He licks his lips; he’s nervous.He’snervous?
“Jo?” My mom, behind me. “Who is it?”
I turn—Mom is in a bathrobe, hair up in a wildly messy, frizzy bun. The robe is about forty years old, almost see-through, and hits mid-thigh when she’s standing still. Fuzzy slippers. “Ohmygod, Mom. Go put on clothes.”
A barely suppressed snicker from the other side of the door.
Mom ignores me and peeks around me. “Why? Who is itOH MYGODWESTLEY BRITTON. Why didn’t you warn me?” She shrieks and whirls around, vanishes. “Let him in, Jo! Don’t keep the man waiting on the porch!” This, from the stairs.
I turn back, and he’s still there. “It’s you?”
He shrugs. “Guess so.”
I swallow hard. “Why?”
“Why am I me? Or why am I here?”
“Yes.”
He laughs. It’s gentle, not mocking. “Maybe I could come in?”
It occurs to me, as I open the storm door and he enters my house, standing in front of me, inches away, live and in person, that I’m barely more dressed than Mom was.
I look down: headlights.
I blush and cross my arms over my chest. “Um. Hi.” I keep one arm across my chest, hand tucked under the other arm, and offer a hand to him. “Hi. I’m Jolene.”
He takes my hand in his. Shakes. His grip is gentle but firm. No sissy weak clasp for him, like I’m some delicate thing made of porcelain. I like that. “I’m Wes.” He says it with an S sound at the end—Wess.
What do I do?
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and force myself to be calm, cool, and collected.
“I’m sorry I have nipples,” I hear myself say.
He bites his lower lip and smirks. “Um, don’t be? They’re…a perfectly normal thing for a person to have?”
He pushes his hood back, removes his sunglasses and places them on the brim, arms around the crown. His eyes are brown. I know this, as a fact. But I’m not prepared for the reality of them. They’re not justbrown. They’re…I don’t even know. You read all the usual descriptions in romance books, right? Molten chocolate. Puppy dog brown. The usual. But…the cliches become cliche for a reason, I guess. Because they all apply to his eyes. Liquid, molten chocolate? Check. The deep, expressive brown of a puppy? Check.
But there’s more.
There are lighter streaks in them, like veins of gold.
Hints of cinnamon in the oak brown.
Those eyes meet mine, stare into mine. Then, glance down—I’m still holding his hand.
I drop it abruptly, shake my hand out as if burned.
He reaches out with both hands and takes both of mine. “Take a deep breath, okay? It’s fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.” He holds my gaze. “Deep breathe with me for a second, okay?” He inhales, and I mirror him.
His eyes flick down, back up.
Did he just…
Did Westley Britton just…check out my chest? No one’s ever done that before. Weird.
Is it supposed to make me tingly in my stomach?
