“Okay.”
“What’s that all about?” It seems like there’s a big piece of the puzzle that I’m missing here.
“I’m not entirely sure. But I have a feeling it has something to do with his mom.”
“What would their mom do to piss him off like that?”
She shakes her head. “Not their mom. Just his. Shane and Wes have the same dad, but Mrs. Baxter isn’t his real mom.”
“Okay, so what would his mom do to make him so upset? Not come to see him on his birthday?”
Her mouth twists around for a minute, clearly thinking of what to say. “I doubt that’s the issue because, from what I’ve heard, aside from the day he was born, he’s never met her.”
Oh.
HELLO, MY NAME is Callie, and I’m a habitual eavesdropper.
I’m trying to appear engrossed in what’s on television, but it’s not really loud enough for me to hear anything. Lucky for me, I’ve seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s enough to know exactly what’s been said, in case I’m caught. At least that’s my brilliant plan.
Shane has been in there with Wes for nearly an hour, and I’ve been trying to pick up on anything said. At first, I was getting bits and pieces because it was more than a little heated. I don’t think Wes is mad at Shane, but . . . somebody. Now, though, I can only hear a muted murmur, and it’s driving me crazy. Makenna has been upstairs getting ready, so maybe she’s picked up on more of the conversation. I’m dying to know what the deal is.
Don’t judge me. You’d be doing the same thing if you were in my fabulous red shoes.
As soon as I hear a door open upstairs, I snatch the remote from the cushion next to me and turn up the volume a little. Maybe I can pry a little info from Makenna now; she knows how nosy I am.
But it’s not Makenna who slumps into the couch next to me. I quickly discover that the mixed scent of cologne and whiskey make an interestingly appealing combination.
“Sorry if I was an ass earlier.”
I cut my eyes at Wes. “You weren’t.”
“Moody, then. I believe that’s how you described it.”
“Your brother has a big mouth.” Blushing. Again.
He snickers. “If I hadn’t been cut off, I’d drink to that.”
I turn toward him and take notice of the glassy sheen in his eyes. “Two drinks and you’re cut off, huh?”
“Four. And yeah. At least for a while.”
What the hell. “Want to talk about—”
“No,” he interrupts.
“Okay.”
Yeah, man of few words, for sure. I feel like both conversations that we’ve had so far have been more like tennis matches, volleying short, staccato sentences back and forth. And I’m definitely losing the game. The silence between us now, though, is far stranger than the uncomfortable banter. It’s irritatingly loud somehow, compelling me to break the quiet with any random thought that crosses my mind.
But he does it for me.
“I’ve actually seen this movie before. It’s not bad. I like this chick.”
Oh, thank God. Not only is he talking, he’s speaking my language. “You’re telling me you like Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Don’t you get your man card revoked for saying something like that?”
“Does a guy with a little culture freak you out, sweetheart? Or do you only date cavemen who grunt and scratch themselves?”
I’m beginning to think I’ve pissed him off, but when I look over at him to explain I’m kidding, he flashes a bright smile at me. Oh my . . . that smile. It’s like a punch in the gut, and I’m suddenly floundering for any form of response. Once all those dark clouds of his float away, he’s actually incredibly hot.
He has the same crystal blue eyes that Shane does, but that’s where the similarities end. Shane is of average height and is barely taller than Makenna. He’s broad and has a more athletic, stocky build. Shane’s facial features are softer, more rounded, and he always keeps his short hair perfectly placed and his face clean shaven.
Wes, on the other hand, is unusually tall. Okay, I know, most people are tall to me, but he must be at least 6’5” or so, if I’m guessing right. His long, lean frame isn’t without muscle, though. His broad shoulders and arms are accentuated by the tight black t-shirt pulled taut across them, and it also allows me to see the muscle rippling across his stomach when he reclines back and props his feet on the coffee table. Soft stubble covers his square jaw and extends upward toward his sharp cheekbones. He reminds me of a Greek statue—but with more clothes. His hair makes me want to dig my fingers in. It’s a little long on top, almost hanging in his eyes, and its unruly ends have no semblance of order.