Page 11 of Heart Breaker

I’ve seen him dressed up before in a tailored suit that I assume cost more money than I have in my bank account, but this relaxed look is somehow even more devastating. He’s smoldering hot without trying, which appears to be my kryptonite. There’s nothing awkward about him, no unflattering angle or feature that doesn’t work. It’s like God took his time with him and didn’t rush a single detail.

How is this man still single? In all the years I’ve lived in Deep Cove, I don’t recall ever hearing about him being in a serious relationship. It makes zero sense.

After storming out on Wes at Cove yesterday morning, I spent a bit of time looking him up online—purely for investigative purposes—and what I found did not help.

He doesn’t post much, but the few photos he has shared of himself on his socials are devastatingly handsome. Wes in the cockpit with a headset on, one hand on the controls. Another was taken at the beach, sunlight hitting him, his face half-turned toward the camera, his expression focused and sharp. I’m embarrassed to admit that I looked at the photo for a good five minutes.

It’s irritating, the fact that not only is my fake husband successful and accomplished, but he’s hot as hell too. It doesn’t help me stay mad at him when he’s sitting here dripping with alpha masculinity and scorching hot sex appeal.

Why am I acting this way? Getting distracted by a guy just because he’s attractive is not something I usually do. But there is something about Wes that makes it harder than it should be to look away.

I tighten my grip on my bag and start toward the table. Hot or not, he still has a lot to answer for.

“You came,” he says, already pushing to his feet as I reach the table. He towers over my five-foot-three frame and I have to tilt my head up to make eye contact with him. Before I can react, he steps closer, brushing one hand lightly over my arm as he leans in and presses a quick, easy kiss to my cheek. The contact is brief, barely there, but it sends a spark through me anyway—fast enough to catch me off guard.

What was that?

When he pulls back, I search his face for a sign he felt it too, but he gives nothing away. His lack of expression reminds me why I’m mad at him.

“Oh, I almost didn’t,” I say sarcastically as I slide into the chair across from him. “But then I remembered we’re newlyweds so I thought I should at least check in.”

An amused expression crosses his face and then disappears just as quickly.

“Well, I’m glad you came,” he says, taking his seat.

I set my bag down on the empty chair next to me with a little more force than necessary. “Let’s skip the small talk. We have a problem to solve.”

“We’ll get there.”

My eyes narrow. “We’re already there.”

He doesn’t react, which isn’t surprising. Wes is always annoyingly composed. He nods toward the drink already sitting in front of me. “I ordered for you.”

I glance down at the large, steaming mug, then back at him. “What is this?”

“Vanilla oat latte. Extra shot.”

I blink. “That’s my exact order.”

“I know.”

I’m a little taken aback, but it’s not the drink that gets to me, it’s the way he’s looking at me. His gray eyes hold mine, sharp and steady.

The Wes effect.

My eyes narrow. “How did you know my drink order?”

He leans back, completely at ease. “I asked Madeline.”

“Of course she’s working for you,” I mutter.

“She was helpful.”

“I’m sure she was.” I wrap my hands around the cup anyway, because I’m not about to waste a perfectly good coffee on principle. “Don’t get any ideas,” I warn, pointing at him over the lid. “You can’t butter me up with coffee and expect me to just forget everything.”

He leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, and my stomach does this annoying little swoop. “That wasn’t the plan.”

“Good,” I say, taking a sip of the warm foam like it will somehow calm whatever is happening in my stomach. I remind myself that I’m not supposed to be charmed by him, even if I’m finding that harder than I’d like it to be. “Because it’s not going to work. Even though this is very good.”