Wild about Weston (The English Brothers Book 5) (5 page)

“Don’t worry about it.”

She took her dress from him and stood to slip it over her head. His hand on her arm stopped her, and she looked up to see him staring at her, his pants and shirt unbuttoned, his eyes hungrily searching her face.

“Molly, I…I mean, I…” He grinned at her sheepishly, chuckling lightly. “Can I tell you something?”

“Sure,” she said, resting her dress over her arm, a little surprised to find she didn’t mind standing in front of Weston English wearing nothing but her bra and skimpy underwear.

“There’s this girl I’ve been seeing…Connie. She broke things off this morning, and I—” He bit his bottom lip, and his fingers tightened momentarily on her arm.

“Oh,” she said, her own broken feelings about Dusty crashing over her like a wave of sadness, a sudden tsunami of grief. Her voice was thready when she said, “I’m sorry.”

“It’ll be okay,” he said, his face falling a little as he shrugged. “Maybe it was for the best. I don’t know. But I thought today was going to be horrible.” He reached forward to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Thanks for making it not-so-horrible, Molly Samaria McKenna.”

She nodded, clenching her jaw, not trusting herself to speak, their sorrows so very similar.

His fingers trailed down her cheek to rest under her chin as his blue eyes explored her face. His voice was soft, almost dream-like when he murmured, “My very own Good Samarian.”

Her chest was tightening and a lump was gathering in her throat. Sadness for Weston or herself, she wasn’t sure, but she certainly wasn’t anxious to embarrass herself by crying.

“At your service,” she said, and he grinned at her, dropping his fingers and turning to pick up his tie.

Working quickly, Molly threw her dress over her head and reached back, struggling to zip it. Gentle hands suddenly rested on her shoulders, turning her around, and she felt his fingers slide down her back, searching for the zipper before pulling it up. Her head bowed, she stared at her bare feet while his hands still hovered near the base of her neck. She closed her eyes as he brushed her hair over her shoulder and dropped warm lips to her skin. The light touch made her breath catch and she trembled with longing, fisting her hands by her sides to keep herself from turning around and reaching for him. The only time today when she’d felt good, felt free of grief, was when she was making out with Weston. It took all of her self-control not to escape into his touch once again.

“Sorry,” he whispered near her skin, his warm breath soothing and painful at once.

He let go of her, stepping back as she leaned down to pick up her shoes. She sat on the edge of the bed and slipped them on, buckling them slowly. Finally dressed again, she stood and looked up at Weston, who finished tying his tie and cocked his head to the side, smiling at her. She forced herself to smile back, despite the force of her encroaching melancholy.

“Do I look okay for pictures?” he asked.

She nodded. “Am I okay?”

“Run a hand through your hair,” he said gently. “You’ve got bed-head.”

“You too.”

He ran a hand through his blond hair before hooking a thumb at the door. “I guess I’ll just…”

“Yeah,” she said, holding on to her plastic smile as the lump in her throat multiplied.

Weston took a step forward and bent his head toward her, dropping his lips to hers and brushing them softly back and forth before pulling away.

“I owe you one, Molly McKenna,” he murmured against her lips. Then, he chucked her chin gently before stepping away from her.

“Good luck with the pictures,” she whispered, watching him turn and cross the room, smiling at her one last time before closing the door behind him.

As soon as the door closed, Molly stopped trying not to cry and sat back down on the bed, letting the tears flow freely. So many confusing and conflicting feelings were battling for her attention.

First, she still felt raw over Dusty, though she realized, with some relief, that she didn’t feel sad anymore. Anger had stepped up to the plate pretty quickly this morning after her shower, and grown steadily into her primary emotion as the day progressed.  She didn’t want to remain angry forever, and she wouldn’t, but right now, she was. Angry that he dumped her. Angry that he got someone else pregnant. Angry that she needed to get tested for diseases. Angry that she meant so little to him that he would have treated her like this.

Second, she had to admit that she felt sorry for herself. She was supposed to come to this wedding with her fiancé, and here she was, sitting alone in Weston English’s bedroom after a failed attempt to get laid.  She felt a little pathetic about that, though the fact that Weston hadn’t rejected her buoyed her spirits a little.

Third, in her whole life, Molly had never experienced the chemistry she had with Weston English. Being with Dusty was nothing like the few stolen moments she’d just spent with Weston in the staircase and in his bed. Her nipples still stood erect against the lace of her bra and her panties were soaked. Every inch of skin felt sensitive and turned-on. She moaned softly, realizing that the chances of ever being with Weston again were next-to-none. He hadn’t asked for her number or made any indication that he wanted to see her again. It was completely possible that despite the truth, he thought she was a raging slut, in light of her behavior.

