Wesley saves mefrom myself by asking, “Which of your questions from earlier wouldyou like me to answer first?”
Relief makes thefrantic fluttering in my chest stop, which tells me it’s better tostay on safe, solid, familiar ground. At least for now. “Stella.Does she know you’re home?”
“Sheknows I wasplanningto come home, but not that I’m already here. I wanted tosurprise her too.”
“TheMcGrath siblings back in town at the same time. Bellevue won’t knowwhat hit it.”
Wesley’s mouthquirks up on one side as he lifts his hot chocolate to take a sip.I don’t realize I’m watching him—his mouth specifically—until hiseyes flick up from the mound of whipped cream and lock on mine.“You’re waiting for me to get a faceful of this, aren’tyou?”
“Or amustache at the very least.”
He takes a sip andgrins at me over the rim of his cup, revealing a thick, foamymustache. “As you wish, Buttercup.”
There’sthat fluttering in my chest again, although this time it’s for adifferent reason. InThe PrincessBride, every time Westley says ‘as youwish’ to Buttercup, it’s his way of telling her he loves her. Evenat a young age, I thought it was incredibly romantic, but Wesleydeclared it wouldn’t mean that for us, and we both began using thephrase as often as we quoted other lines from the movie.
Still, hearing itnow for the first time in years, especially paired with my oldnickname, it does funny things to my insides. As does the wayWesley runs his tongue over his upper lip to clear off his faux’stache before wiping the rest off with a napkin.
I shake mythoughts off the path they’re taking. “Wait, do it again so I cantake a picture.”
“Noway, you had your chance. Besides, you have plenty of moustachioedpictures of me from back in the day.”
I try—and fail—tostifle a giggle at the image his words evoke. We took our imaginaryworlds very seriously as children, which meant Wesley often drew ona thin mustache when he assumed the role of the Dread PirateRoberts. “Remember the time you used your mom’s heavy-duty eyelinerand it wouldn’t come off?”
He ducks his head,chuckling softly. “How could I forget? I begged her to let me stayhome from school the next day. I think she wanted to teach me alesson about taking things without asking.”
“Nodoubt. And while that was funny, my personal favorite—”
“Don’t,” Wesley says quickly, his voice shaking with laughter.“Don’t say it. Don’t remind me. Please, Ev.”
“Mypersonalfavorite,” I repeat, louder this time, “waswhen you decided it would be a good idea to grow your own mustachein high school.”
“Youjust can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Nevercould,” I say, and he makes a sarcastic sound of agreement. “Yourfriends teased you mercilessly while you attempted to let thatthing grow in.”
“Hey, Iwas excited to finally be growing facial hair,” he says. “It wasn’tmy fault it was so pale you could barely see it. And I’ll have youknow, out of the so-called ‘friends who teased me mercilessly’, noone was as bad as you and Stella.”
“Asyour little sister and her best friend, it was our duty to keepyour ego in check,” I say with a one-shouldered shrug.
Theindulgent, amused look on his face eases some of the lingeringtension inside me. That tension ramps back up when he leans acrossthe table and lays his warm hand over mine. “Youwere my best friend too, youknow.”
“Ithought Leland was your best friend,” I say quietly.
His fingerstighten around mine. “He was, but so were you. When it came rightdown to it, I think you knew me better than anyone elsedid.”
I stare into hisfamiliar blue eyes. Eyes I’ve looked into my whole life, eyes Idreamed about for years in my teens and twenties. Eyes I stilldream about, if I’m being completely honest. “You were my bestfriend too, Wes.” For some reason I’m not willing to examine tooclosely, the words come out in a choked whisper. Wesley shifts hishand so he can lift my fingers, holding them lightly inhis.
“Don’ttell Stella,” we say at the same time, and then we’re both laughingagain. Wesley releases my hand and flops back in his seat. I’mequal parts relieved and sad that the moment of physical closenesshas slipped away.
Despite all theemotions seeing Wesley has stirred up, it’s good to laugh with himagain. To reminisce about our shared past instead of the secretoff-shoot of our history that involved a lot of fantasizing andpining on my part.
“Whatabout this?” he asks, running the backs of his fingers over thelight stubble on his cheeks and chin.
“Muchbetter than the high school mustache attempt.”
“Anythingwould be better than thehigh school mustache attempt,” Wesley says dryly. “I’m trying todecide whether to shave it or keep growing it. I’ve always beencurious to know what I’d look like with a beard.”
I want to tell himhe’s too pretty to hide his face behind a beard. Or that he shouldconsider maintaining the stubble instead of growing a full beardbecause the stubble gives him the slightest edge that makes himincredibly sexy, especially when paired with the leather jacket.Instead, I say, “I’m sure your mom and sister will have somethingto say about it.”
