Wild about Weston (The English Brothers Book 5) (6 page)

“You’re not crying anymore, Molly,” he said gently, loosening his arms from around her.

She lifted her head and stepped back, swiping at her eyes, and pressing her palms against her flushed cheeks.

“But you’re still sad,” he observed.

“Not as much as I was.”

He grinned. “Hey…remember before? How I said that you helped make this not the most horrible wedding ever?”

She nodded, chuckling lightly at his awkward wording.

“Well…what would make it less horrible for
you
? More drinks? Dancing? Dinner? Cake? I can go steal some cake for you.”

Molly giggled softly, dropping her hands from her face and smoothing her dress. “I can’t let you steal Daisy’s cake.”

“No, I guess you couldn’t. Plus, I’ve already had an altercation with one brother tonight. I’d prefer to avoid one with the groom.”

“You’re sweet,” said Molly. “But I think I’ll just go home.”

“Not allowed,” said Weston. “I can’t let you go home and be all sad and alone. We both got dumped, right?”

She nodded.

“We’re a perfect pair, Molly McKenna. I literally can’t stand anyone’s company tonight but yours. What will it take to get you to stay?”

It felt like a major triumph when her lips tilted up just a little. “I don’t know…”

Suddenly Weston had an idea. The best idea. The best place in the world. The place that always cheered him up when he was feeling down. “I’ve got it!”

“Got what?”

“Come with me. If this place doesn’t cheer you up even a little, you can go home, okay? Deal?”

Her little grin widened just a little as she stared up at him, and his heart clutched from the tentative hope that flitted across her face.

“Deal.”

Molly had no idea where they were headed, but Weston took her hand in his, weaving their fingers together like they’d never been apart, and turned them back down the stairs. His excitement was infectious, though, and Molly found herself smiling as he burst through the downstairs door, steering her through a dark hallway before coming out in the kitchen. Offering hellos to the twenty-odd people pulling together the hors d’oeuvres and wedding dinner, he crossed the large expanse of white-tiled floor and headed out through a doorway in the far corner that led to a cobblestoned mudroom.

The walls were painted a cheerful robin’s egg blue and coats hung on hooks to Molly’s right while bright white cubbies under a long bench held boots of all sizes to the left.

Weston dropped her hand to push through the coats and jackets, finally finding a bright red canvas barn jacket with a quilted, flannel inside and a smart brown leather collar. He held it out to her. “This is my Mom’s.”

She took it from him, searching his eyes.

“Nope. I’m not telling you yet. Just put it on.”

He’d tidily read her mind, and she grinned, shrugging into the jacket and appreciating its warmth in the drafty room while he took a similar jacket in dark blue and traded it for his tux jacket. Taking her hand, he led her to the bench on the other side of the room and gestured for her to sit. Kneeling down in front of her for the second time tonight, he unbuckled her heels, taking them off gently and putting them beside her on the bench.

“I love these shoes,” he said softly, looking at her from the floor with an adorable grin.

“I remember.”

“They’re hot,” he said, a lock of blond hair falling over her forehead rakishly as he caressed her ankle. “Like the girl wearing them.”

“You’re good for my ego.” She sighed.

He chuckled softly, placing her shoes to the side and handing her a pair of red and navy Wellington boots.

“Your Mom’s?” she asked.

“See if they fit.”

She slipped them on and they were a little snug, but not enough to complain. She looked back at him and smiled.

“Now will you tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope.”

He dispatched his own shoes, trading them for some snow boots trimmed in cream shearling, then offered Molly his hand again, which she took, giggling quietly like they were up to no good.

He led her outside, and she gasped, surprised by the bite of the cold on her bare legs.

“Damn. I should’ve pilfered mittens and a hat, too,” he said, squeezing her hand. “You too cold?”

“It’s freezing out!” she said, watching her breath float up to the star-covered sky.

“It’s not far. Trust me?” he asked, grinning.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling back, surprised that the word slipped from her lips so easily.

“Then come on!”

He tugged on her hand and they walked briskly through a parking area filled with party rental vans and flower delivery trucks, then continued around the back of a garage, their booted-feet crunching cheerfully on the ice covered flagstones.

