CHAPTER SEVEN

GRACE

A pile of dirty clothes overflows my hamper, which means it's time for one of my least favorite chores. And no matter what time I go to the laundromat, there's a crowd of people, making privacy an impossibility.

Add that to my list of requirements for a future home: a laundry room.

Thankfully, the parking lot only has two other vehicles when I arrive. Maybe I got lucky, and this is the prime time to go.

Mentally crossing my fingers, I grab a cart from inside and wheel it to my car to load up the heavy plastic hamper along with the pillows and comforter I brought.

The metal basket rattles over the concrete as I guide it toward the laundromat's front doors—manual ones rather than automatic.

Who thought requiring patrons to swing the door open while simultaneously shoving a heavy cart over the bump of the door frame was a good idea?

This really is a two-person job.

Too bad I'm a single woman, and Elsie went to her parents' for the weekend.

Someone pushes the door open from the inside.

"Thanks!" My grateful smile falters at seeing Wes holding the door for me. I haven't seen him since our impromptu kiss at the Apple Fest carnival two weeks ago—which isn't to say I haven't thought about him.

No, it seems I can't shake the man out of my head, and it doesn't help that Elsie keeps bringing him up.

She's still high from Avery taking her advice about dating Dominic and ending up freaking engaged. Now, my roommate likens herself to some sort of relationship guru, and I'm next in line for a sprinkle of her magic.

Wes grabs the other end of my cart and lifts it over the ledge like it weighs nothing. "You're welcome. I saw you coming in, so I thought I'd help."

"Excuse me." A young mother with her kid in tow stands behind Wes with a mountain of folded clothing in her cart, waiting for me to move, so she can leave.

Offering an apology to the woman, I wave to Wes before escaping to the large industrial washers in the back, preferring to toss everything into one giant machine rather than separating items out the proper way. All of my clothes run on cold anyway, and if every once in a while, I have a white cami come out pink, I'm willing to accept that consequence.

After throwing everything in, I survey my seating options. An older lady is reading a magazine at one end of the row of chairs along the wall while Wes is on his phone at the other end.

You kissed the man. Now, you're too afraid to sit by him?

Rolling my eyes at the silliness, I choose a chair one over from Wes. It gives us space but not enough to seem like I'm ignoring him.

Not that I am.

I'm just… flustered . Men don't kiss me out of the blue like that, especially not bearded mechanics with tattoos for days, and a penchant for coming to my rescue.

Determined to remain casual, I find my reading tablet and jump back into Northanger Abbey after deciding to take a break from my usual sexy romances. I needed to cleanse the palette, so to speak, by reading a classic. And Jane Austen is nothing if not a classic.

"What are you reading?"

Jolted out of Catherine and Mr. Tilney's first meeting, I glance up to find Wes studying me curiously. " Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen."

"Never heard of it." He shakes his head. The shaggy ends of his hair brush across his shoulders, and my fingers itch to run a hand through the thick strands.

I shrug off the inappropriate compulsion. "It doesn't get as much press as Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility ." A blank look overtakes his features. "Tell me you've at least heard of Pride and Prejudice ? Elizabeth Bennet? Mr. Darcy?"

"Nope. But I don't really read for fun. I stick to my textbooks."

Textbooks? Is he attending college while running Dusty's?

"What about English class, though? Austen seems like required reading, which would be textbook-adjacent."

Wes chuckles, showing off a glimpse of his smile. It's too bad he's getting glaring lines rather than laugh lines, because he's got a sexy laugh, deep and rumbly like a jungle cat's purr.

"I'll take your word for it. What does she write?"

I launch into an explanation about how they're romances that offer a study of social classes and themes of the time period. "The book I'm reading now is a favorite of mine along with Pride and Prejudice . You should watch the movie because I doubt you'll be able to sit through the six-hour miniseries," I tease.

"Six hours? Holy shit. Why don't you break it down for me?"

"You really want to hear about the antics of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy?"

Wes raises an eyebrow, crosses his tattooed arms over his chest, and relaxes into his seat, clearly waiting for me to begin.

Okay, then.

The next twenty minutes are spent with me gushing over two of my favorite literary characters while Wes asks the occasional question.

Wrapping up, I add, "Of course, while I'd like to think of myself as Lizzie, Avery has said I'm more like Jane with Mr. Bingley."

"Why would she think that?"

My face heats at the question. I don't want to explain, but Wes waits expectantly as I try to think of how to not completely embarrass myself.

Yeah, that's impossible.

"There's this guy or used to be this guy… And she thought what was going on between us sounded like Jane and Bingley."

There. That wasn't too bad. Vague but still answered the question.

"How? Because you're the oldest like Jane?"

Geez, he's persistent.

"Um, no. More like we always kind of tiptoed around each other. Everyone else saw how much we 'belonged' together—their words not mine—and how it was going to take forever for us to get together because of how shy and reluctant we were to say how we felt."

My washer releases a piercing beep to announce the end of its cycle, saving me from more questions. "So, yeah… I'm going to put my stuff in the dryer now."

Wes looks like he's about to press for more information, but I hightail it across the tiled floor. No need to elaborate on an old crush that never culminated into anything, especially when the guy in question is now happily married with two kids.

I spy Wes dumping a load of damp clothing into another dryer and realize he must've gotten here right before me.

When my things are divided between two dryers, I shuffle back to my seat, where Wes is already waiting for my return. Clearly, he doesn't have as much crap as I do.

"So, textbooks…." Time to turn this conversation in a different direction. "What's that about?"

"I'm getting my degree online for business management. Figured it will benefit Dusty's."

"That's smart, though it sounds like you've got a packed schedule between running the garage and attending classes."

