Wes cleared his throat. “Setting up at the farm’s a smart move. It’s a good backdrop. You’ll crush it.”
My throat was thick, and I hummed a response. Warmth spread under my skin, slow and syrupy. I took a sip of water so I wouldn’t say thank you in a way that sounded too much likeplease keep talking to me like that.
I set my fork down and let my hands move as I talked. “The goal is to capture a winter bride. Think twinkle lights, falling snow, the blue barn, maybe some stylized shots on the porch at the inn. I’m talking to a photographer, maybe a videographer. Elodie wants a few extra lifestyle shots for the farm too—kids at the firepit, the restaurant when it’s done. She said she’d buy a package.”
His gaze stayed on me, intent and steady. It should have unnerved me. Instead, heat slid under my skin in slow, dangerous ribbons.
“Sounds smart,” he said. “She’ll get free advertising. You’ll get paid. The town gets to show off a little bit.” He tipped his chin. “You doing the modeling too?”
I swallowed, suddenly too aware of my own body. “Yes. I mean, I’ll try to snag a groom if I can, so it’s not all me, but ... yeah.”
His eyes dragged over my face in a way that felt less like appraisal and more like confirmation as he chuffed a laugh. “That shouldn’t be hard.”
The words landed low in my stomach, hot and heavy. Old Wes was right there in that sentence—the one who used to charm women without trying, who knew exactly how to make her feel seen without making it gross. His tone wasn’t sleazy. Just ... confident. Flirtatious and certain.
My pulse tripped. “Is that your professional opinion?”
His mouth curved, slow and wicked, a flash of the man who’d existed before the world took a piece of him. “Professional.Personal.” His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “You in a pretty dress on that property? They’d be idiots not to pay for it.”
Heat climbed my throat until I was sure it showed. I took a quick sip of water to cover the way my tongue suddenly felt too big in my mouth.
“Wow,” I managed. “Careful. If you keep complimenting me like that, I might start to think you don’t hate having me here.”
His gaze held mine for a beat that felt longer than it probably was. Something flickered in his eyes—something warm and wary. “I don’t hate having you here,” he said, voice low. “I just haven’t figured out what to do with you yet.”
Every nerve ending I owned stood at attention.
I broke eye contact first, because self-preservation was still a thing I pretended to care about. My fingers tightened around my fork, knuckles white.
Outside, the snow fell harder, filling the dark with white. Inside, Wes Vaughn sat at his own table, eating my food, breathing the same air as me.
Wes pushed back from the table and cleared his throat. “I think we should add a rule.”
I blinked. “What?”
“The one who cooks doesn’t do dishes,” he said, reaching for my plate before I could argue. “Now tell me you’ve got something sweet for me.”