Page 21 of Heart Breaker

“Great,” I say, sounding entirely too breathless for someone who is supposedly fine. “I’ll, um, talk to you later.”

“Yeah,” he says, steady and low. “Later.”

I end the call before my face can betray me any more than it already has, then sit in silence with my phone in my hand and my heart doing entirely too much over a man I know better than to fall for.

EIGHT

Wes

There is nothing in the world that feels quite as free as being up here.

The cockpit is quiet except for the steady hum of the plane and the low, clipped exchange of routine between me and the other pilot. Outside the windshield there is nothing but clear sky stretching out in every direction, blue so deep it looks endless. For a few hours the world feels simple again. There’s no press to hound me, no board making demands, no courthouse wedding waiting on the horizon. And no Victoria.

I keep one hand on the controls and let my attention stay where it belongs, on altitude and speed and the long, practiced movements that come so naturally now I don’t even have to think about them most of the time. Flying has always done that for me. It strips everything else away until there is nothing left except the present moment and the sky in front of me. Up here, there is no room for distraction. No space for second-guessing. No time for anything that does not matter.

As we begin our descent, the coastline comes into view beneath us, the water dark and glassy in places, bright where the light catches it. The touchdown is smooth, the kind of landing that barely earns a second glance from anyone sitting in the back of the plane.

After the usual final checks and goodbyes, I make my way through the airport with my bag slung over one shoulder and my phone already buzzing in my pocket with messages I am not in the mood to look at yet.

I exit the airport and head for my car—it’s sleek, and expensive enough that I should probably be embarrassed by it, but I stopped being embarrassed by money a long time ago.

The drive home is quiet—the kind of quiet I usually like, but tonight it feels different. My mind keeps circling back to things I don’t want to deal with. It’s frustrating. I have never had much patience for thoughts that refuse to stay in their lane.

I make a quick stop along the way, not dwelling too much on the errand because I know that if I start calling it what it is, I am going to spend the rest of the drive thinking too hard about why I am doing any of this in the first place. I get back in the car and deposit the bag on the passenger seat and then make one more quick stop to pick up some take-out for Lottie and me. I’m sure she feels like her life has been turned upside down, so I figure dinner is the least I can do.

I pull into my driveway with both bags on the passenger seat beside me and as my house comes into view, it occurs to me that coming home tonight is very different because I’m coming home to my wife. Well, she’ll be my wife soon enough. I kill the engine and think, not for the first time, that this was just supposed to be a little white lie.

We’re way past that now.

Closing the front door behind me, I can feel the shift in the house immediately and I know Lottie is home before I even see her.

I follow the sounds drifting from the kitchen—music and the soft clink of dishes. I see Lottie before she sees me, and it only takes a second for everything else in the room to drop away. My gaze drags slowly over the length of her body, taking in more than I should.

She’s in workout gear—tiny, barely-there shorts that barely cover her ass cheeks and an athletic top that shows off her toned, flat stomach. It’s modest enough to cover her but tight enough that it does absolutely nothing to hide what’s underneath. It sits higher on her chest than I’d like, and I catch myself wondering what it would look like if it didn’t—if I was able to see a hint of cleavage. Her legs go on for days, toned and strong, and her hair is pulled up in a messy knot, loose pieces framing her face.

You’ve got to be kidding me.

I’ve spent three days trying like hell not to think about her, only to come home and find her dressed like that in my kitchen? How the hell am I supposed to act normal around her?

She looks up when she hears me and smiles, looking completely at ease, completely unaware of what she’s doing to me just by standing here in my kitchen.

Jesus. My cock is already half hard in my pants. She looks—no. I need to stop. I drag a slow breath in, forcing my attention back up to her face before it lingers somewhere it shouldn’t. This is a business arrangement, that’s it. I don’t get to touch. Dammit.

“Before you ask,” she says, walking back to the counter, “I’m making us a charcuterie board.”

There’s a cutting board on the counter stacked with crackers, sliced fruit, cheese, olives, cured meat, and little bowls I didn’t even know I owned. The rest of the kitchen is a disaster—open jars, utensils, and parchment paper spread over every available surface.

“Is that a fancy way to say snack board?” I ask, setting the take-out bag on the counter.

Her brows lift, gaze dropping to the paper bag of food from Wave and Wharf. “It’s a sophisticated snack board, Wes. What’s in the bag that smells so heavenly?”

I pluck an olive from the board and toss it in my mouth. “I picked up dinner for us. Two orders of fettuccini Alfredo and two green salads. I didn’t realize you had gone to so much effort here.”

Her cheeks flush, staining them the same shade as the raspberries on her elaborate snack plate. “Well, I was hungry, and I thought you might want something to eat when you got home.”

I’m momentarily speechless.

“Thank you,” I say. “That was thoughtful, but not necessary.”