Page 4 of Irreconcilable Attractions (Westwend Boys #1)

Derek

Westwend was the kind of town you visited for a long weekend in the summer—or passed through on your way to somewhere with a skyline. It wasn’t exactly the place you moved to in your late twenties.

But sometimes life didn’t care about your five-year plans.

So when your former boss tells you to start fresh by coming back as the new family law attorney at the firm, you pack your shit into bags and go.

My fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the steering wheel, keeping time with the song currently humming through the speakers. Twenty minutes out from Westwend and I was still in the middle of nowhere, Texas. But admittedly, it was a beautiful middle of nowhere.

The trees ahead had shifted from scrubby to lush, hugging the edge of the road in a slow descent toward the Cypress River.

The spring-fed water ran through Westwend and was the lifeline of the region.

I could see flashes of it weaving through the trees—crystal clear and sparkling as the sun danced along the surface.

The sky was a clean, bright blue with clouds so perfectly puffed they looked fake. It was picturesque. Postcard-worthy. The kind of place people Instagrammed and filtered to death. It looked deceptively pleasant for somewhere currently baking in the Texas heat.

The road dipped, and I eased onto a low bridge that skimmed the top of the river.

No railings, just pale stone edges and clear water rushing beneath.

This wasn’t my first time making this drive, so I knew I was crossing the unofficial border of where the sprawling Hill Country ended and the small-town clusters began.

In the big cities—Houston, Dallas, Austin—green spaces were carefully curated and squeezed between high-rises.

Out here, nature was the main feature. These towns didn’t try to control it, they worked around it.

And the wildlife in the area weren’t shy.

Deer, rabbits, and the occasional fox all coexisted like they’d signed a non-aggression pact with the locals.

Westwend wasn’t big by any stretch, but it had a steady pulse of tourists that kept the town breathing, almost all of them coming to relax in the river.

It was always clear, pale blue, and cold enough to make your bones ache in a good way.

Bright-green bass darted through the riverweed, flitting past your ankles like they owned the place.

But the town had character and leaned heavily into the small-town lifestyle.

I hadn’t expected much the first time I’d stepped foot there, but I’d been pleasantly surprised.

The main strip was a charming mix of boutique shops, cafes, and murals that felt curated but not inauthentic.

Like it belonged here—like it couldn’t belong anywhere else.

Rolling onto Main Street, I was greeted by rows of antique style buildings lining both sides of the road.

Some were painted in cheerful colors, while others held onto their original dark maroon brick.

Shop signs swung gently from awnings that stretched over the sidewalks, each marking the small businesses inside .

I couldn’t help the grin that pulled at my lips as I passed the iconic “Mmm, So Good!” mural, the one the tourists always stopped to photograph.

Memories flooded back to me as I continued down the road. I’d first been introduced to Westwend during a summer internship, an opportunity I owed entirely to Brooks Shaffer.

Brooks was a year ahead of me in college, my fraternity brother, and one of the most effortlessly social people I’d ever met.

He had this kind of chaotic magnetism, always in motion, always in the middle of something—usually trouble.

He partied hard, which drew a variety of different people to him, but he still somehow managed to make you feel like you were his sole focus when he spoke to you.

He hadn’t hesitated to connect me with his father when he found out that I was pre-law.

Charles Shaffer—Charlie, as everyone called him—was a successful attorney running a private firm here in Brooks’ hometown. It was a golden opportunity I wasn’t about to squander. He had been incredibly helpful, and even offered to mentor me while I worked on applications.

When I’d spoken with him about an internship during my second year of law school, he’d said in that easy Southern drawl, “ It’ll be menial work, and I can’t promise you’ll feel like a real attorney for a while. But I’ll do right by you. ”

Despite the firm being located in such a tiny town, I’d jumped at the opportunity.

Charlie had even insisted on putting me up for the summer in their old farm-style home.

It was more than generous, and great for my bank account.

But more than that, Charlie and his wife, Ellie, turned out to be genuinely kind, welcoming people.

I had felt like more than just a guest in their home.

Over time, I’d even say we became something like friends.

