“You’re not law enforcement. You’re not a journalist,” Hudson said. “If you feel like something is off, it is. You should get out now before you’re in too deep.”
Bradley flipped an omelet before turning to us mournfully. “Sorry guys, this is just feeling really heavy for me.”
We stared at him.
“My sister moved to Minnesota a couple years ago to become more involved in a plastic food storage container MLM, so…”
We all nodded, offering our condolences. Delilah rubbed his chiseled chest and then helped him with the rest of the omelets.
Hudson and I exchanged a glance, trying our hardest to keep straight faces.
“Enough with the cult,” he said softly. “But you should keep exploring. You deserve to have fun, even of the ball gag and riding crop variety.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Hudson.”
He sighed. “And you need to be one-hundred-percent sure Mr. Hottie is truly like you—one ofus—and not one ofthem.”
My heart sank as I was reminded of Roman’s warnings. That people weren’t always who they seemed in The Circle. That unnamedothersdidn’t deserve my submission—that they weren’thonest monsters.
And then, I remembered Wes’s own words and whispers between states of consciousness: that he didn’t want to hurt me, that he didn’t deserve me, but he couldn’t stop.
“I don’t know for sure,” I admitted. It was hard to swallow suddenly. “It’s possible I’ve just been seeing what I wanted to see.”
Hudson and I weren’t touchy-feely friends, but his warm expression felt as close to comforting touch as we would get.
“We’ve all been there, Noves. You’re smart. Way smarter than any of us.”
“True,” Delilah agreed.
“Listen to your intuition, not a man’s pretty words.”
My phone rang. Wes’s name popped up on my screen, and instead of my previous excitement, all I felt was cold dread.
The explosion between us felt more like warfare than chemistry to me now.
“Hello?” I answered, slowly retreating to my bedroom away from the room of nosy eavesdroppers.
“Hi.”
My stomach flipped, betraying me. Fuck, if this was my reaction to his voice uttering a single syllable, I wasdoomed.
“Hi,” I echoed.
Wes chuckled, and I sank into my desk chair.
“How are you feeling today?”
I heard a car horn and a shout in the background, alerting me he was on the move this scorching Sunday afternoon.
“Exhausted and scrambled,” I said. “You?”
“Very similar,” he said. “Have you eaten?” He paused. “Coffee doesn’t count as food, Miss Writer.”
I made a face he couldn’t see. Not the Christian Grey cliché. He was better than that. “My roommate’s himbo is cooking us omelets. I believe that falls under protein and healthy fats.”
Wes laughed, making my toes curl. “It does. What is a himbo exactly?”
God, he was so offline, and it wassosexy. “A male bimbo.”
