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“Be in the moment with me, please. Don’t look at it once until you get home, and I’ll reward you.” He winks.
“Ah, the things I’ll do for a gold star. I’ll play.” My phone vibrates again and again, so I turn it off. Now I’m not even tempted. I smile wide.
“Good fucking girl,” he mutters under his breath.
“When you say things like that …”
I know Lexi is probably losing her mind, and I’ll have to do damage control tomorrow.
Weston’s phone starts vibrating. He chuckles, pulling it from his pocket and showing me the screen. It’s Lexi.
“You’re fucked too,” I whisper.
“I can handle her,” he says, turning off his phone. “Now, back to business. Based on my calculations, you have about two weeks before photos of your face are posted, along with your name. Youshould probably spend this time mentally preparing for everything that will be said about us.” There’s an edge of amusement in his tone.
“That’s all?” My voice wavers.
“Unless somerogue bloggerwho’s not on anyone’s payroll decides to break the friendship story first.” He points behind my shoulder. “Cameras are snapping photos of us right now at the street corner. They will capture everything to purposely make it look like we’re dating.”
Our eyes lock, and silence hangs between us.
“You can tell the truth and take control of the narrative before the rumors begin. Before they do background checks on you. Before they dig up all your exes and start interviewing them like they did to Lexi. Even if we’rejustfriends,” he finally says.
A lump forms in my throat. “But …”
“You can still back out of this arrangement,” he continues, leaning closer, his gaze pinning me in place. “You look so damn pretty.”
My cheeks heat. “Right now?”
He nods. “Didn’t stutter.”
“I’m not backing out,” I confirm as our fluffy pancakes, eggs, and bacon are sat onto the table, breaking our trance.
Steam rises from the plates, and my mouth waters in anticipation. As his coffee mug is refilled, I take a minute to gather my thoughts.
He ordered what I did, except his stack is topped with fresh blueberries and whipped cream.
“Want a bite? Sharing is caring,” he offers.
I nod. “Do you care?”
“More than you’ll ever know,” he replies, pouring warm maple syrup over the tall stack. “However, when it comes to sharing? Not so fucking much.” His eyes darken, and we both know he’s not talking about pancakes.
Weston picks up his fork and knife; the diamond cuff links onhis wrists sparkle like little stars as he precisely cuts off a perfect sliver for me. He leans forward and offers it, the fork hovering just inches from my lips with a sweet bite of his stack.
Our eye contact is electric. I open my mouth, and he slides the food inside.
It’s too intense. But maybe I’m just under his spell, intoxicated by how he looks at me. Weston gently pulls the fork from between my lips, his brow raised in anticipation.
“Delicious,” I exhale, my pulse racing, unprepared for how sensual this feels.
When I look at him, I see the quiet determination etched on his face—the desire to fit in, to savor the simplicity of a shared breakfast with a friend, and to live without the spotlight. Weston craves this.
How did I miss this?
He’s polished in public and more secure with himself than his brother. Their personalities are gravely different, except when we’re alone, and as he lets me in, I realize how similar they are.
I pick up my fork and dig into my eggs. They taste great, and my bacon is crispy, just how I like it. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until now.