Legacy (17 page)

“Yes...thank you for inviting me,” Corinne said, taking a sip of her water to combat the dryness in her mouth his arrival seemed to inspire. She glanced toward the house, hoping to see Wes on his way back, but she only saw strangers.

“He might be some time,” Mr. Clarkson said with a cold smile. “Last I saw, he was in the company of a few young ladies...Clients, I suspect.” He was watching Corinne so closely that she tried not to show any reaction to this information, not that she was alarmed. Of course, Wes would get waylaid talking to people he knew at his parents’ party. She could survive for five minutes without him.

Surviving five minutes with his father, on the other hand...

“Suppose we get to know each other a little better in his absence,” Wes’s father purred, setting down his drink and offering her his hand. “May I have this dance?”

He wasn’t really asking, Corinne understood. She was certain he had given her no opportunity to refuse, but she tried to demure anyway.

“I think I should wait here for Wes—”

“Come, come, Miss Granger. It’ll only be a few minutes,” he declared. “I insist.” This time, Corinne knew that he would not let the matter go, so she rose slowly and allowed him to take her by the hand. His was cool and dry, and he held hers with an almost imperceptible touch.

On the dance floor, he fitted his left hand at her waist and held her right aloft, leading her with precision. She felt, at once, like a marionette, and it was clear to her that Harold Clarkson probably had that effect on most people, regardless of whether or not he was dancing.

“I’m glad we are having this opportunity to speak, Miss Granger,” he said.

Corinne couldn’t agree. In fact, she had no idea how to respond.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” he said, moving her through a turn that made her watch her footing. “I’m trying to understand the nature of my son’s relationship with you…It’s very strange.”

Corinne frowned.

“We’re friends,” Corinne said, hearing a defensive edge creep into her voice. “What’s strange about that?”

Mr. Clarkson pressed his lips together in a look of skepticism.

“Hmm...I don’t know about that. I know he was friends with Michael—allow me to re-extend my condolences,” he said with a stiff nod. “But it’s challenging to picture my son being friends with someone such as yourself.”

Corinne felt a slap of indignation.
What the hell?

“I don’t know what you mean by—”

“Don’t be offended, Miss Granger; I meant no insult,” he said, smiling with a look of delight now. “You seem too refined and accomplished to be someone who would...
associate
with him. My son’s a good boy, I suppose—”

“He’s a good
man,”
Corinne interjected, her indignation quickly turning to offense. How could this be Wes’s father? How could he talk about his son like this?

Mr. Clarkson gave a little laugh of condescension.

“Forgive me. I see him as a boy because I’m still waiting for him to grow up and do what he was meant to do,” he said.

Corinne was about to ask him what he’d meant when, over his shoulder, she caught sight of Wes crossing the lawn carrying two plates. He spotted her empty chair, and she couldn’t mistake the look of concern that took his face. He started scanning the crowd, and Corinne willed him to see her before Mr. Clarkson turned her again.

Their eyes met, but the instant Wes registered that she was dancing with his father, his look became murderous.

Oh, shit. What have I done?

Wes set the plates down at an empty table and stalked toward them, but as he was about to reach the dance floor and cause God-knows-what kind of scene with his father, Corinne managed to wave him off, giving him the “ok” sign. Wes stopped in his tracks, his seething only just under control, when Mr. Clarkson turned her again, and her back was to him.

“Aah, I see he’s noticed that you’ve left your post,” Mr. Clarkson teased, sounding very pleased with himself.

“Yes, he’s a
gentleman
,” Corinne said, stressing the last word.

He gave another amused chuckle and shook his head.

“He’s a rake, like his father,” the man said, and the fingers at her waist came alive with the smallest touch. But it was
there
. Corinne nearly froze. “But perhaps you see in him what he might become.”

She locked eyes with the older man. Even though he both intimidated and repulsed her, his injustices against Wes made her bold.

“I assure you, I see him as he is. It is a shame you don’t,” she said, proud that her voice did not betray her nerves.

“Well...I can see why he’s so taken with you,” Wes’s father said, sizing her up. “You might be just the person to spur him to go to law school.”

