Page 20 of Heart Breaker

“No, I think you covered every square inch of the place in your text messages.”

Wes smiles for real this time and I get the sense he’s starting to find me mildly amusing.

“Victoria arranged the details for Monday at the courthouse,” he says, settling back a little deeper against the bed. “And I’ve set up a private appointment at Holt Renfrew for you so you can pick out a dress for the ceremony.”

I blink. “You did what?”

“A private appointment,” he repeats. “My card is on file. Just get whatever you need, don’t worry about the cost.”

I go still. “You have a card on file at Holts?”

“Yes.”

“That is one of the most millionaire things I have ever heard.”

“I’m aware. And I’d like to take you to dinner afterward.”

I nearly choke. “Dinner?”

“Yes, dinner,” he says, smiling again.

There’s no pressure in his voice, no expectations, and that somehow catches me more off guard than anything he’s said so far. Again, it’s unexpected; the kind of sweet gesture that slips past my defenses before I have time to decide whether it’s okay for me to feel touched by it.

“Look,” he says, his tone more serious now. “I know this is not how you pictured your wedding day.”

My chest tightens.

“I know it’s not your dream wedding,” he continues. “And I know how much I’m asking.”

My mind wanders to my family not being there. My dad, even though he’s sick, would absolutely want to walk me down the aisle and give me away. My sister would have been my maid of honor. I know this isn’t a relationship, but there is still something that feels hollow about doing all of this without them being there to see it.

“I just want to make it as good as I can for you,” Wes says. “If you’re going to do this, then I want it to be nice. I want you to look back on our wedding day and remember something good.”

My throat goes tight and I have to look away for a second to get myself back under control. He said it like he means it, like he actually wants the day to feel special for me. But if I allow myself to keep noticing how sweet he’s being, it’s going to be a lot harder to not blur the lines between fake and real.

I have to stop noticing the way Wes’s voice softens when he’s being kind, and the way he looks at me like I’m someone he’s already taking care of. That is a very fast path to trouble, and I am not in the mood to make my own life any harder than it already is. I sit up a little straighter and force myself to maintain a neutral expression.

“That’s nice of you, Wes,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can. “But a fancy fake dinner is probably unnecessary, as nice as it sounds.”

He does that small, maddening almost-smile again, the one that does things to my pulse. “Lottie, I’m serious.”

“Wes, you really do not have to do all that for me.”

“I know I don’t have to,” he says. “I want to. You deserve to be taken care of.”

The words land softly, but I have to remind myself to breathe because that is exactly the kind of sentence that can get me into trouble if I let myself sit with it too long.

“Okay,” I say, a little too quickly, desperate to move the conversation to safer ground. “Um. Right. On that note, I should probably go.”

One brow lifts slightly. “You need to go?”

“I do. I have to finish unpacking.”

His mouth twitches. “Are you sure you’re okay? You have everything you need there?”

“No,” I blurt, then immediately wince. “I mean—yes. Yes, I’m sure. I just need to go. I have things to do.”

He studies me for a second longer, and there is something dangerously soft in his expression before he nods. “All right.”