Three Simple Words (Kingston Ale House)

by A. J. Pine

  “He’s hopeful, Wes.” Her voice was soft and sweet, just like it should sound if she was breaking bad news to him. But he was pretty sure what she’d just said was a compliment.

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  Hope was new to him. New to his writing.

  She nodded, pages still held firmly in her hands.

  “It’s a really good thing. For Jack. Who certainly isn’t you, right?”

  Her smile turned playful, and Wes wasn’t sure how to answer. Was the hope Jack’s alone—a fantasy version of his own life—or was there more of himself in Jack than he knew? Jack wanted to believe in the possibility of a happily ever after with the blind date he was on at a wedding. Because he’d never met a girl like Evie before.

  “No,” he said, his voice firm. “Jack isn’t me. Not one little bit.”

  Her smile faltered for a couple of seconds, but she masked it quickly. Then she thrust the pages toward him, pressing them to his chest so he was forced to hold them the same way she had.

  “It’s a really good start. I think your agent and editor are going to be really happy.”

  He scoffed. “Yeah, after I write about thirty more pages and clean it all up.”

  She hooked a finger into the top of his pants and tugged.

  “Say thank you,” she said. “Take a damned compliment and believe it.”

  He nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said with a self-satisfied grin. She gave his pants a little yank, and he crossed the threshold back into the room.

  “So, do you try to change the minds of all readers who have a less than favorable reaction to your book, or am I just special?” she asked, and he laughed.

  His fingertips skimmed her hairline, and she closed her eyes for several seconds.

  “You’re special, Annie,” was all he said aloud. But to himself he added, and it has nothing to do with the book.

  She let out a breath, settling back into the moment. “Now where were we? I do believe I owe you a hand massage,” she said, walking him to the bed.

  “You don’t owe me any—”

  She pushed him down on his back.

  “Will you stop freaking arguing and just let me make you feel good? Again. Because I do owe you, Wes Hartley.”

  He grinned. “I think we’re probably pretty even based on what happened earlier,” he said.

  Annie blew out a breath. “Yeah. But I never said thank you for coming with me tonight. It meant a lot to the grooms—and it means a lot to me. So, thank you.” She climbed over him, straddled his legs and, yep—she bit her bottom lip. “I’m ready to pay up. With interest.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Annie tried to focus on the road. She didn’t drive often, only when she left the city. But when she did, she liked to think she wasn’t a threat to other motorists. Right now, keeping her hands at ten and two was a struggle, not just because of her sweaty palms but because she itched to rest one of those palms on Wes’s knee—and she couldn’t.

  “This is good,” he said, breaking the ten-minute silence. At this rate, the hour ride home would feel like three.

  “Huh?” she asked. Because unfocused Annie was still unfocused.

  He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. But the sigh reminded her of other sounds he made last night, and Annie squirmed in her seat.

  “Getting back to normal, you know? Rebooting before we get home. I think you made the right decision canceling the late checkout.”

  She threw her head back against the headrest. At the time it seemed like the right decision. After last night in the elevator, out of the elevator, reading his pages—what came after reading his pages, it was too much. Correction. There could never be too much of feeling the way she felt when his hands were on her, when his tongue—

  Shit. She should not be thinking about his tongue.

  This was the reason she had to put a moratorium on…on…tongue stuff. Because there’s no way she would have left that room if they started things up again this morning.

  “I need a cider,” she mumbled. She felt Wes’s eyes shift toward her in her peripheral vision.

  “It’s seven in the morning. On a Sunday. Even I think that might be a little too early to start drinking,” he quipped, and she tried to ignore the playfulness in his voice.

  “Apple cider,” she corrected. “From a coffee shop. Not a bar. I’m not a savage. I save alcohol until at least nine or ten.”

  Okay, that came out more bitchy than playful, which was odd. Annie didn’t do bitchy. It was a waste of energy. But she was cider deprived. Yes. The cider—or lack thereof—was most definitely at fault here.

