was used to him talking on the phone—or talking to himself—while I worked around him.
I slipped the last pancake off the pan, switched off the burner, set out maple syrup, melted butter, lemon juice, and powdered sugar on the table, and then hesitated.
Were they still talking? Should I interrupt for breakfast?
I poked my head around the corner to check.
And found them hugging, a trail of tears glistening on the side of both of their faces.
That was a relief. At least I hadn’t accidentally torn the family apart with one offhand comment.
“Wes,” Mr. Lewis said as he spotted me hovering. “Come over here.”