“Law school?” It was Corinne’s turn to laugh. She couldn’t help it. “In the time I’ve known Wes he’s never,
never
, talked about wanting to go to law school!”

Harold Clarkson’s thin lips seemed to thin even more.

“I’ll be damned if he wastes his life working at some health club,” he said with venom.

After five minutes in his company, Corinne shouldn’t have been shocked, but she was. She stepped out of his hold and planted her feet.

“Wes helps people to build a better life for themselves,” she said, proudly, and with no little heat. “He’s wasting nothing.”

Mr. Clarkson rolled his eyes.

“He’ll never amount to anything if he sticks to that,” he said, a sneer curling his upper lip.

“I may never amount to anything, Dad, but I’m cutting in,” Wes said, suddenly beside her, grabbing her hand.

Corinne should have regretted his arrival, his overhearing the hurtful words, except she was so glad to see him, so glad to be able to leave his father’s company with him.

“Wesley, stop acting like a child,” his father scolded, but Wes didn’t even look at him as he pulled Corinne away. His eyes never left hers.

“I’m sorry about that,” Wes said to her. “He’s an asshole.”

“It’s okay,” she said, shaking her head. Silently, she agreed with him, but she doubted it would make Wes feel any better to say it aloud.

“You were getting upset,” he said, for an instant brushing his thumb over the furrow of her brow where she still held a frown. “I couldn’t hold off.”

It seemed as though his touch sunk into her, easing much more than her frown. She wanted to close her eyes and relax into the feeling, but a new understanding tugged at her.

Wes had grown up with Harold Clarkson as his father, all of his life hearing the sort of things she’d just heard. She pictured Wes as a brown-eyed little boy growing up in this cold house—alone—with the people she’d met tonight, and her heart seized. How had he survived? How had he made it to adulthood with any sanity—much less confidence and compassion?

Before she could master the urge, Corinne reached for his face and stroked her thumb across his cheek. Her eyes sought his, and what she found in their dark pools was unguarded and raw. There was pain there, yes, the acknowledgment of pain, but there was a startling fusion of fear and trust.

Words would betray them, so Corinne said nothing, but she hoped he understood what she did not say.

You are beautiful.
You are precious. You are not alone.

It would be so easy to tip forward and press her lips to his. And, God, didn’t he deserve it? Her cheeks flushed at the thought, but she knew it was true. He did deserve to be shown that someone saw him for who he was.

Her lips parted, but before she could reach up to him, his mouth was on hers, hungry and desperate. His warm lips crushed against her own with such fervor that she understood at once how hard he’d been restraining himself. Wes’s arms were wrapped low around her back, drawing her up to him, and she felt herself grow long and fluid in his embrace. She answered him touch for touch. The hand that had stroked his face now held his cheek, anchoring him to her; the other clung to the back of his neck.

A rush of heat swept down her chest when she opened her mouth to his tongue, welcoming his with her own. She felt his groan vibrate in her own throat, and there was no thought, only sense. He was strange; he was familiar. He was rough; he was gentle. It felt wonderful, and it hurt. Because the past and the present were locked in battle, and they wrenched her with merciless hands.

She broke the kiss, but pressed her forehead against his. They both fought for breath.

“God, Wes, what are we doing?” she whispered, closing her eyes.

Corinne felt him loosen his hold, and fear coursed through her.

“I’m so sorry,” he answered.

She opened her eyes to see his stricken look, and she shook her head at him.

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” she said. “I’m just confused.”

He nodded, clearly miserable, and at that moment the blare of the music and the crush of the crowd made themselves known again, and humiliation climbed on the heap of her emotions as she took in all of the eyes that had watched them.

“Can we go home?” she asked, praying he’d say yes.

Chapter 20

W
es blamed his father.

Before he’d seen Corinne in that asshole’s arms, he had been thinking clearly. He’d kept himself under control—mostly. Dancing with Corinne had been like taking a heroine bath, but at least he hadn’t tried anything.