  She veered to the right, possibly cutting off a motorist or two, but she was not missing this exit.

  Wes braced his palms on the dashboard.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Annie! What the hell are you doing?”

  A couple of cars honked, and she was sure someone shot her the bird. But she got them off the highway in one piece, and she could already see the green and white sign—a beacon promising sanity.

  Starbucks.

  True, she wished it was Hot Latte and hated cheating on Doug and Dan, but for one, she was in the ’burbs. And two, Doug and Dan were honeymooning in the Dominican Republic. And what they would never, ever find out wouldn’t hurt them.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got everything under control,” she said, glancing over at Wes, but he was still white knuckling the dash. Shit. Something was wrong. She waited until they were parked and the key was out of the ignition. Then she undid her seat belt and turned to face him.

  He hadn’t really moved yet, but his hands had relaxed. He was breathing slowly, measured breaths in and out. For several seconds she let the rhythm lull her, but a door slamming on a nearby car brought her back to her senses.

  “Wes?” she asked softly. “You okay?”

  He slapped his palms on his knees, and she flinched at the sudden movement.

  “Great!” he said, with a little too much Tony the Tiger to sound believable. “Coffee sounds great!”

  He unclicked his seat belt and bounded out of the car, not looking behind him to see if she was following. Which she wasn’t. Not yet, at least. Because Annie was trying to puzzle together what the hell just happened, but she was definitely missing some pieces.

  Cider. Caramel apple cider. She had to get some in her belly, warm her cranky, confused, and—to be honest—rather wanton insides. So she hopped out of the vehicle and followed Wes inside. He was already in line when she pushed through the door, and he offered her a small, closed-mouth grin when their eyes met.

  “Wes Hartley? Oh my God, it is you!”

  Before either of them could react, the barista, who moments ago was hidden behind the espresso machine, ran out from behind the counter and threw her arms around Wes.

  “How are you?” the girl squealed, but she didn’t wait for him to reply. “I haven’t seen you since—since your mom.” She backed up so her eyes met his. “God, I’m so sorry. I totally get why you didn’t have enough energy to put into us back then. But if you’re back in town for a while and still single…”

  He let out a nervous laugh. “What are you doing in Illinois?” he asked. “Last I saw you, you were managing that indie coffee shop in the Village.”

  The girl sighed. “Yeah. I decided to go back to school to get my master’s in psychology. I have you to thank for that. Anyway, I got into a great program out here at Northwestern. This helps pay the bills.”

  Annie cleared her throat and immediately wanted to take it back. Because it sounded like she was balking at someone calling Wes single. She so totally wasn’t. And what happened to his mom? And can they walk into an establishment or party without someone knowing—and possibly still pining for—Wes?

  “Stacy,” he finally said. “This is, uh, Annie.”

  Well, at least he remembered her name.

  “He’s still single,” she said, holding out her hand to s
hake Stacy’s.

  Ugh. She needed that cider to cover up the taste of acid on her tongue. Stat.

  Stacy’s smile fell for a second as she gave Annie the once-over with eyes so dark they almost looked black and so big it was like a manga character was looking her up and down. Annie started paging through her memory of Down This Road and almost blurted out Tracy! when it clicked. Geez, he didn’t even try with this name. At least Oksana was Natasha, but Stacy the barista was Tracy, the coffeehouse singer, the one Ethan—the supposedly fictional hero—met after his mother’s funeral.

  Whoa.

  “Drinks are on me,” Stacy said, interrupting Annie’s mental sleuthing. “What will you and your friend have?”

  The girl practically skipped back behind the counter, her dark ponytail swishing across her back as she did.

  Wes turned to Annie, who scrutinized him with her stare. He simply offered a shrug and a sheepish grin before ordering.

  “Just a grande bold for me,” he said. “Annie?”

  Well, the girl did say drinks were on her, right?

