Page 29 of A Bittersweet Summer

“You’re an open book, aren’t you?”

“I…” I pause, my cheeks flushing a hot shade of embarrassment. I probably look ridiculous. “Not normally, no. Maybe you just talk so little, it leaves space for me to talk way too much.”

I look at him—really look at him as he watches me. I wonder what he sees. “I like it when you talk,” he confesses.

There’s a pause—one filled with all the words I wish he had spoken. It feels strange having someone know this much about my childhood aside from my parents and brother.

The spell breaks when Wes puts his hands on his thighs and grunts as he stands. “Alright,” he starts. “Shift’s over. I think those two want back out with the herd.”

Deco and Intrepid keep their muzzles to the grass, gobbling up as much as possible. “Look pretty happy to me,” I say.

“Yeah, well. I can’t have them ruining my beautiful lawn.”

We gather up the horses and walk them back to the barn, scraping any remaining water off and picking out their hooves before letting them out.

When the door from the barn to the pasture closes shut, Wes looks me up and down. I swear I can feel his gaze everywhere—like a soft caress over my skin. It plants me right back to when his hands were on my hips back by the pond.

“You’re still wet,” he whispers.

I tug at the end of my shirt, trying my best not to look at him. “Appears so.” I clear my throat. “I’m sure it will dry. It’s not like I have to drive forever. Just a little far, and I can—”

“Roe left some clothes up at the house. I think there’s a pair of shorts you can wear, and I have a shirt you can borrow, too.”

I dare to look at him, realizing he’s staring at my soaked outfit. “That could work.”

The air is charged as we walk up to the house, electric like the air outside right before a good thunderstorm.

When he hands me the clothes in his kitchen and points me to the restroom, I can finally breathe. The shorts ride a bit higher than I’m used to, but when the shirt slides over my skin, engulfing me in the scent of detergent and freshly cut grass, I inhale deeply.

It takes my phone buzzing on the bathroom counter to draw my attention away from the smell of Wesley Miller.

Ellis:I should be there in three hours!

I type out my reply.

Me:I’ll be there. And thank you, guys, again. I know you’re busy with wedding planning!

Her response is almost instant.

Ellis:Not too busy to move some boxes!

I take one last look at the white, wood paneling around the walls—the picture of daisies painted and hanging askew above the toilet—before returning to the kitchen where Wes has changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a brown t-shirt—much like the one currently draped around my body.

“I’ll be moving my stuff in today,” I say, and he startles, turning around until he’s facing me fully.

His gaze doesn’t linger when it sweeps up from my toes to my eyes. I flush, suddenly embarrassed. When he finally turns, he meets my eyes with his hands resting on the countertop behind him. One boot is crossed over the other.

“I know,” he says with a nod. “You told me.”

“Right.” My body feels too warm. Especially when he doesn’t say anything else. I grip the plastic bag of my wet clothes tighter. “Well,” I start, swallowing my discomfort like a knife. “Thanks again.”

“No problem,” he says, nodding once. “It’s right back to work tomorrow, though.”

Right.

The comment is a splash of cold water. I glance nervously around the kitchen, anxious to make my departure.

I’m taken back to my relationship with Chad and how blind I’d been throughout the entire thing. I ignored the red flags, instead, latching on to every sliver of affection.