“You’re quiet.” Wesley lays on the outdoor chair, leaning against the soft cushion with his arm draped casually across the back. From the man who so abruptly jumped into the back of the cab with this nervous energy, to calm and relaxed laying on a poolside chair, I can’t piece together the complicated puzzle known as Wesley Rich.
“This isn’t like you.”
I laugh quietly. “I don’t know why you think you know me. We’ve known each other for two minutes. I’ve had longer relationships with a box of cereal.”
“Lucky box of cereal.” He snickers behind another bottle.
“Sometimes…” I add, ignoring his comment, “… it’s nice just to think.”
“I hate thinking.” He sits upright, not as relaxed as he was only moments ago. “That’s what gets me into trouble.”
“Into trouble?”
Now it’s his turn to laugh, throwing back the remains of his bottle and placing it on the ground, the glass clinging to the concrete. “Do you even know who I am?”
I don’t. I’m standing in a stranger’s house, open to a massacre of things that can happen because I followed my curiosity. I want to go home, back to Alaska—my comfort zone. This isn’t me, now. This is Milana at fifteen. The girl who would skip school, hang out at boys’ homes and joy-ride to other towns to steal booze.
“I should go home,” I stumble out, searching my purse for my phone, ready to call 911 in a state of panic. He could be a murderer. An ax-wielding murderer who will dump my body in the desert. The anxiety cripples me, my lungs short of breath. My hands shake while I attempt to unzip my purse, the zipper caught on a piece of fabric, which makes me panic even more as I attempt to jiggle it free.
“Relax, will you?” he says with ease, his eyes following with a chilling gaze. “I’m not a murderer nor a rapist. Take a breath, I think you should have a drink and stop thinking so much.”
There’s a large grill area with a glass fridge underneath the outdoor countertop. He removes a bottle of wine and two glasses, popping the cork and pouring it in. Reaching out to me, I willingly accept, drinking the wine so carelessly until my thoughts silence, and my skin tingles with delight.
“I don’t usually drink so much.” I hiccup on cue, embarrassingly.
He grins with amusement. “Tell me more.”
“I mean, I can drink. I just don’t very often. I don’t know why I’m just… boring.”
“Boring. Unusual way to describe yourself.”
“Well, I am. Nothing excites me,” I continue rambling, helping myself to another glass. “You know when you read a book, and there’s that thrill of the chase… like those tornado chasers. Living on the edge ready to get swept away.”
“You want to be swept away?”
“I don’t know what I want.” I sit on the edge of the pool, removing my shoes and dipping my feet into the water, allowing the cold liquid to soothe my sore feet. Maybe it is the wine, or the panoramic views of the city that whisk my thoughts away, but right now, even in his presence, this state of serenity consumes me. My head begins to clear itself from the toxic thoughts and focuses on the deep and meaningful ones instead.
“Life is complicated.”
He sits beside me, placing the bottle between us. Unlike me, he doesn’t place his feet in the water, crossing his legs and resting back on his hands. That scent—his cologne—is fresh and lingers my way.
Okay, he smells damn good.
“A moment ago, you said you were boring. Which one is it?”
“I’m boring. Life is complicated.”
“You don’t know complicated until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes.”
My focus moves away from the current of the water, my gaze moving toward him. Just like me moments ago, he’s watching the water with a downcast expression.
“I don’t know you,” I tell him, keeping my tone calm. “Who are you?”
With the glass in hand, he drinks it fast, slamming it down before standing up and muttering, “It’s probably better you don’t. Let’s go inside. I hate being here.”
It’s another mood shift, quick and abrupt. I can’t figure him out, or maybe I’m not meant to.
He grabs my hand to lift me up, rushing me like we’re out of time. I carry my shoes, drying my feet against the warm tiles.