Page 12 of If You Never Come Back
“Hey.” The stare he flashes is a no-nonsense brand of seriousness. “Don’t say that. You’re working hard to make your dream come true. In a world where millions of people work jobs they hate, that’s the very definition of kicking ass.”
I let a smile loose, basking in his heartfelt praise. “My parents say the exact same thing.”
“See? I know what I’m talking about.” He settles back behind me.
“That must be a go-to thing for all parents to say if yours and mine say it,” I chuckle.
The muscles in his stomach tighten against my back. He clears his throat. “Fun plans today?” he asks, his lips pressed against the back of my neck.
“I promised Remy I’d stop by the bar this afternoon and help take down the Valentine’s decorations.”
“What are you doing until then?”
“Not a whole lot.”
“Could I maybe keep you company until you have to go?” He skims a finger along the curve of my hip before letting his hand settle between my thighs.
“I would love that.”
* * *
The walkto Dandy Lime is a challenge and not just because of the beard burn on my thighs.
It’s because I’m fighting the urge to grab Wes by the hand, march him back to my apartment, and dive right back into bed. I smile to myself, my mind replaying the pornographic film reel of this morning and afternoon spent entirely in my bed. Wes and I didn’t leave my mattress until the last possible moment, when I had thirty minutes to shower and walk to work.
Even with the raw thighs and the wet hair in single-digit temperatures that will surely give me pneumonia, I can only think of one word:more.I want more sweet smiles, more easy conversation, more of that magnetic feeling.
I want more Wes.
But I can’t say that. That would make me sound unbelievably desperate. So instead, I just keep walking.
Wes wags an eyebrow at me. “So that was fun.”
“It was.” I beam at the sidewalk.
We stop outside the entrance of the bar. Both of us do our own versions of nervous shuffling. Wes shoves his hands in his coat pockets while squinting at the surroundings; I cross my arms and stare at the ground.
I bite back all the questions I want to ask. Will he be busy during his month-long pit-stop in the city? Does he want to see me again? Is he as blown away as I am that we’ve hit it off so well, so fast?
Saying any of that would be a major faux pas. I’m the one who asked him to my place last night. I made the last major move, and to initiate the next one could make me look too eager.
I swallow back all the words dancing on the tip of my tongue. No more overthinking. Just relax and play it cool.
“Thanks for walking me,” I say.
“Of course.” He offers a gentle smile before taking a step toward me.
A long beat of silence follows. He says nothing; I say nothing.
Finally, mercifully, he speaks. “Shay, would you—”
His phone ringing interrupts him. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to snatch it out of his hand and toss it into a nearby sewer grate. What awful, no good, very bad timing. Instead, I stand quietly and pretend to check something on my phone while he finishes his conversation.
“They what? When?” A concerned frown cloud’s Wes’s face. “Shoot, yeah. Hang on, man. I’m coming.”
When he hangs up, his frown says everything. He will not be asking me out.
“Sorry, my friend Colin—the shaggy-haired guy from last night—he needs my help. I gotta run.”