Whimpering a soft sound of protest, she took a deep breath through her nose and realized that she was surrounded by Weston’s scent. Letting herself fall back on the bed, she stared at the ceiling, feeling her racing heart finally begin to calm down. She grabbed his smooshed pillow and held it against her chest, rolling onto her side.

Despite their heat and chemistry, Molly had to admit that part of her—a very real and large part of her that just wasn’t being very assertive today—was relieved that she hadn’t slept with Weston. Would it have been amazing? Very likely. He was smart, gorgeous and mischievous, with a body to die for, but if she’d slept with him, she would have felt really, really cheap and dirty right about now. As it was, she wasn’t exactly proud of herself for looking like a first-class strumpet. It was no wonder he didn’t ask for her number.

“You just got dumped. You don’t need anyone asking you out,” she muttered. “Now, stop thinking about it.”

Sure. Right. Easy peasy.

Stop thinking about the best kisses, the hottest touches, the way she bucked off the bed and almost came from his mouth against her breast. God, what would it feel like to actually have sex with him if she was ready to orgasm through foreplay?

Forcing herself to stop molesting his pillow and sit up took effort, but taking a risk that the door by his desk was a bathroom, she sneaked inside for a moment to freshen up. His words:
You’ve got bed-head
were certainly accurate. Finding a small brush in her party purse, she raked it through her hair, looking at herself in the mirror.

Thanks for making it not-so-horrible, Molly Samaria McKenna…My very own Good Samaritan.

It bothered Molly to think that whatever had happened with Weston tonight was the whole beginning, middle, and end of the story. It bothered her that she’d acted so forward and he might think badly of her. It bothered her that they’d both gotten dumped within twenty-four hours, which meant that neither of them was anywhere near ready for someone new. But immediately, it bothered Molly that she still had a wedding reception to attend. Stag. Flicking off the bathroom light, she made her way back down to the festivities.

Back at the bar forty-five minutes later, Weston found himself scanning the crowd for Molly, and realized that he had—in fact—bee-lined for the bar after the photos, hoping she’d be there.

“Wes,” said Alex, coming up behind him and clapping him on the back. “What’re you drinking?”

“Screw you,” answered Weston without glancing at his brother.

“Why’re you mad at Al?” asked Stratton, suddenly appearing out of nowhere.

“Yeah,” said Alex, grinning, daring Weston to admit the reason.

“Hey, Strat,” said Weston, turning to face Stratton and leaning his elbows back against the bar. “Question. You’re at a wedding. You and Val slip upstairs to your old room. Your shirt’s off, her dress is off, you’re both having a damn good time. You’re about to get it in…and Alex knocks on the door.”

“What’s the question?” asked Stratton.

“How bad do you pound him?”

“Pretty fucking bad,” answered Stratton, looking at Alex with disgust.

“Okay, Strat,” said Alex personably, winking at Weston. “New question. It’s your wedding to Val. She looks gorgeous and the sun’s setting and she has her heart set on wedding party photos at sunset with the whole bridal party present. Wes, here, is missing, and Val’s starting to get upset…on her wedding day. Finally—eureka!—your sweet and attentive brother, Alex, finds Wes getting it on with some random party-goer in an upstairs bedroom. I tell him it’s time for pictures, and he tells me to fuck off. Do you want me to cock-block him for Val’s pictures or leave him alone to get his rocks off?”

“Cock-block him,” said Stratton, without flinching. He ordered two Merlots, and then shifted his glance to Weston. “Sorry, man. It’s Val.”

Weston rolled his eyes, muttering, “You’re such an asshole, Alex” under his breath and turned his back to his older brothers to order a drink.

“You just don’t get it yet, Romper Room,” said Alex, sliding a low-ball glass of scotch toward himself and swirling the ice cubes. “You’ve never been in love like me and Strat. You’re still playing field with cheap pieces of ass like the one you had in your room this—”

He doubt Alex saw it coming.

Weston spun so fast and his fist curled and pulled back with such quick and mighty force, Alex’s head had snapped back from the strength of the blow before he was even able to finish his sentence. Stumbling back into Stratton, who grabbed Alex’s shoulders to steady him, it took Alex several seconds to regain his bearings.

Weston panted angrily, ready to go again if Alex came at him.

“What the
fuck
?” asked Alex, dabbing at his split lip with the back of his hand.

“Don’t talk about her.”

