Page 18 of Heart Breaker

I glance at him, still too tangled up in my thoughts to know what to say. “Wes⁠—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean it. If you don’t want to go through with this, I understand. It’s a lot to ask.”

That almost makes me laugh, it’s such an understatement, but there is nothing funny about any of it. “I’m not happy,” I admit, folding my arms against the chill. “I’m not the girl who’s been planning her wedding since she was little, but I also didn’t think I’d be getting married in a courthouse to someone I barely know, without my family there.”

Wes paces the sidewalk in front of me, jaw tight, looking more restless than I’ve ever seen him.

“I’m going to tell her it’s off,” he says.

“No,” I say immediately.

He stops and looks at me.

“I said I’d do this for you,” I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel. “And I meant it. I’m doing this for my dad too. I’d do anything for him,” I add more softly, because there is no point pretending that’s not what this really comes down to. “Anything. If this is what it takes to help him, then I want to see it through.”

Something in his expression loosens, like he was braced for me to walk away and isn’t sure what to do now that I’ve told him I’m staying.

“Okay,” he says as he drags a hand over the nape of his neck and squeezes, like he’s trying to work out the tension there. “I’m sorry but I have to go. I have a flight in a couple of hours.”

Right. Of course he does. Wes Winters still has an actual life, even if mine has been flipped upside down.

I’ll check in with you later tonight. See how the move went. My housekeeper, Angelina, has stocked the fridge with groceries and pre-made meals for you. If you need anything at all, tell me. Anything. I want to know.”

The way he says it makes it sound like he means it, like he would actually show up with whatever I asked for, no matter how small or ridiculous it was.

“I’ll let you know.”

His gaze lingers on me for a beat, then he nods. “I’ll see you when I get home.”

Home.

The word lands in a strange place inside me, and I do the only thing I can think to do, which is turn away before my face gives anything away. I make it two steps.

“Wait.”

His voice makes me stop in my tracks. Before I can turn around, his hand closes lightly around my wrist, just enough pressure to make me feel it. A shiver runs through me, straight to my heart.

I look up, and when I do, he’s already staring at me. His gray eyes hold mine, steady and unreadable in that way that makes my stomach do something stupid. Wes’s thumb shifts against my wrist, a small, inconsequential motion that somehow feels anything but inconsequential.

“I mean it, Lottie,” he says quietly. “If this gets to be too much, if anything at all feels off, you tell me. You do not have to carry this by yourself.”

My throat tightens before I can stop it because that is more kindness than I expected. More than I know what to do with.

I nod, because that feels safer than speaking right now. He lets go of my wrist but before I can move, he leans in and presses a light kiss to my cheek. It’s brief but somehow it still manages to knock the breath right out of me. When he pulls back, I can only stare at him for a second, stunned stupid by the warmth of it. He looks just as collected as before, which seems deeply unfair. He turns and walks away like he hasn’t just left me standing on the sidewalk with my pulse in my throat and the thought that my fake marriage suddenly feels a lot less fake.

How am I supposed to be married to one of the most eligible men in Deep Cove for an entire year? How am I supposed to spend all that time living with him—in his house, in his space, knowing that I could see him walking around shirtless or, worse, in nothing but boxer briefs—and manage to keep my distance?

I am not built for this. Not even close. If this is my new reality, I am deeply, truly, and completely doomed.

SEVEN

Lottie

The movers left Wes’s house just after eight p.m., depositing the last of the boxes in my bedroom. I locked the door behind them and stood in the middle of my new home feeling mildly panicked and more than a little in awe.

Wes sent me a long text before his flight to give me a layout of his house. It read like he was giving me a description of a luxury Airbnb property—how to lower the blackout blinds, how to adjust the hot tub temperature, where to find the guest room that will be mine for the year—instead of handing me the keys to the strangest day of my life.

His home is absurdly gorgeous. That is the only way to describe it. It’s all clean lines and expensive taste, the kind of house that looks like it was designed by a person who has never once had to worry about paying a bill in their life. The walls are light, the floors are dark, and every piece of furniture looks like it was plucked straight from a page of Architectural Digest. There are huge windows that overlook the water, glass so clear it feels like the ocean is just part of the room. The space around me is so big and so quiet that I’m suddenly very aware of the sound of my own footsteps as I wander around exploring.