  “A venti caramel apple cider, with whip, extra hot. I want it to last the rest of the ride home.”

  She watched as Wes stared straight ahead at Stacy filling his cup, yet he was trying to stifle a smile.

  She crossed her arms. “What?”

  Stacy handed him his coffee and motioned for them to follow her to the other end of the counter where she would probably make the cider.

  “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head as he let her lead the way. But Annie kept looking over her shoulder until they were side by side again.

  “It’s not nothing if you’re trying not to laugh at me,” she said. “I’m not ashamed of my beverage, if that’s what this is about. I don’t need to be all hipster, black-coffee-drinking cool, you know.”

  He let out a loud laugh.

  “Here you are assuming I’m judging your beverage choice, and you just went and judged mine. That’s cold, Denning.”

  Now she was the one trying not to smile. Because he was right. And he was back to his normal self—if she even knew what that was. But this was the Wes who rode up to her room last night, who made her feel like the Emerald City instead of a schnoodle, and her smile won out and broke through. “Black coffee is kind of hipster,” she said. “Especially when you’re only twenty-five.”

  She tugged at the bottom of her jacket, fidgeting as the words echoed in her ears. Only twenty-five. Three years wasn’t that big a deal in the grand scheme of things, yet twenty-five seemed barely out of college while twenty-eight was old maid status in some societies. Okay, fine, maybe in seventeenth-century Great Britain, but honestly. He was still figuring shit out while Annie was sure she almost had all the answers. Except the one about finding her happily ever after.

  “Caramel apple cider is kind of adorable,” he said, then licked his top lip before taking a slow sip from his cup.

  Holy hell. Annie’s neck warmed, and something in her belly tightened. This little detour was supposed to get her head back in the game. Instead she wondered what his lip tasted like, especially now that it had a small drip of coffee on it.

  Nope. He licked that away, too.

  She bounced on her toes, watching Stacy slowly drizzle caramel over the cider’s whipped cream.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said, and bolted for the bathroom, which was, thank the stars, open.

  She couldn’t be near him with the lip licking and the calling her adorable and the memories of last night. What the hell was going on? It’s not like she hadn’t had good sex before. And fine, last night was maybe better than most. Okay it was freaking amazing, but she shouldn’t be losing her shit like she was now. Just like she never let herself get too broken up over, well, a breakup, Annie could also control herself in the bedroom—and out of it.

  But apparently not today.

  She braced her hands on the side of the sink and took in the image staring back at her from the mirror. Aside from the lack of makeup and moderate bed-head, she wasn’t a complete disaster. She ran her hands under the faucet, dipping her head so she could splash the cold water on the back of her neck.

  “Your drink is ready.”

  The voice came from behind her, and Annie gasped, her eyes darting back to the mirror. Wes stood behind her, venti cup in his hand, and she watched a small dollop of whipped cream seep out of the small opening. She spun to face him.

  “Sorry,” he added. “The door was unlocked. I did knock, but when you didn’t answer…”

  There was that sheepish grin again, but Annie knew what stood before her. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

  She cleared her throat. “And you thought you’d just come in to check on me? I could have been actually using the bathroom.”

  Her argument was paper thin, but he nodded slowly, as if he was actually considering that she’d rushed off for anything other than the exact reason she had—the one she knew Wes knew.

  He drove her absolutely mad.

  “Do you need to use the bathroom?” he asked, his voice low.

  Annie shook her head. Wes locked the door, then took a step closer.

  “Do you want me to leave?” he added.

  Her response was the same. There were no words for what she wanted right now, so if he wanted to communicate without them, who was she to argue?

  He handed her the cup, and she took it willingly.

  “Drink,” he told her, the sound somewhere between a command and a plea.

  She drank.

  “Now let me taste,” he said, and she held the cup out, offering it back to him.

  He laughed softly, shaking his head.

  “No, Annie. Let me taste.”

