Page 26 of Heart Breaker

I shake my head, moving quickly toward the stove, trying to act like I wasn’t just tossing and turning in my bed trying to forget about our almost kiss—even though I’m not one hundred percent sure that’s what it was. “Nope. I didn’t realize you’re up too.”

I fill the kettle, keeping my back toward him, desperately trying not to look in the direction of his shirtless body. I already caught a glimpse of his broad chest, smooth skin and defined pecs with small blush nipples. And my God, he looks downright sinful.

I bite back a groan and turn on the kettle, feeling the heat wash over my skin.

“I’d guess most people don’t sleep much the night before they get married,” he says.

“Yeah, that’s probably it,” I say, turning to face him, trying to keep my eyes on his, but my brain refuses to cooperate. Instead, my gaze dips down to his chest again, to the sharp lines of muscle in his shoulders. He has no hair on his chest, and I immediately wonder if he waxes it. My eyes drop lower, but I can’t see past his sculpted abs. I wonder if he has a trail of hair there leading to the promise land? And I would bet Wes has a very impressive promise land.

You need to stop.

I look up quickly and realize that I’m not the only one staring. My mouth curves into a grin as I catch him staring at my chest before he snaps his attention back to his sandwich like he’s suddenly remembered it’s there.

But my stomach drops when it suddenly occurs to me what he was looking at: the scar that runs right down the center of my chest, the one I’ve had since I was a little girl. It’s less noticeable now—a pale, vertical line that runs between my breasts—but still impossible to miss.

Heat creeps up my neck as I fight the instinct to cover myself. I never wear anything that shows it. If I’d known he was awake, I would have thrown on a T-shirt.

“I…I’m making chamomile tea if you’d like some,” I say, hoping my voice sounds normal enough to hide the way my pulse is still speeding.

He looks up from his plate, eyes meeting mine. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” he says sheepishly.

I try to cover my chest with my arm. “It’s okay. It’s… from a long time ago.”

“But you’re okay now?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, reminding myself to breathe. “Yeah. It’s under control. I have it managed.”

Wes’s expression tells me he’s not entirely convinced, but he lets it go. “I’d love a cup.”

I turn before he can say anything else and grab two teacups from the cupboard. Casually, I try to tug my tank up a little higher on my chest hoping it covers most of my scar.

“You think it will help us sleep?” he asks.

“My mom used to drink chamomile tea when I was younger. Said it helps calm your brain when it won’t shut up. She used to say it was the cure for anything.”

I reach for the package of teabags I found earlier in his cupboard when I was snooping and drop one into each cup. After I’ve poured the hot water, I bring the steaming mugs to the table, carefully sliding one in front of him.

“Is tonight one of those nights when your brain won’t shut up?” he asks with a hint of a smile.

“Maybe,” I answer, slipping into the chair across from him, holding the mug in front of my chest, doing my best to cover my scar.

“Must be something big, then,” he says, leaning into the table, the muscles in his forearms flexing. I hate that I notice. “So, chamomile fixes all of that?”

I look back down at my tea, tracing the rim of the mug with my thumb. “Allegedly.”

“Good to know.” He lifts his mug, taking a slow sip, his eyes still on me. I can’t tell if he’s just lost in his own thoughts or studying me. “Might need to stock up then.”

No, we definitely shouldn’t. That’s a terrible idea.“We probably shouldn’t make this a habit.”

“Insomnia?” he asks.

“Middle-of-the-night kitchen meetups,” I clarify, meeting his eyes, fixating on their warm flecks of gold.

“Right,” he says. “That’s probably smart.”

I nod, like I’m satisfied with that answer. “Goodnight, Wes. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night, Lottie.”