by Roni Loren
“Rebecca, what is going on?” her father said, stopping a few steps from her, his voice clipped and demanding. “You don’t have the flu. You were just fine when we got here.”
Rebecca’s fingers curled tightly around her glass of juice, and she forced herself to sit taller in the chair. She didn’t need her dad suspecting that she’d freaked out onstage. Lindts didn’t run away like that. They powered through. They soldiered on. “I didn’t get a chance to eat anything this morning, and I think I must’ve…locked my knees. I got light-headed and felt like I was going to faint.”
Her father frowned deeply, making the wrinkles in his forehead stand out in relief. “Well”—he motioned at Wes—“this man can get you some food, and you can go up and finish after the current speaker.”
She glanced at Wes and then back at her father. Her instinct was to say, Yes. Of course. That was what her dad was expecting. Rebecca could always be counted on. But the thought of getting back up there and inviting those flashbacks to return had acid rising in the back of her throat. “I can’t do the speech today, Dad. I’m sorry. I feel sick to my stomach, and I just… I’ll do whatever you need to help with your campaign, but I don’t want to do talks about Long Acre. I don’t want to keep rehashing it. People already know the story. The documentary will be out soon, and they can get every ugly detail if they want. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“You can’t…” His cheeks turned ruddy. “But that’s the reason people book you for these events. They don’t want to hear about being a lawyer. They want to hear about what you’ve overcome. They’re inspired by that.”
“Then maybe they need to find inspiration somewhere else,” she snapped.
He stiffened.
She rarely talked back to her father, but she wasn’t in the mood to apologize. He was the one person who should know exactly why this topic was so hard for her. When she’d fallen into a dangerous depression after Long Acre, she’d eventually admitted the truth to him, had told him why she was drowning in guilt, why she couldn’t imagine going on with her life. He’d dismissed the very idea back then, telling her she was blaming herself for something that wasn’t her fault. He’d taken her to a doctor, had gotten her on an antidepressant, and had encouraged her to keep her mind busy and to throw herself into her studies. The doctor had agreed. Forward motion.
The constant go-go-go of college and law school had kept her head above water with the depression until she’d been able to climb to shore and stop taking the meds. But her father had to know that the guilt had never left her. She’d just locked it away in a dark closet in her mind. But ever since the documentary, the demons had been slipping out. She felt as if she had her back against the door, arms splayed out, doing everything she could to keep them inside, but they were winning. She’d never had flashbacks before this. Depression, yes. Anger, sure. But she’d never had the memories assault her with such visceral force. This was different. She could not keep inviting those demons in by doing these kinds of speeches.
“Rebecca…” her dad said, his eyes holding warning. “I think you’re overreacting. If you just take a few minutes to get your head back together and—”
“Sir, excuse me,” Wes said, stepping a little closer to Rebecca, “but I think Rebecca needs to get some food and some distance from the crowd. I can take her back to the kitchen and make sure that happens.”
Her dad’s gaze swept over Wes, taking in his tattooed arms, disheveled hair, and cook’s uniform. His lip curled. “I would say that’s above and beyond your job description, young man. Just please bring her a plate to our table.”
Rebecca pushed herself up from the chair, and Wes automatically put an arm out to her. She felt steadier than she had a minute ago, but that internal shakiness was still there. She braced a hand on Wesley’s forearm. “Dad, this is Wes Garrett. He’s…a friend. We’re working together on a charity project. And I’d rather go eat something in the kitchen. I’m not in the place to socialize right now or get back on that stage. I’m going to be more of a liability to you this morning than an asset.”
Her father looked back and forth between the two of them.
“I’ll take good care of her, sir,” Wes said, his tone easy but an undercurrent of authority there. “I know the head chef. She’ll get Rebecca whatever meal she wants. I’m sure everyone back at your table will understand that she’s not feeling well and had to go home.”
Her father didn’t look convinced, and his skin had taken on the mottled tone of anger, but he wasn’t going to make a scene. He gave a brief nod. “Rebecca, we’ll talk more about this on the way home.”
“I’m going to catch a ride with Wes,” she said quickly.
Her father’s jaw flexed. “Then we’ll talk tomorrow at work.”
Fun. “Sure.”
Her dad gave her one last evaluating look and then strode back to his table.
Wes peeked over at her, eyebrows lifted. “Well, he’s a barrel of laughs. He does realize you’re not sixteen, right?”
She smirked. “I’m not sure. And that was his restrained side. I’m going to get an earful tomorrow about responsibility and honoring commitments and how I let him down.”
“Ugh. That almost makes me think my good-for-nothing, always-in-jail father was a blessing. There was no lecturing.”
Rebecca sighed as she held on to Wes’s arm and let him steer her toward the kitchen. “My dad seems worse than he is. He’ll never be warm and fuzzy and he’ll always be an insufferable hard-ass, but he’s been there for me when I needed him. No one gave him lessons on how to be a single dad to a daughter when my mom bailed, you know?”
“Right.” Wes bumped the swinging door open with his foot.