“About who? Some chick you picked up to bang at a wedding? Are you seriously—”

The thing about Alex? Sometimes he just didn’t think. This time Weston caught his jaw with an uppercut that whipped Alex’s head up and back so fast, it slammed into Stratton’s forehead.

“Fuck!” exclaimed Stratton, who rubbed his forehead, likely more surprised than injured. “What the hell, Wes?”

“I told him not to talk about her.”

“Alex, stop fucking talking about her,” advised Stratton, shaking his head at them like they were both crazy before taking his two glasses of Merlot off the bar and turning into the crowd to find Valeria.

“What is
wrong
with you?” asked Alex, rubbing his chin and working his jaw, which was already starting to discolor.

“You don’t know her.”

“Do
you
?” asked Alex, his eyes furious as he reached for his drink then winced as the scotch bathed his split lip.

“Better than you do.”

“Get yourself together, Romper Room.”

“Don’t call me that again.” He fisted his hands, resting them on the bar.

Alex narrowed his eyes, still massaging his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. “You hit me again,
Weston
, I hit back. Got it?”

Weston nodded.

Alex’s tone softened. “I didn’t realize she was important to you. I misunderstood the situation.”

Weston took another sip of scotch without looking at Alex, curious to find that Alex’s word “important” didn’t faze Weston in the least. In fact, it felt like the right word, which made no sense at all.

“If you called Jess a ‘cheap piece of ass,’ you’d be flat on your back by now and you wouldn’t come-to for a few hours,” he continued. “Sorry about it. I didn’t realize there was someone besides Connie.”

“It’s fine, Alex,” said Weston, not bothering to correct his brother.

“I’d like to meet her,” he said gently.

“And here I thought your dog days were over,” said Jessica Winslow, Alex’s fiancée, from behind him. “
Who
do you want to meet? What’s her name?”

Alex turned and smiled, hooking an arm around her waist. “Wes’s new girl.”

Jessica cringed at Alex’s face. “What happened to you?”

“My face ran into Weston’s fist.”

She gave Weston a look. “Do I want to know why?”

“No,” Alex and Weston replied in unison.

“Did he deserve it?” she asked.

“Yes,” they replied.

“Okay, then,” said Jessica, turning to the bartender. “A Bass, please.”

Weston grinned, turning away from the bar to look out over the ballroom. Couples filled the dance floor, including Stratton and Val, who looked completely besotted with each other. Here and there people sat at their tables in small groups, chatting, or waiting for dinner to be served, while still more people milled around, talking in small groups.

Out of the corner of his eye, Weston caught sight of a redhead in a black dress making her way through the crowd toward Daisy and Fitz, and suddenly his feet couldn’t move fast enough.

***

“Thank you so much for inviting me today,” said Molly, holding Daisy’s hands after giving her a careful hug and kiss.

“You aren’t leaving, are you?”

“I-I think I am,” said Molly, cringing a little.

Out of nowhere, Weston suddenly appeared at Daisy’s side, smiling a five thousand kilowatt smile in Molly’s direction.

“Hi, again,” he said.
Molly’s stomach fluttered and her heart skipped a beat. It was the first time she’d seen him in full light—not the dim light of the bar, the moonlight on the stairs, or the soft bedside light of his bedroom—and he was so beautiful, her breath caught. He looked like Alex Pettyfer on a bad day. He looked delicious.

“H-Hi,” she managed, chuckling softly for no reason as her cheeks flushed with warmth.

Daisy squeezed her hands. “Can I meet Dusty before you go? I’ve heard so much about him.”

Molly’s eyes cut to her friend’s, her mouth opening in dismay. “Oh. Oh, um, I…well, he couldn’t make it.”

“What? Oh, no! Is he all right? Is everything okay?”

Daisy searched Molly’s face before furrowing her brows together delicately. Dropping her eyes to their joined hands, she gently turned over Molly’s left hand, sucking in a quiet breath to find the fourth finger empty. “Oh, Molly.”

Molly pulled her hands away, licking her lips nervously and darting a quick glance to Weston, who watched the interaction with interest and confusion, and finally…compassion.

“It’s fine,” she said lightly, forcing herself to smile. “Some things aren’t meant to be. Unlike you and Fitz, who look so happy today.”

Fitz drew his wife against his side, kissing the coiled braids on her head tenderly, but Daisy’s sympathetic eyes still reached out to Molly.

“I’m sorry, Molly.”

“Oh, no, please,” she said, horrified to feel her eyes watering. “It’s your day. The happiest day. That’s all that matters.”

“Hey,
Molly
…Are we still on for that drink before you go?”

Molly gratefully turned her head to look at Weston, who wore an easy smile. Deceptively easy, because behind it, Molly read empathy and kindness. He knew she was about to cry. He could see it, or somehow sense it, and he offered her an escape.

