Page 65 of Heart Breaker

I end the call and set my phone on the counter without taking my eyes off my husband. His gaze drags over me before returning to my face as he prowls toward the kitchen to where I’m standing.

And despite my best efforts to not allow Wes to affect me, my nipples harden as I wonder what my husband has in store for me.

The drive to my parents’ house is painfully quiet.

The first thing Wes did when he got home was lift me up onto the counter and remind me exactly how little self-control either of us seem to have around each other. The second thing he did was get in the car and go silent. He’s barely said ten words to me since we left the house.

Now I’m sitting in the passenger seat, turning the same questions over and over in my head. What is happening between us? Does he have any regrets?

Instead of asking any of them, I stare out the window and pretend not to notice how tightly he’s gripping the steering wheel while anxiety and doubt chase each other around my brain in endless circles.

Figuring out Wes Winters is about as easy as solving a Rubik’s Cube in the dark. The man guards his thoughts like they’re classified government documents. Talk to him, I tell myself. Stop overthinking. Stop trying to decode every look and every stretch of silence. Ask him what is going on.

My chest tightens, and I have to remind myself that whatever is happening between us, Wes is carrying things I’ll never fully understand. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for him to lose his mom when he was barely old enough to understand what death even is, or to have to carry the kind grief that would follow for years afterward. And then there’s his father—not gone, but so consumed by his own pain that he stopped seeing his three boys when they needed him most. After that came Wes’s arrest and the rumors and assumptions that stemmed from that.

Maybe this silence has nothing to do with me at all. Maybe Wes is just trying to figure out how to get through tonight, how to meet my family and sell them this lie that we’ve created.

He turns the car down my parents’ street, and I point out their home as we approach it. The porch light is glowing, a warm yellow beacon that should feel welcoming. Instead, it feels like a spotlight.

My stomach knots.

Beyond those walls are the people who know me better than anyone and I’m worried that they’ll take one look at me and start asking questions I don’t want to answer. Questions I’m not sure I can answer.

Unbuckling my seatbelt, I shift sideways in my seat to look at Wes. “I know this isn’t an easy situation, but I want tonight to go well,” I start. “I really don’t want my parents to worry, or to cause them any stress. But if we’re going to pull this off, you’re going to have to talk to me.”

Wes glances over, dragging a hand over the scruff of his jaw. “I am talking.”

I snort. “You’ve said two words to me since we left.”

His jaw tightens. “I’m driving.”

“You’re brooding.”

“I’m not brooding.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Wes, if you look up the word ‘brooding’ in the dictionary, there would be a photo of your expression right now.”

He shakes his head, but at least he doesn’t try to deny it again.

"Wes. We need to talk," I say, before letting out a breath. "This is getting confusing."

His expression tightens slightly.

"We agreed it would happen once, and then you’ve come home every day after and..." I wave a hand helplessly between us. "We rip each other’s clothes off."

He glances at the house before turning to me.

"I’m not complaining. It's just… not helping," I mutter. It’s a relief to say it out loud. I don’t regret sleeping with Wes, but it’s impossible to just move on and pretend it didn’t happen. And whatever we’ve been doing since then—circling each other, pushing the boundaries—has blurred the line between an arrangement and something else entirely even more.

Wes nods. “I guess it’s not."

I stare at him and he stares right back. I wait for an explanation, wishing he would keep talking, that he would tell me what’s happening in that complicated head of his. Instead, in true Wes fashion, I’m met with more silence.

"It was supposed to be simple," I say quietly. Simple would have been so much easier. Simple wouldn't have me lying awake replaying every look he gives me. Every touch, every smirk, every moment that feels too real for something that’s supposed to be temporary.

Simple wouldn’t have me wondering whether I’m the only one falling.

"But it doesn't feel simple anymore.” He fills in the words before I can, his gaze shifting out the window before returning to mine.