They turned another corner and that’s when Molly smelled it: fresh-cut hay. In the middle of February. Like a miracle.

She stopped in her tracks. “Oh, I love that smell!”

“You do?”

“More than any other.” She sighed, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she smiled up at him.

“Then you’re in luck,” he said, grinning with delight. Opening the back door of a long, stone building, he stepped inside and Molly followed.

It was pitch black, but Molly closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Home. It smelled like home, and her eyes welled tears of surprise and gratitude: hay, horses, leather, hard wood. The combination of smells was more comforting and familiar—beloved, even—than Weston could have possibly guessed.

“Molly?” he asked.

Her eyes fluttered open to find him staring at her. He’d flicked on a desk light by the door and now she realized they stood in the tack room of a stable. Before her, ten or more different saddles hung from hooks on a wall with bits and halters hanging below. At the top of the wall, along the ceiling, shiny horseshoes were nailed into place, and the blond wood floor was clean and shiny.

“Christ on a cracker,” she murmured, breathing deeply again. “This is the prettiest tack room I’ve ever seen.”

Stepping further into the room, she noticed the dark green trunks on the floor, lined up to make a long bench, each with diamond shaped initials monogramed on the center. Finding E
S> she sat down gingerly, looking at the neatly stacked velvet riding caps on the counter in front of her.

“Your initials spell your nickname,” she said softly, brushing her palm over the gold letters behind her legs.

“Yes, they do.”

She smiled before looking behind his shoulder at a large, framed photograph of five boys sitting atop five horses.

“Is that you and your brothers?”

“Uh-huh.” He turned to look at the photo, pointing to the smallest child. “Me.”

“I’m the youngest too,” she said, suddenly missing her family so much it ached.

“Of how many?” he asked, putting his hands in his pockets and leaning against the counter.

“Four. My sister, Claire, is three years older than me. My twin brothers, Travis and Todd, are five years older.”

“Tough being the youngest,” he said.

“Oh, I didn’t mind,” she answered, standing to check out the saddles. “I love being the little sister.”

“We don’t have that in common.”

“You don’t love being the little sister?” she teased.

He chuckled softly from his place against the counter. “Touché.”

“These are beautiful saddles,” she said, running her fingertips over the shiny leather of a smaller-sized western that would suit her. It was so supple and pretty, she wondered if it had ever been used. “Someone takes really good care of them.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re one-hundred percent at home in a tack room?”

“Because I am,” she admitted. “Though not one this fancy. Or big. Or clean.” She giggled softly, turning around to look at him.

“You like horses?” he asked, his face younger and more innocent in the soft light of the tack room. He’d chosen this place to cheer her up, and she realized that she hadn’t seen him so happy and relaxed since she met him. He was totally at home here in the stable, and she paused in her thoughts just for a moment to appreciate they had that in common.

“I love them. We have four back at home.”

“Where’s that?”

“Hopeview, Ohio.”

“You grew up on a farm,” he said softly. A statement. A realization.

She grinned. “I did. A little farm in the middle of Ohio.”

“Dairy?”

“No. Corn, wheat, soybeans, and cotton.”

“I wonder what that was like,” he said, taking a step closer to her.

“Honestly?”

“Yeah, honestly.”

“Loving. Warm. Hard work. Early mornings. Early nights.” She shrugged, another wave of homesickness threatening her lighter mood. “Home.”

“And you miss it,” he said, coming to stand beside her.

Molly’s body was still angled toward the saddles, but now she shifted slightly and faced Weston. “Not usually. I really do love Philadelphia. I love my work. But…”

“You gave up a lot to move here, right?”

“More than I knew at the time,” she whispered, the meaning behind his words not lost on her. “I’m not homesick, though. I’m really not. But I think, when bad things happen, sometimes you just want to go home.”

***

Weston’s heart swelled as he stared at sad eyes in her pretty face. He barely knew her, and yet he couldn’t stand for her to look sad when he knew the bright sunshine of her smile. He opened his arms to her, holding his breath as she looked at him before stepping forward into his embrace. Once she was tucked safely against his body, he exhaled, resting his chin on top of her head.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t go home. Not yet.”

