Page 88 of I Saw Her First

I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him give that up for me.

We pull onto Fruit Street and Wes finds a place to park, easing his Audi into the spot.

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to be here?” I ask, scanning the street for any signs of Jess, my middle churning with unease.

Weston nods, turning to look at me as he shuts off the engine. “Jess closes the bar on a Sunday, so he won’t be home until after two in the morning. At least come in and have dinner.” Wes leans back on the headrest, gazing at me with a soft sigh. “I’m not ready for you to go home yet.”

I smile faintly. I’m not ready to go home yet either, and not only because my roommate is a nightmare. I don’t want to be away from Wes. I want to move into his beautiful house and wake up to him every morning, to greet him when he comes home from work. I want to build a life with this man, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to have that.

“I don’t have a plan,” Wes says, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I don’t know what we’re going to do about Jess. But… we’ll figure something out. We have to. This weekend was…”

“I know.” I lean across the center console to press my mouth to his. “For me too.”

His eyes are deep blue in the darkening evening light, but he looks tired. Weary. Like he’s carrying too much. Carrying something he shouldn’t have to.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says again, and I’m not sure if he’s saying that to reassure me, or himself.

We climb from the car, Weston fetching our bags from the trunk before we ascend the steps to his house. I know he says Jess isn’t home, but I can’t ignore the quiver in my gut as we enter the foyer. Every second Wes and I spend together is another step closer to things imploding with him and Jess, and I can’t stand the guilt that gouges my heart. He’s risking too much.

“What do you feel like for dinner?” Wes asks as we kick off our shoes.

“I don’t know,” I mumble. Food is the last thing on my mind.

I follow him into the kitchen absently, colliding with the back of him as he comes to an abrupt stop. The bags fall from his hands, landing in the middle of the kitchen floor with an ominous thud. The air in the room tightens and shrinks.

I step around Wes to see what’s halted his steps, and my gaze lands on a stack of photos scattered across the kitchen island.

My photos.

There are the ones I took of Brooklyn Heights. The ones of the West Village. Some of Violet and Kyle from the shoot we did.

But that’s not all.

There’s the ones of Wes in bed, half-naked, asleep.

The ones he took of me, on my knees, in the basement.

I stare at the photos in shock, my stomach plummeting.

What are they doing on the kitchen island? How did they get here?

When I glance at Wes, his expression shifts from confusion to panic, and my insides follow. There’s a sound from the living room, and we turn to find Jess glaring at us.

My lungs seize.

“Oh, good,” he snarls, glancing from me to his father. “You’re both here.” He steps into the kitchen, his frame rigid, his expression stony. “It seems we have a few things to discuss.”

36

Weston

Fear washes cold over me.

I glance from my son to the pictures on the counter, my pulse ringing in my ears. How did he find those? There’s a lock on the darkroom door. I know, because I installed it myself. Besides, Jessenevergoes down there.

But none of that matters. He’s found the pictures. He’s seen them.

He knows.

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