My chest squeezed. I wanted to tell him he was the most compelling thing in any room, whether he was in front of a lens or not. I actually liked the idea of his face in the photos, because the image of a future without that face in it made my stomach drop.
Instead of ruminating, I popped another chip and shrugged like it was no big deal. “Fine. We’ll hire some poor unsuspecting idiot and make him stand in the snow all day. He’ll probably cry.”
“That I would pay to see,” Wes said, a real smile breaking across his face, bright and quick. Lines fanned at the corners of his eyes. I wanted to reach across the table and smooth my thumb over them, memorize them with my hands.
Under the table, our knees brushed, and neither of us moved away.
Our plates arrived—tacos for me, something with enough meat and cheese to qualify as a structural challenge for him. I launched into describing the rest of the shoot, the dress silhouettes, how Elodie had offered to let us use the goats for a few fun shots. Somewhere between the carnitas and the churros, the conversation slid sideways into easier territory.
“So the Nerd Night campaign is almost over?” I asked, licking a line of salsa from my thumb. His gaze followed the motion before he blinked and reached for his fork.
“Couple more sessions.” He chased a piece of steak around his plate. “We’re down two horses and one wizard, which feels about right for this group.”
“Tragic.” I bit into a taco, talking around it like a gremlin. “What happens when it’s over? Group therapy? Grief counseling?”
“Brody floated the idea of a new game. Crokinole, I think it’s called? I don’t fucking know.” Wes shrugged, then rolled his shoulder like it was still a new motion. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to miss it. Game night is ... nice. Having somewhere to be that isn’t PT or my sad living room.”
Something soft flickered in his eyes at the admission. He poked at his rice. “Softball starts up in a couple of months. They’re already making noise about the rec league. No idea what that looks like for me now. Maybe I’ll be the bat boy. Or the team mascot.”
The casual tone didn’t hide the way his mouth tightened around the words.
I set my taco down and nudged his plate back toward him, but he absentmindedly pushed it away. “You can see where you’re at when the time comes,” I said. “You surprised yourself on that hill. Might surprise yourself on the field too.”
His gaze lifted to mine, something like gratitude flickering there. “You’re very annoying when you’re optimistic.”
“Thank you.” I stole one of his chips and popped it in my mouth.
He rolled his eyes, grabbed another chip, and deliberately pushed the basket closer to my side of the table.
It felt easy in a way that scared me. The loop of conversation, the little touches, the way he made sure I ate when I forgot. People laughed around us, clinking glasses, a server’s tray wobbling past. Across the room, a couple shared a plate of nachos, heads bent together over some private joke.
I could see us like that so easily it hurt.
Every time Wes laughed—that rare, low sound that came from deep in his chest—my body remembered his mouth between my thighs, the way he had coaxed pleasure from places I hadn’t realized I’d stopped trusting. Anticipation thrummed under my skin, hot and insistent. Tonight hovered at the edgeof my thoughts like a live current.Lesson three.His body inside mine instead of just his voice in my ear.
I had to drag myself back to the table so I didn’t melt into a puddle in the salsa.
“You still with me, Duchess?” he asked, one brow arched.
Heat rushed to my face. “Absolutely. Just thinking about ... makeup artists and weather reports,” I lied poorly.
His mouth curved, unconvinced but not pushing. “Those must be some very interesting weather reports.”
You have no idea.
I forced a grin and picked up my taco again. “Trust me. Lake effect is riveting.”
We finished eating in that companionable quiet that happens only with people who know where all your bodies are buried. He flagged the server for the check before I could reach for my wallet, giving me a look that said we would argue about it later and he would still win.
“Let’s go home.” Wes’s chin dipped toward the exit.
My chest squeezed at the casual way he saidhome.
When we stepped out onto the sidewalk, the evening air hit my face, cold enough to sting. The street was a ribbon of slush and light, cars inching past, someone’s dog trotting by in a ridiculous sweater.
Wes fell into step beside me without seeming to think about it. Then, automatically, he shifted—one smooth, unconscious move that put his body between me and the curb. His shoulder brushed mine as we walked toward the truck, the outside edge of his arm catching the wind instead of me.
It was nothing. A small, protective tilt of his body. A habit he’d probably picked up a decade ago and never thought twice about.
My chest went hot and achy anyway.
This was what it would be like, my brain whispered. This was what it already was.