“I wasn’t all that impressed by the idea at first, to be honest. Then he told me that there was no TV or video games on weeknights at his house so I could either read or do chores.” He ran his finger down the spine of one of the first biographies Ed had given him. “I hated chores. Plus, I figured if my uncle and my dad came from the same screwed-up family, yet somehow Uncle Ed had turned out successful and happy instead of a criminal and an addict, there might be something to his logic.”
“Sounds like a smart guy.”
Wes tucked his hands in his pockets, his lips lifting before he could stop them. “Ed and Carolina are the best. They saved me in so many ways, I can’t even count.” He took a deep breath. “Which is why I can’t stand the fact that I ended up letting them down anyway.”
Rebecca turned to him, frowning. “Wes, losing your business as part of a bad divorce isn’t a crime.”
“Spending a year pickled and ending up in rehab is pretty close,” he said. “All that work they did, and I ended up an addict like my parents anyway.”
She reached out and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Stop. You’re sober now, teaching kids and forcing a lawyer to scrub down a bus for charity. I don’t even wash my own car. You have lots to be proud of.”
He laughed, her playful smile breaking through the dark mood that had tried to take over. “Right. I’m working miracles here.” He stepped over to the couch and grabbed the T-shirt and workout shorts he’d pulled out for her. “These will be big, but the shorts have a drawstring on them, so you should be able to tighten them. And I have a pair of flip-flops you can use.”
“I don’t need shoes. I always carry ballet flats in my bag when I wear heels.” She took the clothes from him, and a line appeared between her brows. “But shorts? Don’t you have sweatpants or something?”
“They’re all going to be too long. Plus, it’s hot outside.”
Her lips rolled inward as she pondered the clothes. “I don’t wear shorts except at home. I have pretty extensive scarring on my leg.”
He winced inwardly. He hadn’t even thought about her leg injury or what scars she might prefer to keep hidden. He’d never seen her in shorts or a skirt, always pants. He should’ve realized she did that on purpose. “Hey, if you’re not comfortable, I’ll grab you some pants. Maybe I can find a pair that we can roll up.”
She glanced up, indecision in her gaze. “I don’t know. It is freaking hot out there.”
He considered her, seeing the hint of yearning there, the desire to take that leap of faith, but she was scared. He had no idea what she thought he would do if he saw her scars. Stare? Be turned off? Think differently of her? He knew none of those were options, but he hadn’t walked in her shoes. He didn’t know what kind of reactions she’d gotten in the past.
He took a breath. “Look, I want you to do whatever makes you feel comfortable, but please don’t cover up just because I’m here with you. We all have scars, some visible, some not. You’ve already seen a load of mine.”
She nodded. “I know. I just… I guess I like the way you look at me now.”
He lifted a brow. “And how’s that?”
A small smile appeared. “Like you’re always right on the edge of trying to convince me out of my clothes.”
He laughed. “That’s totally true. That’s pretty much a constant state when I’m around you. I’m obviously not doing a good job of masking it.”
“Don’t,” she said. “I like it. I’m not used to someone looking at me like that.”
“It’s not going to change, Bec. If that’s what you’re worried about. Your scars don’t scare me. They’re part of you. And to be honest, I’m really more of an ass man than a leg man anyway. And yours…is top-notch, lawyer girl. Grade A.”
She huffed and swatted him with the clothes. “Pig.”
He lifted his hands in defense. “Oink?”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous. But fine, I’ll wear the shorts.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. You may be a pig, but I don’t want to be a chicken.” She pressed her lips together in determination. “Now distract me because I’m about to overthink this.”
“Oh, we can’t have that.” He reached out to grip the lapels of her suit jacket and guided her to him. She came willingly and looped her arms loosely around his waist. He liked that things were so easy between them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so comfortable around a woman. So he didn’t overanalyze it, and instinct took over. He bent down to kiss her. He’d only intended a quick peck, a reintroduction to this new kissing part of their relationship after all the flirty phone calls. But when his mouth touched hers, fire licked up his spine and all his hell yes receptors went off like a string of firecrackers.
All because of the way she responded to him. Rebecca didn’t simply accept kisses. She didn’t sit back and let him lead. She leaned into it, stated her clear desire to be kissed more thoroughly. And when her lips parted and she made a hungry sound that he’d probably hear in his next erotic dream, he was a goner. His hand shifted to the back of her neck, her skin hot against his palm, and he deepened the kiss, their tongues meeting.
Her hands slid along his chest, her fingertips sending threads of awareness straight downward, and grappled for his shirt like she was going to tear it right off him. He was all for that. He backed her against the bookcase, rattling some of the items on one of the shelves, and aligned his body to hers. Every deprived male cell in his body rushed to the surface, and he had no shot at playing it cool. His cock grew hard and heavy, demanding things it had no right to, while her nails scraped him through his thin T-shirt. All the years of abstinence seemed to coalesce into one pounding fist of need in his gut.
He broke away, panting, and pressed his forehead to hers, trying to rein himself in. “We should probably stop this. Like right now. My bedroom is exceptionally close, and I’m losing my inclination to do the right thing.”
“The right thing?” she asked, breathless.