I groaned, but some part of me was flattered that he wanted to look at them atall.
* * *
A knockon my bedroom window just about made me jump out of my own skin, since I was on the second floor.
I hesitated a moment, wondering if it was my imagination, or maybe the tree outside banging against the wall, but then another, deliberate knock—like someone knocking on a door—forced me to put my laptop aside and go to the window.
Wes waved at me through the glass when I opened the curtains, laughing as I rushed to pull the window up so he could climb through.
“Hi,” he said as he stood in the middle of my bedroom floor, grinning at me like hehadn’tjust climbed through my window in the middle of the night.
I peered out to see a ladder leaning against the side of the house, but looked away before the thought made metoodizzy.
“I… what’re you…”
“Is this a bad time?” Wes asked, looking at my hastily-discarded laptop on the bed.
Not even a little.
“No,” I said, closing the laptop and putting it aside for the night. I didn’t need to be sweating over business figures right now. I could rest.
If Wes had gone to the trouble of climbing through my window, I definitely wanted to know what he was here for.
I knew what I washopinghe was here for.
When I turned around, Wes was inches away from me.
“Thought I should thank you for dinner,” he said.
“You already did,” I pointed out. “Profusely.”
He’d been enthusiastic over basically every bite and almost tripped over himself for a second helping.
I hadn’t cooked for anyone but myself in over a year, and I was still glowing from the praise. It meant even more from someone who didn’t know me, didn’t love me, and wouldn’t necessarily have just accepted anything I put in front of him, like Dad had for so many years before my cooking skills reached the level of acceptable.
“Did I?” Wes blinked innocently. “Don’t remember.”
“This is the best pasta I’ve ever had and I’m thinking about marrying it,” I quoted.
Wes grinned at me.
It hadn’t even been anything spectacular—it’d beengood, I knew what I was doing, but limited ingredients and prep time meant I hadn’t broken out the entire range of my culinary skills. Anyone could make a decent pasta carbonara.
Wes hadn’t held back with praise, though.
Aaron, a food critic who couldn’t switch off even when I was cooking for him, had always started his opinion withthis is good, but.
It was nice to be appreciated without criticism for once.
“Mmm,” Wes hummed. “That does sound familiar. But you know…” he trailed off, looking me up and down. “I could still eat.”
I barely had time to register his laughter at his own joke before he was backing me up toward the bed, pushing me down onto it and pinning me there, like I’d done to him last night.
“Hey, this mattress isnice,” Wes said, pausing to push his hand into it and watch it spring back, momentarily distracted.
I took the opportunity to flip us both over, rolling dangerously close to the edge but stopping just short of falling off, leaning over him.
Wes liked it when I took charge, and I liked it when he liked me.