Brooks would often tell stories about growing up here, about all the trouble he and his twin brother, Bailey, used to get into. Sneaking off to the river for dates and drinking. Running wild through the town like they owned it.

And now… here I was.

Moving in.

Becoming a Westwendian myself.

Just before my internship ended, Charlie had offered me a job at the firm. I’d laughed, assuming he wasn’t serious. We’d both been drinking, and it felt more like a friendly gesture than a formal invitation.

But after I passed my bar exam, I got the call.

The contract was drawn up and waiting. All it needed was my signature.

I was stunned.

Hesitant.

At the time, I wasn’t ready to move to the middle of nowhere.

I had a new girlfriend—too new to ask her to move with me to a tiny town.

Long-distance would have been a guaranteed death sentence for us, so I’d turned down the offer.

I’d accepted one at a different firm in the same city as my law school and slowly started building my caseload.

But, eventually, that relationship fell apart.

And when it did, I started re-evaluating everything.

I was living in a city I didn’t care about, working for a firm that treated me like a cleanup crew. Messy divorces. Unreasonable clients. Everyone wanted fast, dramatic results, and I was the one stuck sorting through the emotional wreckage that caused.

Divorce wasn’t the part of family law I liked, despite it playing a pivotal role in my decision to pursue law. But I was the new guy, so I kept my head down, took the cases, and played the game.

Until I realized every divorce case was landing on my desk. Every mess, every nightmare, every guaranteed meltdown.

I’d gone to one of the partners, explaining I needed a break from all the divorces and wanted to focus on something more neutral.

He’d just smiled at me and said I was ‘ just good at those kinds of cases ’.

I tried to grin and bear it, but when I finally put my foot down later, he’d just laughed at me—told me that I should be grateful for whatever work I got.

The conversation left a sour taste in my mouth that wouldn’t go away.

It was like everything was tinged with the bitter regret of dying love.

So, I knew without anyone else confirming it, that my attitude had caused my breakup.

It was hard to believe in or fight for something when all you did was witness how horribly it could end on a daily basis.

I felt like I was living in a miserable holding pattern, wondering if I’d ever see the light at the end of the tunnel or if I should leave law altogether.

I couldn’t tell you exactly what made me do it, but something in me knew I needed a change, and so I called Charlie. I told him everything—the burnout, the firm, the endless cycle of divorce, the breakup.

I’d expected comfort, maybe some advice—or shit, even an ‘ I told you so ’. Instead, he didn’t even hesitate to offer me the job again.

“ There is always a place for you here, my boy! ” He’d exclaimed, so full of warmth and affection, it took my breath away.

And just like that, I was on the road.

Now I was driving through familiar streets, heading toward the old house that had once been my home-away-from-home. For the first time in months, my skin was buzzing with a renewed sense of purpose and energy that lightened my chest.

New beginnings were always exciting, but this didn’t feel new. It felt like coming back to something I’d lost.

Charlie had assured me most of the firm’s cases dealt with estate planning and child support agreements. Divorce still came up now and then, but people out here didn’t have the money—or the patience—for long, drawn-out battles.

And I was fine with that.

I didn’t need big-city cases anymore. I just needed room to breathe.

Pulling up in front of the Shaffer home had me feeling like I was taking my first full breath in months. The air smelled sweeter and full of promise as I exited the car.

My steps were light but full of energy as I made my way up the white porch stairs and rang the front doorbell. Charlie would’ve told me to walk right in since I’d lived here during my internship, but after being away for so long, it felt like the polite thing to do.

I turned back to scan over the front lawn and street as I waited, marveling at how similar everything still looked. Small towns like this always seemed to be in their own time capsule, locked away from the ever changing world around them. And in this moment, I was incredibly grateful for that.

While Charlie had been more than fair with his work hours when I was interning, it hadn’t left much room to explore Westwend.

My precious off-time had been spent taking advantage of the cool waters of the river rather than wandering the town, but, I never felt like I missed out.

Ellie painted me pictures of her hometown through her stories that had almost convinced me I’d lived here my whole life too.