  He gently pulled the cup from her hand and set it down on the ledge of the sink. Then he tugged at the bottom of her jacket, pulling her closer.

  “Do you want me to taste?” he asked.

  She nodded. God, did she ever. But even more, she needed to taste him back.

  He didn’t bother with coyness, just pressed his lips to hers, and she parted them immediately, inviting him in.

  The bitterness of his black coffee mingled with the syrupy sweet cider. It was an odd yet delicious combination, and they both devoured it. His fingers combed through her hair. Her palms splayed against his chest. Every touch of his lips on hers made her want more, like she’d been starved of whatever this was between them and only now knew she couldn’t get enough.

  “I can’t—” he said, his breath coming out in pants. “I can’t reboot, Annie. I can’t turn off whatever we started last night, and I’m not sure what to do about it.”

  She nodded, her head still cradled in his hands, and kissed him again. He could at least form words, but she was beyond that at this point. Words meant thinking. They meant logic. And the last thing she wanted to be right now was logical. That would mean admitting this was more than acting out after the whole Brett and Tabitha confrontation. It would mean admitting that last night was more spectacular than any chapter she’d read in Wes’s book. And it would mean admitting that rebooting wasn’t in the cards for her, either. But right now, she couldn’t imagine moving beyond this moment.

  “What if we don’t?” she finally said. “What if we don’t turn off what we started?” This was dangerous territory, and she knew it. But so was the thought of him not kissing her, of his hand not touching her. She flicked out her tongue and playfully licked his bottom lip.

  Instead of reciprocating, he backed away and ran a hand through his still sleep-disheveled hair.

  Well, that was not exactly how she saw the next phase of this situation going.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, and Wes groaned.

  “No,” he said. “I did. I did everything wrong. I promised your brother—”

  “Seriously? This is about Jeremy?” She threw her hands in the air. “I’m all for good intentions and your guy code and whatever, but that was before we knew there was this…this…heat between u
s. I’m not wrong about that. Am I?”

  He shook his head. “God, no. Look at me, Annie. I’m a fucking mess for you right now, so much so that I’m ready to take you up against a wall in a goddamn Starbucks bathroom.”

  She finally took notice of her surroundings and giggled. This elicited a laugh from Wes, and his shoulders relaxed.

  He backed against the wall and let his head thump against it. Three times.

  “God, I’m an asshole,” he said. “It’s not just the guy code. I—I just needed out of New York for a while. And I needed cash. Jer is giving me a place to stay and he got me a few shifts at Kingston’s.” He let out a long breath, and Annie’s fiery need began to simmer. “I mean, I’ve got family in the city, but I can’t stay there. Clearly I have issues, and I didn’t intend to drag you into them.”

  Hello, reality. So nice of you to drop in.

  “I don’t get it,” she said. “You’re a best-selling author.”

  He nodded slowly. “A best seller who spent his advance and is still waiting to earn out. And if I don’t deliver on this second book, they’ll cancel my contract and that will be it. So yeah, I can’t fuck with your brother’s trust. Not after all he’s done for me.” He let out a long breath. “And I don’t want to fuck with you. We see—relationships—differently. I like you, Annie. And I want to be with you. But I can’t give you the happily ever after you’re looking for.”

  She reached for her drink, needing its warmth in her hands to combat the chill spreading through her veins.

  “What if I don’t want a relationship?” she asked. “I mean, not with you.” His eyes narrowed, and she continued. “I know what I said I want in the long run, but I am not in a relationship place right now,” she said. “And clearly, neither are you. Especially not with me because—code, apartment, job. I get it.”

  He laughed. “True…” But he drew out the word, like he could tell her wheels were turning and he just might buy in to a crazy scheme if she happened to have one. And she did.

  She took a step forward and hooked a finger into the top of his pants, emboldened by the energy crackling between them despite the futility of pushing things further. He took in a sharp breath, and she fought to maintain control even while her skin was touching his.