“Oh.”
I stepped inside and immediately knelt to take off my shoes, as this felt like a no-shoes situation. Exposed brick dominated the right wall, where several tall bookcases and a record player sat. A small couch and two chairs were positioned atop a beautiful burgundy rug facing the window. The wall closest to me was a gallery wall, displaying paintings and shelves with small sculptures and vases.
I straightened to face the full dining room table and chef’s kitchen, where tall windows and a door with black frames overlooked the terrace and garden below. In front of us, a staircase led down to the garden level, then up to the third floor.
Wes watched me gape at his home with what could only be described as mild discomfort.
“So the subway is how you atone for your chef’s kitchen?”
His discomfort melted with a grin. “Exactly.” He placed a hand on my back, gently guiding me to sit on the couch. “Can I get you anything? Water?”
“Water would be nice, thank you,” I said, twisting to watch him approach the sexy wraparound marble counters. I drooled at the glass canopy chimney vent hood over the stove in the center island.
If I had a kitchen like that, I would cook, like,allthe time.
“So… you cook?” I remembered after the question had left my lips that he’d said he would cook for me this week.
Wes lifted his brows from his massive double-door stainless steel fridge. “I think I’d need to do far more rigorous atoning if Ididn’tuse this space to cook.”
“Well, you never know with rich people,” I said.
Wes’s humor vanished, and he gave a single nod as he returned with two glasses of filtered water.
Okay, so Wes clearly had a complex about his wealth. As someone who had a negative net worth, it was difficult to be sympathetic to that.
“Yeah, you’re right,” he said finally.
He handed me my water, and I made a mental note to use one of the sleek black coasters on the coffee table. Wes hadcoasters.I didn’t know men knew about coasters. Or Brita filters.
The space was cool and crisp from the central AC, and that might’ve been the most luxurious feature of Wes’s life thus far.
We turned to each other, and Wes’s previous nervousness had returned. It was strange to see—so different from controlled, ruthless Wes inside The Circle. I traced the black tattoos peeking out from his plain white t-shirt—the snake that crawled up one side of his neck, and the mirrored skeleton snake that crawled up the other. The alchemical symbols on his knuckles, and the trees, stars, and other natural and cosmic imagery up his toned arms.
Wes’s mysticism and edginess had been cast in a new light. I wanted to know more, to finally understand who this man was at his innermost layer.
“I guess I’ll start at the beginning,” Wes said. “I didn’t grow up like this.” He gestured vaguely to hisArchitectural-Digest-worthy townhouse. “My parents married young, far too young, in their hometown in North Carolina. My dad had big dreams, and my mom supported him—thanklessly—as he pursued them. He was far more interested in his newfound ambitions than he was in fatherhood. Or my mother, for that matter. While hewent to school and tried and failed his way through various side hustles, my mom took care of me and the home. It was neverherdream to be a homemaker, but that didn’t matter to him. He said it would all be worth it one day. His favorite promise.”
Wes’s eyes flashed with anger. I shifted toward him instinctively, reaching for his hand.
“She helped him brainstorm over breakfast, over dinner, at my baseball games—any pocket of time he spent with us rather than on his computer or at school. She was so fucking smart. I remember thinking that before I could understand what they were talking about. And while my dad profited off her help, I think he ultimately resented it. He didn’t want a collaborator, an intellectual equal. He wanted someone easy to control.”
When Wes spoke of his mother, his eyes shone with so much emotion, it squeezed my heart.
“He resentedus. The life he’d fallen into before he realized his true destiny,” Wes spat. “Once he started taking trips to New York, a part of me knew it was over, maybe even before my mom did. I knew, one day, he wasn’t going to come back.” Wes shook his head, glancing out the window in front of us as he spoke his next words. “When I was ten, my dad left my mom, moved to New York full-time, and married a nineteen-year-old model. All in the same year.”
“Oh, Wes,” I said, squeezing his hand.
“By the time my mom got her diagnosis five years later, it was too late. The doctors said it was ovarian cancer,” he said softly. “But I was convinced my mom died of a broken heart.”
27
NOVA
The moment Wes’s eyes grew shiny, his lips forming a deep frown, I moved even closer. I rested my legs in his lap as I traced his tattoos. He placed his broad hand across my thighs, tracing circles with his thumb absentmindedly.
“While I watched my mother get sick and die, my dad got rich several states away. His promise had only ever applied to himself—that, one day, it will all be worth it. By the time I landed on his doorstep at seventeen, he’d gotten everything he ever wanted. And I had one mission.” Wes paused, his grip on my thigh tightening. “To meticulously and systematically destroy him and everything he’d built.”
I blew out a breath. “Can’t say I blame you,” I murmured. “I’m so sorry, Wes.”
