Page 38 of Heart Breaker

“I’m not making it up,” I argue. “Not really. I handle most of their paperwork anyway. I’ll just tell them I got it reassessed. They’ll believe me.”

Harper doesn’t look convinced.

The drive home from my parents’ house feels long. It always does after I see them. The roads are familiar, the turns automatic at this point, but my chest feels tight in a way that makes everything feel heavier, like I’m carrying something I can’t quite set down.

I picture my dad, the way he looked when I left their house—smaller somehow, sitting in the same chair he always has, in the same living room that hasn’t changed in years. My dad has never been a big man, but he’s always felt solid. Steady. The kind of presence you don’t question because it’s always been there.

Now, he looks tired. It’s something that sits in his bones and it’s hard to look at. Harder to leave.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, blinking quickly as I focus on the road. Growing up, we didn’t have much. Not in the way other families did. No big vacations, no brand-new cars sitting in the driveway, no extras that weren’t carefully thought through.

My dad worked long hours as a manager of a flooring company; it was the kind of job where everything falls on your shoulders. It paid just enough but not more than that. My mom worked at the elementary school, a lunch monitor who somehow knew every kid’s name and made it her mission to make sure none of them felt invisible. They stretched what they had in ways I didn’t fully understand until I was older. Cut back where they could. Saved where it mattered. Made decisions that probably kept them up at night, all so Harper and I could get to somewhere better.

When we were teenagers, they sent us to boarding school—even now, it feels surreal when I think about it. They sent us away because they wanted more for us than what they had, even though it meant empty rooms at home and long stretches of quiet that I know they hated. We came back on breaks, filled the house with noise again. Every single time, it felt like picking up right where we left off. They never made us feel like we were missing out. We had dinners together, we laughed a lot. We talked about everything and nothing. My mom always asked too many questions, my dad always pretended he wasn’t listening in when he absolutely was. They showed up for everything—every recital, every event, every moment that mattered, even when it wasn’t convenient, even when it cost more than they should’ve spent.

We were never rich, but we were loved. And when things got hard, they didn’t let that change anything.

And things got really hard. My heart condition turned our lives upside down for a while. It’s genetic—the same condition my dad has. I still remember the look on my parents’ faces the day they found out. Sheer heartbreak. It was especially hard for my dad. He felt like he handed the condition down to me, and he blamed himself for a long time, even though none of it was his fault. There were countless appointments, specialists, tests. It never seemed to end. Then, finally, there was the surgery, and the recovery period that followed.

It could have broken them or at least cracked something open, but they were always just there—calm and present. They sat through every appointment, asked all the right questions, learned every medication and dosage. My mom kept lists. My dad kept track of timelines, next steps, anything that gave the illusion of control. And when I came home after surgery, they were there for everything. They took care of me, entertained me when I got bored, reassured me when I was scared. They watched over me every moment of the day, even when I insisted I was fine.

I know they must have been so worried, but they always did their best to hide that from me. They still do. Now, I try to do the same for them.

I exhale slowly, my chest tightening again as I think about what my dad’s doctor said. His heart is failing him. The words don’t sit right in my head. They don’t belong next to him. To me, my dad has always been able to handle anything. He’s always been larger than life. Now everything feels fragile.

I swallow hard, blinking again as the road blurs for a second before I force myself to focus. There was a moment today when I considered telling them the truth about my marriage to Wes. I hate keeping things from them. But they have enough to carry, and if I can make even one part of this easier for them—even if it means lying, even if it means keeping pieces of my life separate from theirs a little longer—then that’s what I’ll do.

They’ve spent their entire lives making sure I’m okay. The least I can do is try to do the same for them now.

By the time I pull into the long driveway of Wes’s house, the sky has gone completely dark. I kill the engine and sit there for a second, my hands still wrapped around the steering wheel as exhaustion settles over me. Emotionally and physically, every part of me feels drained. I grab my purse and keys and head inside, the front door clicking softly shut behind me. The house is quiet. A lamp glows in the family room, casting warm light across the otherwise dark space. At first, I assume Wes isn’t home—he often comes back very late. But then I see that the backyard is illuminated, the pool reflecting ribbons of blue light across the glass doors.

The sliding door is cracked open just enough for cool night air to drift inside, and I when I get closer, I see the movement in the water. My breath catches slightly.

I watch as Wes surfaces near the edge of the pool. He pushes a hand back through his wet hair, water running down the hard lines of his chest and shoulders as he moves toward the steps.

Oh wow.

I stay where I am, partially hidden by the darkness inside the house. Wes climbs out of the water and suddenly every coherent thought leaves my mind. He’s wearing black swim trunks that are slung low on his hips and end mid-thigh. His pecs are impossibly defined, water dripping slowly down smooth, tanned skin and over defined muscle that looks like it was carved rather than earned. Every muscle in his arms shift with quiet power as he reaches for the towel tossed over one of the loungers nearby. And his stomach—good Lord. My eyes drag helplessly lower, over hard abs and sharp lines disappearing beneath the waistband of his trunks, and heat blooms instantly through my entire body.

I have seen attractive men before. I have never seen this.

There’s something almost distracting about the size of him. The way he takes up space so effortlessly, all strength and masculine confidence. Water trails slowly down his torso as he lifts the towel, dragging it over the back of his neck before rubbing it through his wet hair.

The sight of him does something dangerous to me. My nipples tingle under my sweater. My pulse stutters. My skin feels hot. And suddenly I’m hyperaware of the fact that I’m hiding in the dark staring at him like a complete idiot.

Wes lifts his head then, almost like he senses me there, and my stomach tightens hard when his eyes meet mine through the open doorway.

For one suspended second, neither of us moves. His hooded gray eyes stay locked on mine with a kind of slow, deliberate intensity that sends heat rushing through my body so fast I actually have to grip the frame of the door to steady myself.

I clear my throat lightly, forcing my brain to function again. God, the sight of him wearing almost nothing is like a shock to my system.

“It’s a nice night for a swim,” I say when my brain remembers how to function.

“Yeah,” he says. “It was a hell of a day.”

“Long flight?”

“Got back this morning.” He runs the towel down his legs. “I was supposed to come straight home, but I stopped by Cove on the way and there was something the board wanted to go over, so naturally that turned into hours.”