But seeing Harold Clarkson touching her made him want to smash something. Preferably his father’s skull. When Corinne had waved him off, he hadn’t taken his eyes off them for a second. If his father had laid a hand on the bare skin of her back or brushed his lips to her ear or pinched her bottom—things he’d seen the man do to countless girls over the years—Wes might have killed him.

And maybe Harold knew it. Because he hadn’t tried anything like that. He’d just pissed off Corinne. And if Wes had overheard right, she was angry over something the man had said about
him
. It had sounded like Corinne was in the middle of defending
him
when he’d interrupted. And Wes wasn’t prepared for that.

He’d pulled her away from his father, and everything began to give.

No one had ever defended him against his father. No one. Either no one had bothered to—like his mother—or no one had been strong enough. Not even Michael. Michael had given him the refuge of his home and his friendship; he’d told him again and again that what his father said about him was bullshit, but even Michael called Harold Clarkson “sir” and always treated him with respect.
Faggot. Piece of shit. Pussy
. Michael had heard the man call his son these names more than once, and he’d always clamped his mouth shut.

But not Corinne. And as he’d held her again and looked at her, it was as though a landslide had started inside him. It felt like everyone he’d ever known his whole life had told him “no,” and she said “yes.”

Wes was lost the moment she touched his face.

He’d claimed her sweet mouth before giving any thought to stopping or asking her permission. He knew as soon as his lips touched hers that he wanted to die kissing her. How could someone so fierce and strong be so tiny in his arms? How could someone so small fit against him so well? How would he ever stop kissing her?

But the moment she’d drawn back, he knew exactly how. Because he wasn’t Michael, and he shouldn’t be kissing her in the first place.

Now, they drove home in near silence. She’d already told him twice to stop apologizing, but he didn’t know how they were going to move on from it.

And there were things he couldn’t reconcile. She had pulled away, but before that, there was no denying that she’d kissed back. The muscles in his stomach clenched at the thought and then clenched again as he remembered how it felt when she drew him down to her.

But Wes couldn’t hold Corinne accountable for that. She’d said that she was confused, and he had no doubt that she was. It was unfair of him even to touch her. She missed Michael so much, and she was only just now coming back to the land of the living. Hell, she’d probably been picturing Michael the whole time.

Wes scrubbed a hand through his hair to erase the sting of that thought, and as if to betray the tumult inside him, his stomach growled—a sound absurdly loud and epic—filling the silence of the car.

Corinne raised a brow at him with a hint of a smile.

“Are you going to starve before we get home?” she asked.

Only if I’m lucky,
Wes thought, wishing he could fall into a hole.

“You haven’t eaten either,” he pointed out. Talking about food was better than nothing.

“Nah, I’m good,” she said, giving him a one-shoulder shrug.

“Nope.” Wes shook his head. “Three squares a day.”

This was better. This he could do. Just focus on taking care of her.

“It’s ok. I don’t need anything.” It was almost undetectable, but there was an edge in her voice, a hint of her usual stubbornness. If she wanted to put up a fight about this, he was ready. They had already passed Ground Patti and Izzo’s on Johnston Street, and he merged into the turning lane to make a left onto St. Mary.

“We’re going to Olde Tyme,” he said, flatly. “If I get you a shrimp poboy, will you eat it?”

Wes was met with eye rolling.

“Do I have a choice?” she huffed.

“Sure,” he said, sweeping his hand out toward the horizon as if to illustrate her wealth of choices. “You can have shrimp, or oyster, or ham and cheese, or roast beef, or anything else, but you’re getting something.”

Corinne narrowed her eyes at him as though she could vaporize him with her stare. Wes matched her look with one of stone, glad that he could hide how much he loved her fighting spirit.

“Fine. Shrimp...no ketchup.”

His stone cracked then, and he had to bite down on his smile and concentrate on driving. He’d given away pretty much everything with that kiss. How he was crazy about her. How she had become the reason behind everything he did. It wouldn’t do to keep showing her something she didn’t want to see. If she got totally weirded out, she wouldn’t want to live with him anymore, and that thought brought an iceberg up into his chest.

His mind rebelled at the loss. Of course, he’d go if she wanted him to go, but no more walks at the end of the day? No more driving her to the gym in the morning? No more sitting across the kitchen table, telling her stories and hoping she’d laugh? What had he done with himself before he lived with Corinne? Whatever it was, it sucked compared to being with her.

