Page 57 of A Bittersweet Summer

My face twists, and I fight the urge to cry from frustration. “Okay,” I say. “Then did I do something wrong with us?” I gesture between us. “With this or whatever? Was it the fake fiancée thing?” I ask. “If so, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to cross any lines with you or be unprofessional.” The words spill out of me, threatening to bring on those tears just as the sky releases a few droplets of her own. “I love this job, Wes. I know I’ve said that before, and if I’ve done anything to jeopardize it, I would like you to tell me. Things have been…weird.” I fold my arms across my chest, folding in on myself. “I just… I don’t know.” I shake my head before letting out a frustrated sound. “You’re just so hard to read sometimes.”

Wes drops the sticks. Slowly—so slowly—he steps closer, his gaze pinned to me. The intensity in his eyes makes me shift in the mud where I’m standing with the field behind me.

Wes is backed by the swaying trees, bending in the wake of the wind that now picks up.

He doesn’t say a word, just keeps moving forward until my emotions feel like the storm waiting to break above us.

“Are you going to answer me?” I challenge, just raindrops fall fat and slow, landing on the tan shirt that hangs loose on my body. “I feel so… unsettled,” I confess.

He steps close enough to crowd my space, forcing me to look up in honey-colored eyes—except with the storm, they look more like whiskey—intoxicating.

“Unsettled?” he questions, his expression severe.

I try not to shrink back—force myself to continue. “Yes,” I whisper. “I don’t understand what was happening between us, and the cold shoulder is making me more confused.”

Wes pulls in a long inhale, his eyes never leaving mine.

“I thought we were friends,” I say.

I thought we were more, I keep to myself

How stupid would that sound coming out of me at this point?

I don’t want to border on desperation—dancing on the line and doing my best to force someone to care about me the way they should. Chad never did, my parents haven't, this shouldn’t be any different.

I spent so much time unlearning all of the strategies I’d used to stay likable in my family. Those strategies carried over to my relationships, and ended with Chad cheating on me.

As for Wes, I’ve spent a lot of time getting to know him. All of the conversations, the swimming in the pond, the way he planned an entire night for my friends and me, it feels an awful lot like we were barreling toward a relationship. And if I am honest, Iwantthat with him. I like the way he tries to hide his laughter when I make a funny joke. Sometimes it feels like I get more pieces of Wesley Miller than the rest of the world. It’s like he’s saved the very best parts of himself for me.

So, when I was greeted by the same Wes I met in the coffee shop on Oaklawn two months ago, I started shrinking in on myself—trying to solve whatever puzzle this became, and making too many connections between the man standing in front of me and the man I dated previously. Wes is nothing like Chad.

I know this.

His jaw ticks, his molars grinding together before he speaks. “I don’t…” he starts, closing his eyes and inhaling again to gather his thoughts. When he looks at me next, it feels like heseeseverything. “I don’t want to be your fucking friend, Cassidy.”

I nod once, breaking eye contact to look at the trees behind him. I can’t have him looking at me like this while he’s telling me he wants nothing to do with me—no friendship, no nothing. “So, you want more professionalism,” I deduce. “Got it, Boss,” I add, realizing my mistake. “Mr. Miller, I mean.”

Wes’s fingers gently lift my chin, tilting it up until I’m looking at him again. Something has softened there, a realization of sortsthat melts my insides. Despite it all—despite him telling me he doesn’t want my friendship, showing me he wants nothing. I still can’t stop the way I want to be closer to him. His gravitational pull is just too strong.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confesses—like he’s been tortured by the secret. The raindrops fall faster, soaking into my shirt and clinging to my hair, pressing it flat against my skull.

I can’t stop thinking about you.

The words invade every cell in my body, sending goosebumps over my arms and a fluttering deep in my stomach. My mouth parts on instinct as his thumb does a short glide up my jaw and back. His touch is covetous.

With that gentle touch, he holds me there—holds my attention, my desire—all of it.

“I can’t stop, Cass.” Wes winces as if in pain, shaking his head before continuing. “I want to hear you talk. Every day, I want you to fill the silence with anything. I just like hearing the sound of your voice.” My breaths come out faster. “I bought that damn coffee bar foryou. I traveled all the way to Lennon’s house foryou.” He leans in, just slightly. The cologne is gone, replaced by the scent of clean laundry, freshly cut grass, and rain. “I want to—” He grinds his teeth together again, fighting the words. “I’m the one who needs to maintain professionalism. I’ve been trying to do that fortwo weeks. You said you love this job, and I’m trying not to jeopardize that or complicate it, but it’s so fucking hard not to touch you—to keep touching you.”

Time slows as I’m suddenly aware of how close we are—of how his hand falls away from my chin.

I’m still here, though, held captive by every breath that passes through his parted lips. It’s as if he waits for something—permission, I hope.

“But,” I start, letting the word hang between us.

“But?” he questions, his voice still low.

Rain glistens on his skin, dripping from his nose and cheeks, skating down his temple until it tangles with his facial hair. He’s painfully beautiful like this—utterly undone.