Page 39 of Heart Breaker

I smile softly despite myself so Wes won’t see the disappointment etched in my face. “Naturally.”

His eyes stay on mine as he continues. “Then Ford and Jesse wanted dinner, so we all grabbed a bite at Breakwater Bistro.” As disappointed as I am that he didn’t come home after the office to see me, a warmth flickers low in my stomach. I like hearing him explain his day to me. The familiarity of it. Wes doesn’t usually say more than he needs to, so I can tell that he’s trying. “And when I finally got home, you weren’t here.”

The words settle between us heavily. I look down for a second, suddenly very aware of the fact that this is probably the longest conversation we’ve had since getting married. The silence has been wearing on me for days.

“I was at my parents’ house,” I say softly.

He nods once. “How are they?”

“They’re okay.”

Quiet stretches between us again as I try to look anywhere but at the water still sliding slowly down the hard lines of his chest.

“How’s your d⁠—"

“I feel like I haven’t actually talked to you in days,” I say, talking over him. It’s my admission of how tired I am of the way it feels to be me lately. I’m tired of pretending this house doesn’t feel strange and lonely and confusing all at once.

He nods slowly, like he realizes it too. He drags the towel over hard muscles on his chest before answering. “Yeah, I’ve felt that way too.”

“Have you?” I ask.

His brows pull together. “Lottie, is something wrong?”

“You leave before I’m awake half the time,” I say, the words just tumbling out of me now. “And when I get home, you’re gone—locked in your office or flying to another city. I never even know where you are. I don’t know your schedule. I don’t know when you’re coming home or when you’re leaving again. Half the time I feel like I’m just… house-sitting or something, looking around for someone who may or may not appear.”

“I didn’t realize you felt like that.”

“Well, I do.” I hate that I feel this way. I know this isn’t a real marriage—we’re barely even friends. I have no right to demand to know where Wes is or what he’s doing, but even roommates would know more about each other’s day, wouldn’t they?

He inhales a heavy breath before dropping the towel onto the lounger beside him, then he takes a step closer toward me, water still dripping from his shorts onto the stone. “I’m sorry, Lottie. I am. I haven’t treated you the way you deserve. I’m not good at this.”

I glance back at him. “At what?”

“People,” he answers simply, shrugging. “Remembering to tell somebody where I’m going or when I’ll be back. Living with someone.” He exhales roughly, dragging a hand through his wet hair again. “I’ve spent most of my life alone.” There’s no self-pity in it, it just comes out like a statement of fact. “I know that’s not an excuse,” he continues, his voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “I just… I don’t think about those things naturally.”

I worry my bottom lip with my teeth while something in my chest softens despite myself. He leans one shoulder lightly against the doorframe, gray eyes fixed on mine. “But I should be thinking about them,” he says. “About you.”

The heat that rushes through me at those words is immediate and impossible to control. When a muscle flexes in his chest as he shifts on his feet, a warm, dizzy sort of awareness unfurls low in my stomach.

Hold onto this rush, something inside of me begs. Don’t let it disappear.

“I know this whole thing started for the wrong reasons,” he says quietly. “And I know I’ve handled parts of it badly. But I don’t want you feeling like you don’t have a place here.” His jaw tightens. “Because you do.”

He studies me for another second before shaking his head softly, almost frustrated with himself.

“I messed this up,” he mutters. “I thought giving you space was the right thing to do, and somehow, I made it worse. I’m sorry, Lottie. I want to do better with you.”

The vulnerability in that admission catches me off guard. This man who seems to take pride in being unreadable and totally in control sounds almost uncertain right now. It’s disarming.

Wes pins his gaze on me, his gray eyes clear and unguarded. I study him quietly—the tightness in his jaw, the crease between his brows, the way his damp, dark lashes frame those stormy gray eyes as they stay fixed on me with an openness I haven’t seen from him before. He’s not walled off or detached in the way he usually is, not hiding behind that calm, measured expression he wears so easily.

His apology is what undoes me. For all the intimidating things about Wes Winters— the sharp suits, the quiet intensity, the way people automatically move aside when he walks into a room—there’s something unexpectedly soft underneath it all. Something most people never get to see.

“You don’t have to be perfect at this,” I say softly. “I think I just needed to feel like you remembered that I exist in your home now too.”

His eyes hold mine. “I do,” he says. “I just haven’t been very good at showing it.”

I let out a slow breath, my shoulders loosening slightly. “Okay. Apology accepted.”