“Are you talking about tonight?” she murmured, her breath warm and soft against his throat.

“I don’t know. Don’t go home to Ohio. Don’t go home to…wherever home is here. Don’t go anywhere,” he beseeched her softly. “Just stay here with me for a little while.”

She sighed, and he felt the tension leave her body. He backed them up until he hit the counter behind him. He leaned back on it, and she leaned into him.

“Can I ask you something?” she said after a few peaceful minutes.

“Sure.”

Apparently they were going to have a conversation with his arms around her and her body nestled snugly into his. Fine with Weston. As long as he got to hold her, he’d talk as long as she wanted to.

“Why do you hate being the youngest?”

He took a deep breath and his chest swelled into her breasts. Even with their coats between them, it distracted him terribly. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do,” she said, encircling his waist with her arms.

She was hugging him. For whatever unknown reason, it filled him with tenderness that she was holding onto him too. It was as though she sensed the deeply fraught nature of her question and wanted to offer him comfort. It made him want to answer her truthfully.

“It’s like…well, like this…think of the English brothers as a field. A blank field. Brown earth. No plantings.”

“Fallow.”

He chuckled lightly. “Fallow, says the farmer’s daughter. Yes. Fallow.”

“And…” she prompted.

His hands were flat on her lower back, but his fingers moved now, idly, gently, against the rough canvas of the jacket she wore, frustrated by the barrier.

“And Barrett goes first into the field, making nice, sharp, neat, even rows. And then Fitz joins him. His rows are even neater and sharper, and he also carefully plants seeds in his rows. Suddenly Alex comes along and races around through the field messing up the rows and cackling with glee. So, Barrett puts him in a headlock while Fitz straightens out the rows, and Stratton shows up to build an irrigation system so that Fitz doesn’t have to water the seeds every night. And then Weston’s born.” He cleared his throat, feeling a little silly. “Does that make any sense?”

“Yes,” she said. “I see.”

“Do you? Because I feel like that was the worst analogy ever.”

“No,” she reassured him, her hands stroking his back. “I get it. The field could’ve been anything, but by the time you got there, there were rows and seeds and plantings and zigzag footprints and irrigation systems. So, where’s your piece of the land?”

“Exactly.” He sighed, leaning away to look down at her eyes with wonder. She blinked up at him in surprise, light brown eyes almost amber. “I think you’re amazing.”

She shrugged lightly, shaking her head with a small smile on her face. “Nah. I just understand…being the youngest too.”

He reached up and put his hand on the back of her soft reddish hair, easing her face against his chest and loving it when she turned her neck so her cheek rested there.

“I don’t want to be a corporate lawyer at English & Sons,” he suddenly blurted out.

Because he’d never said the words out loud before, he gasped lightly after hearing them drop from his lips. He hadn’t actually meant to say them, only think them, but his heart raced and his breath caught—they were out there now. The words. The truth. Only Molly and the saddles had been witness, but it was too late to take them back now.

“So, do something else,” suggested Molly gently.

“It’s not that simple,” Weston protested, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. He didn’t want to discuss what couldn’t be. He wasn’t ready to let down his brothers, to let down his parents, and disappoint them all by turning his back on their life’s work.

He loosened his hands from her back and stepped away from her.

Molly searched his eyes in confusion, but he didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to tell her everything, wanted to hear her sweet voice tell him that he was strong enough to make his own way in the world, that his brothers wouldn’t hate him forever, that his destiny was in his hands and no one else’s. But she barely knew him. It wasn’t her job to sort out his life for him.

“Weston,” she whispered, tilting her head back to look up him. “Kiss me instead.”

Whatever surprise he felt at her request was knocked out of play by the words “Kiss me.”

He didn’t think.

He grabbed her around the waist, yanking her against his body roughly as his lips landed flush upon hers.

God damn.

She was right.

Thunder and lightning.

He didn’t tease her as he had on the stairwell when they first kissed. His tongue plunged into her mouth and she tangled with it, sucking on it, her hands sliding up his back into his hair and fisting. The sucking and pulling hurt and felt good and felt hot, and he welcomed it, hating the layers of clothes between them.