Until Wes.
Problem is, Wes is funny, dorky, hot, but also, like all men, he is a fuckboy.
Listen, I get it. We live in a world where relationships hardly ever happen. Guys like him think there is always something better, and I don’t want that. I want a man who wants me. All of me.
I don’t want to fuck around. I did that all through my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. It was a blast, but it’s exhausting. It’s the same cat-and-mouse game. Will they call? Do they like me? It gave me serious anxiety, and I don’t think I’m made for the fuckgirl game. I applaud the women and men who love it, but I want security. I don’t mean money either; I don’t need money. I want the security of knowing someone always has my back.
I know that Emery would die—and kill—happily, for me, as well as my parents. But I watch my brothers with their significant others. I watch my mom and dad, and knowing there is love out there like that? It’d be silly of me not to want that. To crave it. To know it can happen for me. I mean, I watched my sister-in-law sing with her whole soul, body, heart, everything for my brother. She loves him. Same with how my parents feel about each other, and I want that all-consuming love.
Don’t get me wrong. I’ve been in love. Lost my virginity to the first guy I loved when I was fourteen. When he moved, I was heartbroken. And for a while, it made me decide I had to be in love to have sex, so I only loved two more times until my senior year. But after that whole bullshit with Maxim, I decided, fuck boys. I was going to be a free agent, and it was fun. For a while.
Now…now, I want more. Especially after realizing the love I had for those guys was nothing compared to how I feel about Wes. I know it’s totally ridiculous and maybe even just infatuation, but I live for a like or a comment on my Instagram from him. When he comes into Brooks House, I yearn for him to look at me. To notice me. To talk to me. I want so much for us to go out, to be together, and to get to know each other better. I only know stuff about him that I hear when he’s talking to the guys, and I crave more.
But I know I can’t allow myself to do any of that, because the heartache he’ll cause will be worse than how other teams feel on the ice when he dekes them and scores in such a sick way.
Yes, I watch hockey just for him, and I tell my dad it’s because I want to spend time with him.
No, I am not ashamed. I do want to spend time with my dad.
But I also want to watch Wes.
“I am still very much in support of you riding him like a bull in a china shop and tossing him to the side,” Lake chortles as we walk to our class, pulling me from my thoughts. “I don’t even need to tell you what I’d do to him.”
We share a grin. “He couldn’t handle you.”
“Hell naw, but then, he couldn’t handle you either, my girl.” He pinches my cheeks, and we lock arms as we head toward the design building. When we pass by a group of culinary students, Lake makes a face. “Ugh, they’re all so dorky.”
“Lake. Be nice,” I demand, but he laughs me off.
“For real, though. I mean, why do people make food pretty? It’s stupid. You eat it, and then you shit it out. Unlike clothes, which you get to enjoy.”
I shrug. “Unless someone throws shit on your clothes.”
He smacks my forearm. “Stop defending them! You’re so weird,” he says dramatically.
“Because I’m nice?”
“You are entirely too gorgeous to be this nice. I’ve never met a girl who is kind and hot.”
I hear that a lot. “Hi, my name is Stella Ann Brooks. Nice to meet ya,” I say with a wink, but he just laughs.
“Whatever. It’ll all pay off, your niceness. It’ll be great when we open our own little shop of fun. I can be the diva, and you can be the hot, nice one.”
Guilt eats at me. Lake and I have had a plan for opening our own little boutique, full of clothes and shoes we’d design, since our freshman year. He always says he doesn’t trust anyone but me, but if he knew what was going on in my head, he wouldn’t trust me. I’m struggling with my future, career-wise. Sometimes, I want to believe I’m meant to design for and dress people, but then I can’t shake the pure happiness I feel when I’m in the cupcake shop. In a way, it’s all the same, isn’t it? Can’t we open a shop, and I make cupcakes and he makes clothes?
No, I know we can’t.
When one of the culinary students catches my gaze, she smiles, and I smile back. She may not be what Lake considers “gorgeous,” but she’s pretty, and I’m completely envious.
Because she’s doing the one thing I want to do.
Learning to make pretty food for people to shit out.
Before I get out of the car, I down a whole can of Red Bull. As exhausted as I am, one would think I would skip going to work at the cupcakery, but I love how my creativity is when I’m there. I feel like I’m flying in a sea of colors, ready to make something incredible. I wish I could be there now, but I do also love Brooks House. I’ve been working here since I was fourteen, and it’s always been awesome, but moving behind the bar is my jam by far. I meet so many incredible people, lots of celebrities, and the Assassins always sit at the bar. I try to work on the days when the guys have a game since Brooks is the place most of the guys come for their pregame meal.
Wes is among those guys.
A family style plate of chicken Parmesan with two sides of broccoli and extra pasta.
Sometimes when I watch him eat, I imagine us doing the Lady and the Tramp bit. He gets one side of the fettuccine and I get the other before we meet in the middle for a lusty kiss. Then we throw the food off the table…
Okay, I gotta go to work.
I shake my head at my silly thoughts and get out of my car to go inside. After greeting everyone and putting on my apron, I head to the bar to set up for the night. It’ll be a good night. Basketball is on, and while the Assassins aren’t playing, there is always a hockey game on TV this time of year. Once I get everything arranged, I clean the bar and wipe down all the surfaces before putting down place settings. I chitchat with some of the waitresses before my mom comes out of her office, announcing doors are opening. We close for three hours between lunch and dinner to make sure each experience is different.
As I lift a crate of hot glasses out of the washer, I place it on the top of the machine and start unloading as my mom sits down. “Hey, baby. How was school today?”
I move out of the way of the steam. “Good, long. Today is always my long day.”
“Then why don’t you skip nights on long days?”
“’Cause I like the money,” I say with a grin, and she gives me that serious concerned-mom look.
“Don’t overwork yourself, honey.”
“I won’t,” I promise. Though, that’s a lie. I’m exhausted; I’m just lucky I don’t look it. Despite my mom’s age, no one could say she looks tired. She’s elegant, with dark brown hair down her shoulders and caramel eyes that shine in the sick-ass jumpsuit she’s wearing that we got at Prada last summer. She’s always wearing heels and is as gorgeous as ever. My mom is such a hottie.
“Oh, Emery told me you woke her this morning. Please be quieter. You know she needs her sleep.”