“I try to remember that during times like these when I want to give him the finger and tell him to back the hell off.”
They avoided a waiter with a full tray of juice pitchers. “I get it. Family is complicated.” Wes led her to an unused corner of the kitchen and found her a chair. “So what happened onstage? Is this really about not eating? You looked…gone. Like you were somewhere else.”
Goose bumps chased up her arms, and she gave his hand a squeeze before taking a seat. “You don’t want to know where I went.”
“Bec—”
“Find me some pastries, chef. I can’t deal with any of this on an empty stomach.”
I can’t deal with any of this at all.
chapter
SIXTEEN
Wes peeked over at Rebecca as he turned into the driveway that led to his condo. He’d offered to give her a ride home, but he hadn’t told her he had plans for a pit stop.
She seemed lost in thought and had been quiet since leaving the charity brunch, but the second the automatic gates for his complex opened, she blinked and looked his way as if coming out of a daze. “Where are we going?”
“You said you didn’t have any other plans for today.”
“I said I planned to do laundry, go to the grocery store, and catch up on some paperwork.”
He smiled. “See, nothing important.”
“Wes…”
“To answer your question. I live here, and I do have Sunday plans. And those plans would be way more fun with a partner.”
She narrowed her eyes. “That sounds ominous. Or dirty. Or ominously dirty.”
His grin went wider. “I love knowing that your mind went there first. And to be honest, dirty isn’t a bad word for what I want you for.”
Her expression remained stern, but her cheeks colored and something flickered in her eyes. Interest? Temptation? He wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, it almost had him derailing his original plan. If Rebecca wanted to go upstairs to his place and get dirty, he was one hundred percent down for that.
But she’d had a rough morning, and despite the easy intimacy they’d created with their late-night phone conversations
, this was in person and things between them were still new. He didn’t want to ruin it by rushing or even assuming that there would be more than kissing between them. He hadn’t touched a woman since his divorce. He would survive waiting a little longer. Maybe. Probably. Now he just had to convince Rebecca to join in with him on his other dirty plan. Because though she hadn’t told him what had really happened onstage today, he had a strong suspicion that what she needed today was a heaping dose of distraction.
He drove around the corner of his building, the last one in the back of the complex, and parked. He hopped out of the truck and jogged around to the other side to let her out. “Come on, lawyer girl. I’ll show you what I have in mind.”
With a skeptical look, she stepped out of the truck and took his offered hand. Her heels clicked on the sidewalk in her unique, slightly offbeat gait that he was learning to recognize. He now knew it was because of her injury, but it didn’t read like a limp to him. Instead she had developed a slower, more deliberate stride that came off as confident, like she was in no hurry to get anywhere and expected people to match her pace instead of the other way around. Plus, it gave her a little dip and sway in her step that he found unbearably sexy.
“Are you leading me out to that ill-fated camping trip you mentioned?” she asked.
He laughed. “Come with me, pretty lady. Let me show you the dark forest behind my condo. Do not be alarmed.”
“Not helping, Wesley Garrett.”
“I promise, no murderous agenda. Though you might want to murder me when you see what I’ve got planned.” He led her around the corner of the building next to his and swept his arms out to his sides. “Ta-da!”
Rebecca laughed, the light sound carrying on the wind. She let go of his hand and put both of hers on her hips. “Well, it certainly is dirty.”
The big, yellow school bus was parked on the empty side of the lot in all its full mud-encrusted, bird-bombed glory.
“Filthy,” he agreed. “Which is why we’re going to give Adele a bath.”
Her attention snapped to him. “Wait, what? Who is this we you speak of?”
“You and me and a lot of water and sponges.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“The engine work is done, so it’s drivable now. I thought I could unveil the project to the kids tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, and I’m going to hammer home that this will be a lot of work and require a lot of sweat equity, but I want them to be able to see the potential and not focus on how terrible the bus looks right now. These kids are used to getting hand-me-downs and shopping at secondhand stores. We can’t hide the fact that this bus isn’t new, but I want them to see some of Adele’s shine.”
Rebecca’s expression softened. “I love that you have this mission, but I’m in a business suit.” She held her arms out to her sides. “I’m not quite prepared for car wash day.”
“Fear not.” He held up a finger. “I have clothes you can borrow. You’ll be fine.”
He’d considered taking her home to give her the chance to change her clothes, but he had a feeling that if he’d brought her there, he wouldn’t have been able to coax her outside again. She’d had that look—as though she was ready to hide from the world—when they’d left the hotel.
“Wes…”
“Come on, Bec. I know you don’t want to talk about what happened this morning, but I can tell it took something out of you. You’ve been really quiet and have this haunted look in your eyes. Going home and being alone all day is just going to make whatever’s going on in your head worse.”
She glanced down.
He held out his hand. “I’m giving you a good reason to be outside on a beautiful sunny day after working nonstop all week, and I’ll even throw in full permission to spray me with the hose if I step out of line. How can you resist that?”
She stared at his hand, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He braced himself for the no, but finally she looked up. “I want that permission even if you don’t step out of line.”
