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GRACIE
Weston lives in the Mission District, which isn’t all that far from my own neighborhood. We’re practically neighbors.
“You should really clean out your car,” I say, plucking the empty Starbucks cup from the center console and holding it up for Weston to glower at out of the corner of his eye as he drives. I shuffle my feet around the trash in the footwell. “I don’t even have a car, but I know damn well if I did, it would never look like this.”
“I didn’t force you to take this ride,” Weston reminds me, taking the cup from my hand and sticking it back into the holder. “If you aren’t happy with the service, get an Uber.”
I roll my eyes and keep my focus trained on him as we head underground to his apartment building’s parking garage. It’s nearing eight in the morning and he’s still wearing his uniform, minus the duty belt, and his hair is more tousled now than it was last night. There are lines of exhaustion etched around his eyes. For a moment, I feel guilty. The poor man just wants to collapse into bed and sleep for the rest of the day, but I’ve forced him into entertaining a complete stranger.
But what Weston said back at the diner struck a chord with me. He feels comfortable with me. And that makes a whole lot of sense, because I feel comfortable around him too. When he hugged me in my kitchen, it was something I was sorely in need of. Strangers be damned, it felt nice. And he didn’t judge me for my relentless crying, which is a bonus. So, if he wants to vent about Charlotte, I’ll listen.
“I do really need to sleep,” Weston says, finishing strong with a yawn. He kills the engine and pulls the keys from the ignition. “But I’ll still get you some coffee first.”
“I appreciate that.”
We leave the car and cross the parking garage to the stairs, climbing them to the second floor of the building. It’s not the most glamorous. Older, with a worrying lack of windows in the hallway and only a dim, yellow wall light to compensate. I don’t judge, because Luca and I have been blessed with our finances under exceptional circumstances, and I never forget just how lucky we are to have the apartment in the building complex that we do. Or rather just me, now.
As though reading my mind, Weston hesitates with his hand on the handle of his apartment door. “Heads up: it’s a studio, and it feels like a shoebox compared to your mansion.”
I blink with indifference. “Just open the door.”
“And I wasn’t expecting to have a guest,” he adds, before letting me into his apartment.
Itissmall, but what studio apartment isn’t? The kitchen consists of three cupboards, and his bed that’s pressed right up against the wall is a mere six feet away from his couch, but the apartment is tastefully decorated and clean, which is way more than I can say for his car. I circle the floor, suddenly feeling awkward.
I can’t remember what I’m doing here.
Weston brushes past me to pull the curtains shut, but they aren’t blackout curtains, so the light in the apartment only dims. How he manages to sleep in here after working nights, I have no idea. Another yawn escapes him and he moves his fingers to the buttons of his shirt, but stops.
“Gracie,” he says quietly. A sliver of light from a gap in the curtains illuminates one side of his face. “I need to sleep .?.?. And I don’t sleep in my uniform.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “Right.”
The apartment feels so intensely quiet and still, and Weston’s tired laugh is like a breath as I turn my back to him. I pick at my nails and concentrate on the floor as he changes, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch his reflection in the wall mirror. There’s a lump in my throat as I watch him unbutton his shirt to reveal a black undershirt beneath. His tattoos are exposed now, that one arm painted dark from his shoulder all the way down to the back of his hand. I never thought I liked tattoos all that much before, but they suit Weston. He kicks off his boots, steps out of his pants, and pulls off the undershirt.
Now I gulp. He stands a few feet behind me, wearing nothing but a pair of black fitted boxers. He is indeed muscular, like I already guessed from the way his clothes fit, and there are lines of definition carved into his stomach that continue into the waistband of his boxers. I am mesmerized, not necessarily byhim, but at the sight of a very nearly naked male. Luca is the only guy I’ve ever seen, and suddenly it’s like I’m fourteen again, blushing over shirtless boys. Unfamiliar territory.
“Okay,” Weston says as he pulls on a pair of sweatpants. “Coffee. Do you take creamer?”
My cheeks are absolutely on fire now as I turn back around, and I’m certain he sees it because his lips curve into an amused smile. I wish he’d put a shirt on. My head spins and my throat feels dry.
“Do you mind grabbing me some water instead?” I say, subconsciously touching my fingers to my throat. “I think I’m dehydrated.”
“Yup. Wine will do that to ya.” Weston turns to his small kitchen and fills me a glass of water from the faucet. It’s ice cold as he slips it into my hand. “You need some Tylenol?”
I shake my head and sip at the water, quenching my thirst. Over the rim of the glass, I watch Weston very forcefully suppress a yawn in an effort to be polite. He’s tired; I’m tired. Now is not the time for more conversations over coffee.
“I’m sorry, I should go and let you get some sleep,” I say, setting the water down on the coffee table, prepared to make a hasty exit. “I need some more sleep too.”
“You’re more than welcome to crash here,” Weston offers, then after a beat, adds, “on the couch.” He smiles shyly.
It’s not the worst idea in the world. Weston’s couch does look comfortable, and I would much rather be here than heading home to my own empty apartment that bursts with too many painful memories.
“Okay. Thanks.”
Weston grabs a blanket from inside a storage ottoman at the foot of his bed and hands it over. The close proximity nearly makes me die as I fight to keep my eyes from dipping to his bare chest.
“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” he says, then disappears off into the bathroom.
