The Ahern Brothers Collection - Claudia Burgoa Page 0,57
my morning coffee.
Wes then exchanges the empty cup for a granola bar.
“It’s not breakfast, but we can have a substantial meal after our morning jog,” he says unwrapping his own bar.
“Are you cooking?” I arch an eyebrow as I guide the pup toward the door.
I look over my shoulder glancing at Wes who’s staring at my ass. “Are you joining us, or are you planning on staring at my butt?
“It’s a nice ass,” he says with a smirk. “You’re right though. We should get a dog.”
He’s referring to our conversation from yesterday. I thought the subject was closed and forgotten. It wasn’t.
I pride myself on knowing almost everything that goes through that mind of his, but for the past couple of weeks, I’ve come to realize there’s a big part of him that he doesn’t share, and that I don’t know. We’re not as in sync as I thought we were and I wonder if that should concern me.
“Hey,” he traces my brows. “Whatever is bothering you, let it go. We’re here to relax and think only about us.”
“Only us,” I repeat.
“Yes, this is our beginning. Everything else doesn’t matter. At least not until we’re back in the real world.”
I shiver, afraid of what might be waiting for us outside of our bubble. He’s right though. For now, I won’t let anything tarnish what we’re becoming.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Abby
Wes stands in front of the stove, freshly showered, hair still wet, and smelling delicious. Bacon and his natural scent. The kitchen is finally clean after the mess Sterling left last night. He should learn that we don’t work where we eat—literally.
“He cleaned the kitchen,” I say making sure that the island doesn’t have any clay smeared on top of the granite counter and that the floors are clean before Terry ingests any clay.
“You seriously think he cleaned,” Wes groans. “I did. Hopefully, he won’t complain that I put his junk outside.”
He bursts into a loud laugh. Weston has the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old boy. I stretch my neck looking out the window. The junk is now sitting atop the garden table. The sculpture looks like a twisted piece of pasta.
“The next time I mess up dinner, we’re going to post a picture of it on eBay and call it, art.” He lifts a single eyebrow easily as if waiting for me to laugh along with him.
Poor thing. He’s on a roll cracking one bad joke after the other. Someone should tell him he is no comedian. I wouldn’t dare.
“I don’t understand his abstract art,” I stare at Sterling’s latest piece from afar.
“Who does?” He turns his attention back to the stove.
Do you have to understand art to appreciate it? I don’t ask him. Sterling has thousands of followers on social media who at times call him the modern Rodin. Do they even know Rodin’s work? Apparently, only Sterling Ahern can create a dramatic piece with rough edges that contrasts against the ordinariness of an everyday object. That’s what the experts say about the art work he creates by juxtaposing one of his shapeless clay sculptural pieces with a brick or a metal part, like the wheel of a car.
His versatile and abstract pieces are his best sellers, though Sterling tends to dabble in many other crafts. I love his paintings. Those Colorado sunsets he creates by the dozen are my favorite ones. What can I say, I’m a sucker for sunsets?
“You’re awfully homey today,” I say while I turn on the Sonos system with my phone and set it to the alternative music station.
“Homey?” He speaks without turning around.
I march toward Wes and hug him from behind kissing his shoulder and leaning my head against him. “Mmm. Eggs and bacon?”
“That’s a nice hug,” he says.
Wes leaves the spatula on the counter, turns around, and hugs me, bending his head and kissing me deeply. He’s right. Changing the definition of our relationship has its perks. I can cling to him without any excuse. It’s nice to be this close to him, to feel the warmth of his taut body against mine. Or sleeping pressed against him, listening to the soothing beat of his heart and tracing the hard lines of his muscles. Everything that I dreamt about but was afraid I’d never have—is happening.
“Huevos rancheros with homemade salsa. I’m frying bacon for my favorite person,” he says, pointing at the fried tortillas with the spatula he holds and the bowl with salsa. “Why’d you say I’m awfully homey, gorgeous?”