He was pretty sure she wouldn’t be sleeping in his bed after that kiss, and losing that was enough. So he swore to himself that he’d keep his cool.

“PJ’s and
Orphan Black
,” she announced as they entered the house. Wes tried to catch her expression, but she darted through the living room too quickly. Were they okay? Was she pretending that everything was fine, or was she relying on their take-out habit of food and Netflix to keep them from having to face each other across the kitchen table?

Wes carried the white paper sack bearing poboys and fries to the kitchen, an intrigued Buck following at his heels.

“We got something in common, little buddy,” he muttered to the dog. “We both want something we can’t have.”

He tucked the take-out bag far back on the counter, safely out of reach, but Buck still sat with a ridiculously hopeful expression.

“Yeah, me too.”

Wes went to his room to trade his suit for drawstring shorts and a t-shirt, and when he returned, he found Corinne in the kitchen, pouring drinks. The pink and gray plaid pajama pants and pink tank covered more than the maddening jade green dress had, but somehow, she seemed even more irresistible. Wes congratulated himself on pretending not to notice.

“Water for the triathlete,” she said, handing him a glass. “And Coke Zero for the artist.”

Wes rolled his eyes.

“The artist needs water, too, but since this meal is already a nutritional nightmare, the personal trainer will let it slide.”

She ignored him and proceeded to pour her glass.

“Are you still riding tomorrow?” she asked, not looking at him.

“Yeah, I have a brick.” He was planning a three to four-hour bike ride and a two-hour run. He’d be gone until after noon. Was she asking because she was glad to be rid of him for a while?

“Why do they call it a brick?” she asked, grabbing the poboy bag from the counter and leading the way to the living room.

“Bike. Run. Ick,” he said, following. “By the end you’re ready to puke.”

Corinne took her usual spot on the far right side of the couch.

“Mmm, sounds
great,”
she teased, unpacking the sandwiches at the coffee table.

Wes considered keeping a little distance between them and sitting in his recliner, but when she set the poboys side-by-side, he gave up and sat next to her. He nearly groaned when Corinne flipped her hair behind her shoulders because he knew what it was to touch both her hair and her shoulders. Her back. Her waist. Her mouth.

His tongue had been in her mouth less than an hour before. How could she be asking him questions about training like nothing happened? How could he answer using the word “puke”? How could he answer at all when all he wanted to do was push her back against the couch cushions, cover her with his body, and kiss and taste every inch of her?

You stupid prick.

He forced himself to get a grip. So what if that was what he wanted? Clearly, Corinne didn’t. She probably hadn’t wanted it the first time, and there wouldn’t be a second time.

Resolved to think about anything else, Wes picked up half of his poboy and took a giant bite.

And mayo erupted down his chin.

“Awwffuck,” he muttered around the mouthful.

“Oh, shit,” Corinne said, attempting to hide her laughter. “You have mayonnaise all over your face!”

“No,
really
?” he asked, not even bothering to stem the sarcasm as he stood and aimed for the kitchen in search of napkins.

Corinne followed, still laughing.

“I’m sorry,” she said, overcome with hysterics and clearly not sorry. In spite of himself, he felt a blush stinging his cheeks as he wiped the glob from his face.

There definitely wouldn’t be a second time.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, eyes tearing with glee. He was roasting with embarrassment, but it was almost worth it to see her laughing like that.

“Yeah,
sure
you are.”

“Here,” she said, taking the napkin and stepping toward him. “You missed a spot.” She reached up and dabbed at the corner of his mouth.

For the third time that day, she stood before him, touching him, and the humor left her eyes as she studied his mouth, and he could have sworn that her pupils grew.

Did that just happen?

But before he could tilt her chin up to be sure, a savage, rustling sound reached them from the living room, and Corinne turned toward it.

“Buck! No!” she yelled, chasing after him.

Wes caught sight of the lab tearing toward Corinne’s bedroom with half a shrimp poboy in his mouth.

“Well, I’ll be damned...”