TWENTY-EIGHT
CLARA
The salsa dishbetween us was already half empty, a casualty of nerves and salt cravings, when I realized Wes hadn’t scanned the door in the last five minutes.
He had done it when we walked in—subtle sweep of the room, clocking the exits, the knot of people at the bar, the kid running laps between tables—but once we slid into the booth at La Casita, his shoulders had settled. Not loose, exactly, but not locked in that braced-for-impact way I’d gotten used to seeing.
Now he sat opposite me, left leg stretched under the table, prosthetic braced along the underside of the booth. The overhead lights were warm, catching on the dark hair at his forearms where his T-shirt sleeves hugged his biceps. It was just a faded Army tee and those worn jeans he lived in, but his arms rested on the table in a way that made the corded muscles impossible to ignore.
His hand curled around his glass, fingers dwarfing it, veins standing out in sharp lines. I had to force myself not to follow one of them with my gaze, imagining the drag of my fingertip from his wrist to his knuckles. I remembered how those hands had been wrapped around my hips, holding me steady while he?—
I shoved a tortilla chip in my mouth before my brain could finish that sentence.
“So.” Wes tipped his chin at me, sharp blue eyes steady. “How’s the photo shoot going?”
A sigh slipped out of me before I could stop it. “You mean the grand winter bridal circus?” I scooped more salsa like I was arming myself. “It’s ... a lot. Elodie’s thrilled, which is great, but our makeup artist bailed for a better-paying gig in Traverse City, I’m still waiting on two dress designers to confirm, the photographer is a geniusanda diva, and Michigan weather is threatening to snowpocalypse all over the schedule.”
His mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Snow could be ... pretty?”
The knot between my shoulders loosened a fraction, and I smiled. “It could be gorgeous. But less so if my hair ends up in a wet, limp mess and my lips turn blue. I’ll look like a wet dog.”
“That’s impossible. You always look beautiful.” His gaze stayed on me, not wandering, not glazing over before he cleared his throat and his eyes sliced away. “You got the farm and the inn locked down, right? You can always use them as backup space if it dumps six feet of snow.”
I dipped my chip, trying to hide the blush that had crept onto my cheeks. I was talking with my hands as my vision came to life in my mind. “Even if the weather isn’t great, we’ll lean into it. Winter brides. Cozy knits. Champagne in snowdrifts. Frostbite as a wedding favor.”
He huffed. “Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
“It’s a gift.” I shrugged.
He picked up another chip and broke it in half. “You’re going to kill it, Duchess.”
The way he said it—simple, certain, like he was stating the weather—made my throat feel tight. Greg and my friends in the city had always treated my modeling with patient amusement,like I was playing dress-up on my way to a real life. Wes Vaughn was sitting in a Mexican restaurant asking follow-up questions about weather contingencies and logistics like my career was not only real, butimportant.
My heart did a slow, traitorous roll in my chest.
“You know the only hole in my plan?” I said, because feelings were terrifying and deflection was my favorite sport. “I still need a groom.”
His hand stilled halfway to the salsa. “A what?”
“A groom,” I repeated. “You know, for bridal photos. It’s kind of depressing to have a woman in a wedding dress gazing lovingly at ... a barn door.” A playful snort escaped my nose.
His jaw worked. “You’re hiring some guy to—what—hold you in fake snow while you stare at him for hours?”
My eyebrows bounced. “And kiss.”
His nostrils flared, and I erupted in a fit of giggles, reaching across the table to grip his forearm. “Relax, caveman. There’s usually no kissing, and even when there is, it’s more like a robotic peck than a passionate make-out session.”
He grumbled something that sounded a lot likebetter fucking be, but I couldn’t be sure. The bristle in his voice warmed my cheeks in a way the salsa never could have. Jealousy looked good on him.
Dangerous. Hot.
“Unless you’re volunteering,” I said lightly, as if my heart hadn’t just tried to climb into my throat. “You’d look very dashing in a tux. The broody, contractor groom. It’s a whole vibe.”
He grumbled again and shook his head. “Leave my ugly mug out of it.”
My brows shot up. “First of all: rude. Second of all, your face would sell more photos than my entire catalog combined.”
His ears went a little pink. “The idea of standing in front of a camera right now makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Hard fucking pass.”
