I crouch down, refocusing my attention on the wall. It normally takes months for me to share anything remotely having to do with my past. But with Wes, it just feels right.
It felt right with him, too, though.
“So I packed up my things, came to Atlanta, decided to get my master’s in interior design, and haven’t looked back since.” I push out a nervous laugh, averting my eyes, embarrassed by how much I shared with him, albeit in vague terms. But after last night, after hearing all about Gampy, I get the feeling Wes can understand. That he doesn’t judge me. That he doesn’t blame me.
“I’m sorry you were in a position where you felt like you had to choose. It takes a strong person to stand up for what they believe in, especially to their own family. And for the record…”
When he trails off, I stand and arch a brow. “Yes?”
“I, for one, am grateful you chose the path you did.”
I nod. “The theory that one small disturbance can set into motion a chain reaction leading to a large shift in the state of things.”
“Precisely. Had you not had a disagreement with your father, you never would have come to Atlanta and studied interior design. You never would have gotten a job working for Margo St. James. She never would have fired you. You never would have attempted to cross a busy intersection in a torrential downpour.” His voice becomes lower, more sensual, the space between us decreasing with every thumping beat of my heart. “And our paths never would have crossed.” He stops a mere whisper from me, my insides coiling from his proximity. “If you ask me, that would have been a damn tragedy.”
Heat builds on my cheeks, my stomach in knots. It’s been years since a man has spoken to me with such conviction, such honesty. And just like with him, it makes me want to tell Wes everything, share my deepest, darkest secrets.
But I’m not the naïve young girl I was all those years ago. I’ve been hurt in ways I never imagined possible. And I still carry that pain as a reminder to not trust so easily.
I’m riding that seesaw. One second, I want to take a risk with Wes, like Hazel encouraged me. But all it takes is one reminder of how badly I was hurt to make me retreat back into my protective shell.
Clearing my throat, I spin from him. “You’re only saying that because you were in desperate need of a designer who wouldn’t destroy the memories you have of this house,” I joke.
When he doesn’t immediately respond, I glance at him. His eyes are narrowed on me in an analytical stare. I can only imagine how my emotional whiplash must be confusing Wes. It confuses me, too.
On a long exhale, he climbs back up the ladder. “That’s true.” He takes the final bit of insulation from me and fits it into the last stud bay. “But I’m really glad that designer is you.”
I keep my gaze trained forward as I work the fiberglass into the walls, torn between telling him I’m glad, too, and protecting myself. After everything I’ve been through, it’s all I know. Nearly every other person in my life has disappointed me.
All reason tells me Wes is no different.
Chapter Eleven
Weston
A rare stillness surrounds me as I step into the foyer after helping Nash load the unused materials into the van, the house now a blank canvas, ready for Londyn to work her magic. I worried this place would lose its character when we gutted it in order to install new electrical, plumbing, and HVAC, but it’s still here. It’s in its bones, and I can’t wait to see what Londyn does with it.
Making my way into the kitchen, I open the cooler and grab a couple of beers before heading toward the back porch. I pause in the doorway, taking a moment to admire Londyn as she sits on the top step, eyes closed, a peaceful look on her face that’s shiny with perspiration.
I have to hand it to her. She held her own today. At times, she even made my crew look bad, refusing to take a break when everyone else did. She definitely made me look bad, but I don’t mind. I’d gladly suffer through nicking my finger with the staple gun because I was checking out her ass