August

Anna

Eight weeks have passed.

Four more sessions with Katie.

Sixty days of running with Wes. Of strawberry-banana smoothies.

Two months of helping Wes in John’s garage in the evenings.

My body is stronger, my thoughts are lighter, and my smile is easier.

And I can’t deny that I like being with Wes all the time. Our bodies seem to sync up with one another’s. Not just when we’re running either, but also when we work in the garage together. We make a good team.

Plus, he’s really easy to look at.

Especially when he’s lost in his creations. He’s so talented, and right before my eyes, he crafts simple pieces of wood into a beautiful shelf or chair or table. Some pieces look contemporary with clean lines and geometric shapes. Others look more ornate with intricate patterns engraved for a more formal look. And others still look masculine with solid accents.

“Would you mind keeping this piece steady while I attach it?” he asks, interrupting my reverie.

“No problem.” I take my position opposite him, holding the piece of trim in place against the dresser as he drills screws into the underside so that they remain hidden from view. It’s like magic.

I study him as he works.

He tilts his head this way and that to make sure the piece is level before he starts. Then, he lifts the drill, and taut muscles shine with sweat as he drives each screw into the boards with purpose. His forearms flex and jump with every movement. And his tattoo calls my eye to follow the bumps and dips of his biceps and triceps.

Wesley Scott is a perfectly sculpted specimen of man. He’s strong. Confident. Capable.

He catches me staring and winks, rewarding me with his rare, crooked grin. I feel myself flush as I quickly look away, totally busted.

No, I don’t mind helping him one bit.

He blows a puff of air on the wood when he’s done to get rid of any shavings left by the drill, and they land all over his head.

“That’s it for tonight.” He stands, checking the time. “Oh shit, I’m sorry, Anna. I didn’t realize it’d gotten so late.”

I chuckle. “It’s okay. You were in the zone.”

He smooths his hand over the top of the dresser, looking it over from top to bottom. “I really was.”

“It came out great. I’ll stain it tomorrow.”

“Perfect. Want to crash here?”

I debate my options. It’s Friday night, so I really don’t have to rush home. I’m off tomorrow, and I plan on helping Wes stain this piece. Staying over makes sense. John even has a spare bedroom made up already with the most comfortable mattress and pillow ever. Right next to the room Wesley sleeps in.

Though I could go home. It’s only a few minutes away. Home to my own bed and pillow, which are pretty comfortable. Home to my quiet, empty apartment to read a book.

“Come on, we have popcorn and M&M’s.”

Boy, does he know me well. “Okay, sounds good.”

“Mmm, this is so delicious. I can’t believe you still don’t like this, John,” Wesley says around a mouthful of popcorn and M&M’s. “What’s wrong with you?”

Reanell laughs. “I agree. I’m making popcorn like this from now on.”

“It’s the salty and the sweet. I’d rather have them separate.”

“But they taste so good together,” I argue.

“Especially when the M&M’s are melty, it’s like a vacation in my mouth.” Reanell scoops up another handful, then licks the melted chocolate off her finger.

“Just be careful with those messy fingers.” John is trying to be stern and look put out, but I can see the way his eyes linger on her licking her finger.

Gross. I shouldn’t have stayed over.

“You mean, you don’t want me to do this?” She takes her finger and smears some chocolate on his white T-shirt.

“That’s it; you’re gonna get it.” He scoops Reanell off the couch and throws her over his shoulder. “Sorry, guys, we’re going to bed.”

She squeals and slaps his back, acting like she isn’t enjoying every minute of this exchange. As John turns to head to their bedroom, the huge smile on her face is visible and contagious because I find myself smiling, too.

“Are they always this sickeningly cute together?” I ask Wes.

“Pretty much.”

“I’m happy for them,” I say honestly.

“Me, too. Though I’m sure they miss their privacy. I need to find a new place soon.”

These words induce more panic than they should. Of course, he’s not going to live here forever. I’ve just…gotten used to him being here. I like being able to come over and see my brother and Wesley at the same time—two of my favorite people in the universe in the same house. I swallow past the lump in my throat.

Keep your cool, Anna. He can’t stay here forever. Him moving out doesn’t mean you’ll never see him again.

“Where will you go?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know yet. I don’t have enough money to pay the deposit for an apartment. I’ve just been pouring all my earnings into getting supplies to make more inventory. Maybe I need to put that on the back burner for a bit, so I can get my own place.”

“Don’t be silly. John isn’t going to kick you out anytime soon.”

“Yeah, I just hate feeling like a charity case, you know?”

“Shut. Up,” I say. “You are not a charity case, you’re his best friend. Besides, we’re going to work this out. You’ll see.”

“I know. I just…want a place of my own, too.” He looks off into space, his expression wistful.

I think back to his letters from when he was in prison. He wanted a home of his own. A lawn to mow, a gym in the basement, and a woodshop in the garage. He has these things here, at John’s house. But they aren’t his. Wanting him to stay here, so close to me, is selfish.

He takes the empty popcorn bowl and rinses it out in the sink. “I’m going to head to bed. You turning in?”

“Yeah, my Kindle is calling my name.” I wipe down the kitchen table and lean against the counter.

“Oh? What book are you reading now? I miss getting your books.”

He misses getting my books? Happiness makes my heart beat faster and my cheeks heat. I miss sending him books.

I smile cheekily and bite my lower lip. “I’m not so sure you’d like this one. It’s a romance.”

“You might be surprised. I liked the romance books you sent me. I still have every single one.”

For a second, I think he’s joking, but he holds my gaze, his face open and honest.

“You do?” I breathe.

“Come with me.” He grabs my hand and pulls me down the hall to his room.

I haven’t been in here since he moved in. It smells like him—a combination of sage and cedar and sawdust. His bed is made. Piles of papers and sketches of furniture plans are stacked up on his desk. And right there, neatly lined up on the bookshelves above the desk, are all the books I sent him while he was in prison. One shelf for the carpentry books, one shelf for fiction. I finger the spines, remembering each one. I see some of them are cracked and weathered, as if read more than once.

I turn to see him watching me, intense blue-gray eyes like a storm cloud.

“You really kept them,” I whisper. I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice.

He clenches his jaw. “I did.”

“And you really read them?”

Those eyes stay on me. “I did.”

“And no one gave you a hard time for reading these books?”

I see his hands fist at his sides. “A couple of people might have tried to borrow them, but I didn’t share.”

He didn’t share. “So, you actually like to read?”

He nods slowly. “I like to read the books you pick out.”

I smile. Then, I think about him reading my current book. Sierra Simone is one of my favorite authors. Her prose is poignant, her words thoughtful, her stories unpredictable and complex and so…dirty. Reading her books always makes me check over my shoulder to make sure no one else can see what’s on my screen. What would Wes think of this book? Would it turn him on like it turns me on? Am I brave enough to send it to him?

“Okay. Do you have the Kindle app on your phone?”

“Maybe?” He hands me his phone. “I haven’t used it before, but I thought I saw it on here somewhere.”

“Here it is.” I help him sign in to his Amazon account then gift him the book before I can think better of it.

When he sees it show up on his Kindle, he raises his eyebrows. “Priest?”

I blush, my toes suddenly the most interesting thing to look at. Why did I send it to him?

“I told you, you probably won’t like it. You don’t have to read it. In fact, maybe I’ll just…”

I grab for his phone to delete the book, but he holds it out of my reach.

“Now, I definitely want to read it.”