Page 54 of The Beat Match

She’d felt giddy hailing a cab, excited to get gone and meet Wes, but the ride to his condo had felt too short. Once there, she’d stared at his building, unable to go inside or take a full breath. For reasons she hadn’t fully understood, she’d chosen to walk around the neighborhood instead, stopping periodically to reread his texts, stalling when what she really wanted was to dive into Weston’s bed, find out what it would be like to kiss him with her eyes open, knowing he was the man gripping her body, turned on, their tongues tangling with intent.

But, no. She’d read his words one more time, had walked around the block one more time. She’d delayed so long he was probably asleep and snoring. And she was overheated, like she was having hot flashes at the tender age of twenty-seven. A rare case of early-onset menopause. Or Wes-o-pause. That must be her current affliction: she was desperately grappling to hit pause.

She loved Wes. He obviously had feelings for her. Once she stepped through that door, for better or for worse, everything would change. Bigger changes. No returning to their “normal” changes. This was their final frontier and blasting into outer space seemed less daunting than opening Weston’s door.

Hand trembling, she fitted her key into his lock. She took a massive breath, which did zero to assuage her nerves, then turned the key while trying to keep quiet. She didn’t want to wake Wes or Felix, or find out Wes had acted out of rash jealousy and had changed his mind about this invitation.

She eased the door open. The lights were still on in the kitchen, but darkness weighted the rest of the condo. Her armpits and forehead felt damp.

“Took you long enough,” a rough voice said.

She yelped and dropped the key. Wes was on the leather couch by the windows, heavy thighs sprawled, hands clenched into fists. The dim lighting slashed shadows across his face as he sat. Not for long. He stood and stalked toward her, resolute, single-minded, like he was going to grab her, devour her, kiss the Wes-o-pause out of her.

She abruptly said, “Bathroom,” and skittered in her heels across the hardwood floor, away from all the erotic maleness gunning for her. She closed the door and locked it. She wasn’t sure if he’d followed her. She couldn’t hear much besides the loud thud of her heart. She had no clue why she was running from the one man she wanted.

She did have to pee, though. Walking and stalling hadn’t done her bladder any favors. It must be why she’d dodged the sexual animal in the other room, but she didn’t leave after flushing the toilet and washing her hands. She grabbed two luxurious hand towels and pressed them under her armpits to absorb her sweat. “Get it together,” she whispered to herself.

A knock sounded. “Everything okay in there?”

She was far from okay. “That’s a pretty rude question to ask a woman in a bathroom.”

“You’re not just any woman.”

“And you’re not just any man.” He was the man. The bar. A previously unreachable level. “I’m not decent.”

“As in undressed?”

“As in gross and unattractive.”

“You’re stunning, tonight and always. And you forget I’ve seen you at your worst: drooling when you sleep, snot hanging out of your nose on that cold sailing trip through the harbor, hungover and stuffing your face with salt and vinegar chips. I’ve seen it all, Annie.”

Not even close. But…stunning. She looked in the mirror, tried to see beyond her hysteria. Although her dress was still lovely, white towels protruded from under her arms, her neck was splotchy, the hairs at her temple had frizzed slightly, and her hazel eyes were wide. Wary. More brown than green. This wasn’t how she’d imagined their night beginning.

“You should go to bed,” she said. “I’ll let myself out. We can meet up tomorrow, talk about whatever this is.”

“Not happening.”

“But—”

“You are not leaving, Annie.”

God, his tone. Rough. Adamant, with a hint of desperation. This still wasn’t at all what she’d imagined. “Weston…”

“Anthea…”

She groaned. “I’m standing here with your perfectly plush towels stuck under my arms, drowning in stress sweat because the idea of what might happen between us, which is exactly what I want to happen, might actually happen and it’s turning me into a human fountain. STRESS SWEAT, Wes. I’m practically dripping this nonsense all over your marble floor. Trust me, you haven’t seen it all.”

A pause. It lengthened painfully. Maybe she should’ve held back a morsel of truth.

“Open the door, Anthea.”

She didn’t reply.

“Open it or I’m picking the lock.”

“You know how to pick a lock?”

“Leo taught me a few tricks.”