The Fastest Way to Fall(35)

“Hi,” I said before saying the next thing I could think of. “Uh, you’ve never seen me standing up.” Palm to head.

“You’re right.” He held a pizza box and a white plastic bag, the contents of which smelled amazing. “Vertical suits you.”

I laughed. “Ugh, oh, God. It hurts to laugh.”

His grin spread, slowly revealing a dimple in his cheek. “I’ll try not to be funny.” He set the bag on the counter and unpacked the contents, arranging containers of breadsticks and dipping sauces. “How are you feeling?”

“Hungry.” I tried to get plates from my cupboard, and a small whimper escaped my lips when I raised my arms.

“Hey,” his deep voice rumbled behind me. “Let me do that.”

He stretched over my head to get the dishes, which meant the hard planes of his chest and abs momentarily pressed against my back. He was warm—why are men always warm? He smelled good, too, not like cologne, just natural and clean. A pulse of excitement ran through me with his body against mine. The contact lasted only a moment before he pulled back and set one dish on the counter.

“I remembered what you said about liking pizza on your registration.” He motioned to the takeout boxes, and my mouth watered.

I looked at the solitary dish. “Are you going to stay, or . . . ?”

He shrugged. “Nah. I just wanted to bring you dinner, and I’ll leave you alone. Sausage is their best, but I got half plain in case you don’t like it.”

My stomach sank. “Oh, I’ll wait. It’s fine.”

“You said you’re hungry, right?”

“It’s okay.” My face heated, and I hoped the bruises and scrapes hid my blush. Unfortunately, they didn’t hide my stomach growling.

He assessed my doubtful expression, and I had the strangest sense that he was seeing into my head. “I’ll join you, then.”

I attempted the math before giving up. “Isn’t this, like . . . a million calories?”

“Probably just a few thousand.”

“Is this allowed?”

“I’ve never told you any food was off-limits.” He reached up to grab a second plate and opened the box before returning to my skeptical expression. “Need me to put it in writing?”

The aroma made my head spin. “Yes. This feels like a trap.”

He grabbed a pen from my countertop and started jotting a note on a receipt. He handed it to me, our fingers brushing for just a beat. He had messy handwriting, heavy, bold strokes filling the paper. This is not a trap. Wes. When I looked up, he flashed me a cute, crooked smile. “I’m hungry, too. Now, can we eat?”

We sat on the couch, and I made an involuntary grunt of pain as I fell into the cushion and my cheeks heated again. “Sorry,” I mumbled, face surely crimson.

He let out a long, dramatic old man groan as he settled at the other end of the couch. He grinned when I let out a choked giggle. “What? I thought that’s what we were doing.”

He had no right to be that good-looking and this nice, but here he was, and I was glad he’d come over.

“Thank you,” I said before taking my first bite. “For dinner, and the flowers, and . . . everything. You must think I’m such a pain.”

“No,” he answered after swallowing. “I think you’re committed and trying hard.” His eyes shifted to his plate, then back to my untouched food. “And I think something made you doubt yourself and think you’re not making enough progress.”

Now it was my turn to shift my gaze to my plate full of my absolute favorite. My mouth watered and my stomach rumbled. I was hungry, so hungry that I wanted to just tip the plate to my mouth and gulp it down, no concerns about cheese spilling down my shirt. I remembered how I’d felt on this couch when Ben walked out, and I paused.

“What’s wrong?”

I looked down at my plate and pushed things around with my fork. “Nothing.”

“Hey.” Wes gently took the plate from my hands and set it on the coffee table next to his own. “I don’t care if you eat the food I brought. I just thought it might be good to hit reset, to have a meal you love as you start healing, but I can get you something else.” His voice was so earnest, his hazel eyes searching my own. His hands closed around mine, almost like he was protecting me. “Maybe bringing food was the wrong thing, period. I don’t want you to feel worse.” Wes spoke faster, like he needed to get too many thoughts out. “Is this something you’ve done before? There’s help you can get—disordered eating and overexercise are nothing to take lightly.”

My face heated. “No, I haven’t done it before. It’s just hard to . . .” I started the sentence not knowing how I would finish it. His expression was calm, patient, and he continued looking at me. I didn’t know what to do with the attention other than tell him the truth. “There’s this guy. We kind of . . . hooked up, or we were going to.”

His eyebrows rose, and realization or understanding swept over his face, along with something else. It wasn’t judgment, but a muscle in his jaw ticked. “The guy from the other night? The one you were cooking for?”

“I had a crush on him for years, he’d been a little flirty but told me he was down for friends with benefits, and that I wasn’t . . . up to his standards.”