“Granted.”
A hint of a smile touched her lips, and she slipped her hand into his open palm. “Deal.”
“Good.” He gave her arm a playful tug. “Come on, business suit. I’ll show you my humble abode, and we can get naked.”
“Hey—”
He chuckled. “In separate rooms. To put on different clothes. What could you have possibly thought I meant?”
She rolled her eyes. “Lead the way, smart-ass.”
A little while later, Wes stepped out of his bedroom after changing his clothes and found Rebecca examining the bookshelf in his living room. He didn’t keep much in his place. After living with Brittany—who had been obsessed with shabby-chic decorating and had never met a throw pillow, flowered fabric, or ceramic knickknack she didn’t love—Wes had gone minimalist with his condo. Easy to keep clean and calm. His jam-packed bookshelf was the one exception.
Rebecca pulled a book from the shelf and turned when his foot hit the squeaky floorboard by his couch. She smiled his way. “You’ve got quite an eclectic collection, chef. My Life in France by Julia Child?”
“Yes. Don’t judge. Julia Child was a badass. Plus, I’ve always wanted to visit France. That’s the cheap way to do it until I can go for real.”
“France is amazing,” she said wistfully. “I’ve been once, but it was William Lindt style so I feel like I missed a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
“My dad took me along with him for a business trip when I was in college, so it was very fast and education-focused. There was no lingering. I’d like to go again and be able to wander, get a little lost, experience more than the tourist highlights.” She flipped through a few pages and then slipped the book back onto the shelf. “You didn’t tell me you liked to read.”
He shrugged, trying to pull himself out of fantasies of getting lost in Paris with Rebecca. Long walks on narrow streets, eating their way through every delicious meal, drinking local wine late into the evening—no, not drinking wine. He could never have that part of the Paris experience. A pang of loss shot through him. He shifted his stance and smirked, trying to shake the sour thought. “What, I don’t seem like the bookish type to you? I feel like I should be insulted.”
“Oh, get over yourself,” she teased. “I didn’t say that. I just didn’t know that about you. The guys at work make a point to let everyone know what they’re reading like it’s a badge of honor…and of course it’s always something political or pretentious. And the dates I’ve been on, men tend to bring it up because they assume I’m going to be hot for a guy who reads.”
Wes laughed. “What are these weird circles you run in? In my neighborhood, if you admitted you loved books, you were looked at like you were an alien. And are you not hot for guys who read? Because if so, those books are just for decoration.”
She gave him a droll look. “They are not. They are too worn and unpretentious to be decorative. You like to read, Wes Garrett. I have found you out. And for the record, you don’t need help being hot. It’s slightly annoying how”—she flicked her hand in his general direction—“this you are.”
A smile jumped to his lips as a sharp kick of pleasure moved through him at the playfully perturbed look on her face. “How this I am? Someone needs a thesaurus. Check the third shelf.”
She gave him a wry look. “So how’d you end up a reader if everyone was looking at you sideways?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t start out that way. I was a shitty student, and books weren’t exactly a high priority in my family. But when my dad went to prison and my mom was too messed up on drugs to take care of me, my uncle—Marco’s dad—adopted me. He was the one who sold me on the idea of books.” Wes set the clothes he’d picked out for her on the back of the couch and walked over to stand next to her, examining the shelves. “Ed wa
s a teacher and told me that it didn’t matter that I hadn’t done well in school yet, that anything I wanted to know was available in books. I could learn from the best teachers in the world that way. Travel anywhere I wanted via the page. Experience things through the eyes of people who’d done anything and everything. Or escape to some fictional world altogether.”
Rebecca let out a little sigh. “Ah, books.”
“I wasn’t all that impressed by the idea at first, to be honest. Then he told me that there was no TV or video games on weeknights at his house so I could either read or do chores.” He ran his finger down the spine of one of the first biographies Ed had given him. “I hated chores. Plus, I figured if my uncle and my dad came from the same screwed-up family, yet somehow Uncle Ed had turned out successful and happy instead of a criminal and an addict, there might be something to his logic.”
“Sounds like a smart guy.”
Wes tucked his hands in his pockets, his lips lifting before he could stop them. “Ed and Carolina are the best. They saved me in so many ways, I can’t even count.” He took a deep breath. “Which is why I can’t stand the fact that I ended up letting them down anyway.”
Rebecca turned to him, frowning. “Wes, losing your business as part of a bad divorce isn’t a crime.”
“Spending a year pickled and ending up in rehab is pretty close,” he said. “All that work they did, and I ended up an addict like my parents anyway.”
She reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Stop. You’re sober now, teaching kids and forcing a lawyer to scrub down a bus for charity. I don’t even wash my own car. You have lots to be proud of.”
He laughed, her playful smile breaking through the dark mood that had tried to take over. “Right. I’m working miracles here.” He stepped over to the couch and grabbed the T-shirt and workout shorts he’d pulled out for her. “These will be big, but the shorts have a drawstring on them, so you should be able to tighten them. And I have a pair of flip-flops you can use.”
