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And while, yeah, it’s hella unorthodox, maybe we can work?
Jesus, Stacia, slow down. You’re having his baby, not wearing his ring, I scold myself, shutting down the craziness stirring in my brain.
“Buck and Lesli’s, this is Lesli.”
I clear my throat. “It’s Stacia, hi.”
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” she says. I was expecting her to sound mad, but if anything, she sounds…smitten.
“I am so sorry for last night.” God, was it only last night? “My behavior was highly unprofessional.”
“Your boyfriend was mighty upset.” Lesli laughs, which surprises me even more.
“He…he’s not my—”
Lesli cuts me off. “Let me tell you a story?”
“Uh, sure?” This conversation is not going at all the way I imagined.
“Fifteen years ago, I was twenty-five and a single mom. Buck and I had only met a time or two in passing, through mutual friends and what not. We had chemistry, the works, you know? But I brushed it aside. My kid came first, right?”
“Yeah, right,” I agree, seriously confused.
“Anyway, I was working at a seedy little strip club, shaking my ass and twerking on a pole to keep food on the table. One night, a bachelor party came in, and sure enough, Buck was a part of their group. Girl, when he saw me on that stage dressed in nothing more than six-inch heels, a see-through thong, and a smile…he charged it like a bull. Scared the shit out of me when he yanked me down and tossed me over his shoulder.”
She laughs lightly before continuing.
“I squirmed and flopped, but his grip never faltered, not even when he smacked my bare ass and barked at me to be still. He marched me right out of that club and took me to his place. This probably sounds crazy to you, but we talked for hours, about anything and everything. I told him about my son and he told me I wouldn’t be going back to the strip club. He said I was his and that he’d provide for me and my kid. We’ve been together ever since.”
The line falls quiet as my mind tries to process her insane story. Finally, I say, “I don’t mean to be rude, but why did you tell me that?”
“I told you that because the young man that carted you out of my restaurant last night looks at you the exact same way Buck looked at me.”
My heart thumps in my chest. “How?” I whisper.
“Like you’re something precious, something worth treasuring…like you’re his.”
I shake my head in denial, even though she obviously can’t see me. But…he did say he loved me. Holy shit, he really does love me!
We chat a bit longer, and before we end the call she says, “I hate that you won’t be with us, the clientele loved you, but you and your man are welcome to stop by anytime.”
I thank her, even though I know good and well West won’t darken their doorstep, before ending the call and tossing on some clothes and heading downstairs.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
West
Stacia says she didn’t sleep well. That makes two of us. All night, sleep eluded me as I obsessed over the fact that I told her I loved her. At first, my declaration shocked me as much as it did her.
“Because I fucking love you!”
As the words settled, I realized they were true. I do love her, and maybe I have for a long time. Only, it’s been an ever-changing love. First, I loved Stacia as a friend. But those feelings have grown, multiplied, and now I love her in an entirely foreign way. Which is probably why my own words shocked me so much.
Speaking of shock, I am damn near dying to see the look on Colton’s face when we stop by and catch him up. I tap out a text to him, letting him know we’ll be by after lunch—I’ll give him a little head’s up; wouldn’t want him to stroke out or anything.
His reply is instant.
Colton: She didn’t murder you in your sleep? I’m shocked.
Me: It gets better.
Colton: Something tells me we define the word better differently.
Me: If we do, my definition is the right one. See you soon.
I toss my phone down onto my bed and get ready for the day. Fifteen minutes later, I emerge dressed in dark wash jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves rolled, and a pair of brown leather boots on my feet.
When I step into the kitchen, Stacia is seated at the island, looking like a vision as she licks a glob of frosting from her finger. “This cake is yum!” she says after she swallows.
“Glad you like it.”
She smiles softly. “The message was cute—once I figured out it was calling me sweet and not sweaty.”
“Safe to say cake decorating isn’t my forte.”
“I know something you’re good at,” she hedges before pinching off another bite.