A plethora of unspoken questions hangs in the air. How did he inherit Dusty's? What made him decide to earn a degree so long after high school? But I keep all of those to myself.

It's none of my business, even if I'm intensely curious.

Wes scrubs the back of his neck with a sigh. "Yeah, I'm pretty busy. Sometimes I wonder if I'm wasting my time and money on classes when Dusty's is doing fine, but I kind of want the degree." A chagrined half-smile peeks through his beard.

"There's no shame in that. Just because it's not a necessity business-wise doesn't mean it's not worth something to you personally."

When the dryers stop tumbling, we fold our dried clothes on the tables next to each other. I surreptitiously stuff my underwear and bras into the hamper to avoid anyone seeing them. That's the other awkward part about using a laundromat—worrying about strangers spotting your panties.

At least Wes seems preoccupied with his own clothes.

He hefts my hamper into a laundry cart then tugs both of our carts outside while I get the doors. Without a word, he places my items in the trunk, and I can't help but revel in the comfort of having a strong man focused on easing my burden.

"Thank you for this." I gesture toward the heavy load of clothing I didn't have to break my back to move again.

"No problem. If you're not in a hurry, do you wanna get some ice cream? Fall flavors should still be available."

"Sure, where do you want to go?"

He points to a place across the street. "We can meet over there once I've unloaded these baskets."

Nodding, I hop in my car and drive the short distance to the little shop and sit at one of the outdoor tables while waiting for Wes.

It's a beautiful autumn day. Not too hot or cold. Perfect for a lazy afternoon eating a sweet treat.

Sounds like the perfect date.

But this isn't a date, right?

He did kiss you, remember?

"Hey, ready for some ice cream?" Wes jogs up to the shop door and opens it for me.

"Well, technically, it's frozen yogurt."

"What's the difference?" He grabs two cups and holds one out to me.

"Um, I actually don't know. One's soft and the other's hard?"

He laughs, his hand dropping to my lower back to gently guide me toward the metal dispensers.

"What flavor are you thinking?"

"I usually get cake batter or a comparable substitute. You?"

"It varies." We stop at the first lever with a Pumpkin Vanilla label above it. "How about we taste test them all and see where we land?" he asks.

As we fill the tiny paper cups with swirls of frozen yogurt, a few customers stare at us in dismay, but we're not being disrespectful, and Wes doesn't seem to care that we're the center of attention. His focus is on me, encouraging me to relax and have fun.

After adding toppings to our full cups, Wes pays after ignoring my protests, and we return to the table outside, where I study Wes out of the corner of my eye.

Red athletic shorts cling to sturdy thighs while a black tee conforms to his muscular chest. His jacket sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, so colorful tattoos are on full display, and I can't stop my eyes from wandering over them.

I've never seen someone up close and personal with so many tattoos. Yes, I've seen people with sleeves, or even their whole body covered, on the internet or TV, but seeing them this close is breathtaking.

Sure, they make him look badass—something he could pull off without any aid—but some of the lines are so delicate. My fingers itch to reach out and trace them.

Don't paw the man in public.

One design snakes up his neck before ending right below his ear, and that's when it becomes obvious that I've been caught ogling him as an unfamiliar expression crosses Wes's face.

Blushing, I cringe in my seat. "Sorry, I didn't mean to stare."

"Go ahead, sweetheart. I don't mind. Just be prepared for the consequences." His rumbled warning sends prickles of awareness down my body.

"What consequences?"

He leans forward until our knees touch. "When I feel those pretty blue eyes on me, it makes me want… things ." The back of his hand drifts down my cheek, each rough knuckle caressing my skin before his thumb settles on my bottom lip.

The air hitches in my lungs as his eyes drop to my mouth. Ever so slowly, he brushes his thumb over the sensitive skin, his head bending closer until our mouths are inches apart.

Every breath mingles with mine.

Hot, and sweet from his apple pumpkin frozen yogurt.

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs.

I sway closer to him, my body suddenly lethargic. I want a repeat of our first kiss, but he keeps the distance between us, teasing me with the slow drag of his thumb over my mouth.

Emboldened, my tongue peeks out for a quick little lick, causing his eyes to darken with need as they return to mine.

"My baby wants to play?" The endearment spoken in his possessive tone shoots straight to my clenching core.

Despite the cool fall weather, sweat gathers on my skin as arousal blazes a path from my breasts to the throbbing of my clit.

Until the intense moment is broken by kids bursting through the shop door.

I jerk away from Wes, embarrassed to be caught in such an intimate position. Holy fuck, what just happened? I was minutes away from crawling into his lap and begging for a kiss—on a public patio where anyone could see us.

"I… I think we should probably go. My clothes need to be put away, and so do yours." I stand abruptly, the metal chair scraping against the concrete sidewalk.

"Baby… I mean... fuck . Grace, wait!"

Wes's truck is parked next to my car, so there's not much space between us but it could be an ocean after the intimacy of earlier.

"I'm sorry, okay? I shouldn't have… Shit, I don't know what I was doing." He reaches out before stopping himself, crossing his arms instead and causing the muscles to flex with his restraint.

"It's fine," I say, overly chipper. "But we were done eating, and I really need to get home, so..."

Please don't push this.

I don't regret what happened, but I also don't know how to process it right now. Which means putting some distance between me and Wes so I can think straight.

"Yeah, okay. I'll see you around?"

"Sure!" An awkward smile stretches my cheeks as I sink into the driver's seat.

Before exiting the parking lot, I glance in the rearview mirror. Wes has both hands on the hood of his truck, his head bowed between them, and I wonder what the hell all of this means.