“Yes,” she answered, blinking. She turned back to Daisy, offering the best smile she could. “You’re so beautiful, Daisy. Congratulations.”

Grateful for Weston’s hand under her elbow, while incredibly humiliated by the way he just found out she’d been dumped by her fiancé, she couldn’t bear to look at him as he steered them out of the ballroom once again. An hour ago, he’d led her upstairs with sparks leaping between them. This time, he was less hurried, more gentle, and sparks? Well, it’s hard to make sparks when you’re about to turn on the waterworks.

“I know where your room is. I’ll just go sit by myself for a minute and get myself together,” whispered Molly as they climbed up the stairs. “You don’t have to come with me.”

“Yeah, I do.” He ran his hand down her forearm until he found her fingers and laced his with hers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” she sobbed softly. “That my fiancé called me last night to say he wasn’t coming to Philly? That he knocked up the art teacher while we were apart? That he broke off our engagement? Should I have told you that before you took off my dress or after?”

“Molly,” he said gently, stopping on the first floor landing again and tipping up her chin with his finger. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t meet his eyes. “Please don’t. Please don’t feel sorry for me. It’ll make me cry ten times harder.”

He didn’t say anything else. As he put his arms around her and pulled her against his chest, Molly caught a glimpse of his watch: 7:06 pm. And Molly, who’d had no one to lean on for twenty-four long, miserable hours, placed her damp cheek on Weston English’s shoulder and decided to lean on him.

***

As Weston processed what had happened to Molly, a fierce anger rolled around in his gut, and for the third time in one night, he wanted to punch something.

Suddenly all of her behavior made sense: her bitterness over weddings, the way she kept downing glasses of wine, how untypically—he sensed—forward she’d been. She’d been dumped last night and not by her on-again, off-again boyfriend, but by her fiancé, the man who was supposed to recognize how goddamn lucky he was to be making her his wife.

Wait. What?

He shook his head mentally, erasing that last thought like the back of a pencil to paper.

Her small body curled into his, her shoulders shaking lightly from tears as she rested her weary head on his shoulder, and Weston felt profoundly protective of her. He knew in his bones that she wasn’t easy and she wasn’t loose. She was heartbroken.

“I’m not going to say I’m sorry for you. But, I do think your ex is a douchebag.”

Her shoulders shuddered again, but he heard the small sound of sob-filled laughter escape from her throat, and he smiled to himself, wondering how to make it happen again.

“I mean, I’m speaking from experience here, and this guy is a monumental jackass.”

She sniffed softly and giggled again. “Experience?”

“Absolutely. He gives up a girl who kisses like you do? He’s a douchebag, a jackass,
and
certifiable. Completely insane.”

“We never kissed like that,” she said quietly.

“What do you mean?” he asked, adjusting his hands on her back, remembering the satin feel of her skin beneath.

“Dusty and I never kissed like that.” She swallowed before continuing in a soft, breathless voice. “I’ve never kissed
anyone
the way I kissed you. I’ve never felt like…”

Weston tried to take a deep breath, but it took more concentration than he expected and sounded more ragged than it should have. “Felt like what?”

“Like…like thunder and lightning,” she said.

His breath hitched from her words, and her fingers, which had been trapped flat against his chest between them, flexed and bent slightly before flattening again. That little movement was all it took for the pulse in his throat to jump.

“What was it like with him?”

Molly took a deep breath, presumably trying to come up with the words to describe what it was like kissing her douchebag, jackass, certifiable ex.

“I don’t know,” she finally whispered. “Fine, I guess. Okay.”

“What about the other guys you’ve kissed?” asked Weston. “Were they like thunder and lightning? Or just okay?”

“What other guys?”

“You know…in high school.” He shrugged. “Or college.”

“Oh, um, they, um, they were…fine, too.”

“So, I’m the only storm,” he joked.

“Right now? You’re the eye of it, Weston,” she said softly, readjusting her cheek against his shoulder, letting her body rest limp against his. “You’re the calm.”

He listened to her breathe, the way her breaths became deeper and more relaxed the longer he held her. He stopped feeling the weight of her cheek on his shoulder, almost as if her weight was part of his body and always had been. Her breasts, which had hardened for him before, remained plush and pliant against his chest, but her softness moved him. How had he missed this when he first saw her? The gentle womanliness of her. With the moonlight streaming in over her shoulders, her hair glowed red, making the whole snow-covered world of Haverford Park pink outside the window. It was like looking through rose colored glasses, but he was looking through Molly instead.