Page 49 of Never Been Worse

“Lock this behind me,” I order as I open the door, looking at my wife standing exactly where I left her, still dazed and dreamy-eyed.

“Okay, honey,” she whispers, and then I give her one last smile before I close the door, knowing if I don’t leave now, I never will. And even though I know I’m going to Leo’s office to get my ass reamed, I smile the whole way there because my wife is finally willing to give this a chance.

EIGHTEEN

HARPER

Life has started to settle, or as much as lifecansettle when everything is so up in the air. I’ve been busy, working on client commissions and trying—and miserably failing—to sketch something new. Instead of making any progress for a new line, I keep hitting the same damn roadblock every single time.

Wes has been gone for the past four days with the guys doing some preliminary press tours to promote the upcoming release. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, depending on how you look at it, we have not had any time for more than a few hot kisses since the Marty show incident, with Wes leaving barely a day later.

Instead, it’s as if we’re in the woo-ing dating phase, if this was a real relationship. Every morning Wes sends me a good morning text, then we message back and forth throughout the day, whether it’s him telling me something stupid Reed did or playing musical memories through texts.

Wes was right: you really can learn so much about someone playing that game.

I’ve shared that I lost my virginity listening to “Best I Ever Had” by Drake (ahorrificchoice, especially since he very much proved tonotbe the best I ever had) and learned “Sugar, We’re Going Down” was playing on the radio when Atlas Oaks got their first record deal.

Each day, Wes has also sent some kind of small gift to the house for me. The first was a gorgeous bouquet of flowers Laurel essentiallythrewat me, now sitting in my bedroom, where I mostly just work, choosing to sleep in Wes’s bed even when he’s not there. The next was a dozen cookies. That night, Wes called me to tell me he had some delivered to his hotel room, and we were having a virtualcookiedate.

Yesterday he sent me the goofiest candle with his face on it that he got on some fan site and was supposed to smell like him. It completely missed the mark, but it made me smile all the same.

Now I’m in my room that I don’t use for sleeping anymore, attempting to sketch and pondering what he’ll send today, when there’s a knock on the door. Looking up, Wes is leaning in the doorway, hair tousled and a wide smile on his face.

Without even thinking, I stand quickly, setting my sketchbook aside. “Hey,” I say with a smile. “You’re home.” I rush to him, happy to see him and burying down what that all might mean as he pulls me into him and presses a deep kiss to my lips.

“I am. Happy to see me?”

“Yes.” What does it matter anymore, being coy? IlikeWes Holden, and I want to know where that could take us. “But I feel like I’m missing out on my fourth gift.” I joke.

“You want a gift?” he asks, his arms around my waist. I shake my head and open my mouth to tell him I’m only teasing when he steps back, tipping his head to the side and grabbing my hand. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

“I was just kidding,” I say as he leads me down the hall.

“I know, but I still have something for you. It wasn’t ready when we got home from the honeymoon, and I think it still needs some things, but I’m sure you’ll have thoughts on them, so maybe it’s best you see it now.”

“Wha—” I start to ask, but the word dies on my lips as he opens a door that’s been closed since I got here, light pouring into the hall as he guides me inside.

Large windows facing the wooded backyard line the far side of the room, letting in more natural light than I’ve seen in any other room in this house, with a small padded bench along the windows. On one side of the room is a large art desk currently set at an incline, and along the wall are dozens of cups with different mediums in them: lead pencils, pens, colored pencils, markers, and watercolors.

There are clear acrylic drawers holding what looks like tiny rhinestones and papers, but I’m too flustered taking in everything else to look. On the opposite side of the room is an L-shaped desk with a cozy-looking chair, three different seemingly brand-new sewing machines, and various fabrics in the organizers along the wall. When I open a cabinet, there are sewing notions in drawers: buttons and zippers and lace, quilting squares and rulers and cutting mats.

Everything and anything one might need to…create.

“What is this?” I ask, looking around, stepping toward the fabrics, and running my fingers over them reverently.

“This is...yours,” he says with a small smile when I look over my shoulder at him, my heart pounding with a mix of nerves and excitement.

“Mine?”

He runs a hand through his hair nervously before stepping further into the room.

“It’s a wedding gift.” He shrugs and then smiles again. “The marriage was a bit last minute, as you know, so it wasn’t ready when it was supposed to be.”

I turn to face him, crossing my arms on my chest as my heart races. It’s strange and overwhelming, this mix of excitement and gratitude and confusion.

“This isn’t a wedding gift, Wes. This necklace,” I say, fingers grazing theWat my neck, which I have only taken off to shower, “is a wedding gift. This is...way too much.”

“Maybe it will inspire you,” he says simply. “Come, look.” He grabs my hand, moving me along the sides of the room. “This is for fabrics, though I don’t know if I got any of the right kind. I figured you’d have opinions on those, so I didn’t want to get too much. Most of the stuff in here is based on what Ava and Jules knew you liked, but we can swap out anything.”

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