Page 89 of Blue Line

Shit, the way he’s staring at me makes me think he’s been talking to me for a little while, and I totally did not hear what he was saying.

“I asked if you wanted to watch a movie.”

“Yep. Sure.” I get to my feet and quickly clean up my garbage before following him into the living room.

I try to focus on the movie we settle on, Two Weeks Notice, but it’s hard. I can’t stop thinking about the email I got this afternoon—the one that said, “We interviewed a lot of great candidates. It was a tough decision to make. We’ll keep your resume on file in case we expand and need to hire more photographers,” which basically means we interviewed better people and you’re not good enough.

I knew it was a long shot, and I tried to tell myself that even getting an initial interview was a confidence boost, but at the end of the day, I still wish they’d at least asked me to the next round.

Then the other rejections came in, and that was the icing on the cake.

I hate applying for jobs.

Going roller skating after many years of not skating was probably not a good idea. But I saw the skates in the window of the store downtown when I went for a walk, and one thing led to another. I thought it would be a good way to blow off steam. Get a little workout in.

Unfortunately, I didn’t see the root that had grown under the sidewalk and pushed it up until it was too late. I’m glad that all I did was scrape my knee and bruise my ego, because it could have ended so very badly.

Groaning, I run a hand over my face.

Wes pauses the movie, turning to me. “You alright?”

“Sorry, my mind is elsewhere. I think everything is catching up to me, and I’m starting to feel sore.”

“Do you want to take an Epsom salt bath? We can watch the movie later.”

“A bath sounds nice.” I start to stand up.

“I’ll get it set up for you.” He gets to his feet. “You stay here. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

I sink back into the couch, content to let him draw the bath for me. It’s nice to have someone to take care of me when I don’t feel good or, in this case, when I’m hurting. To have someone to help carry the weight, even if it’s simply listening to me vent. I haven’t truly had that before. Not that my brother and parents haven’t been there for me, but I’m realizing it’s a different feeling when it’s your partner, the person you chose to have in your life.

Hours later, when I’m tucked into Wes’s side in his bed as I’m falling asleep, I swear I hear him say, “I love you.” But before I can ask him, his soft snores fill the room, and soon, I’m also drifting off to sleep.

“I’m home,” Wes yells the next day when he walks into the apartment around lunchtime.

Home. Is this my home now? Do I want it to be my home?

I do. Scary as that sounds. I do want this. I want us. I want Weston Reynolds.

I want it to be real.

All of it.

Forever.

The thought has my heart skipping a beat.

“Hey,” he says, and I shake myself out of my thoughts.

I close my laptop and turn to where he’s casually leaning against the wall that leads into the living room, his hands shoved into the pockets of his shorts. My eyes have a mind of their own and rake down his body.

“Hi. I missed you.”

He gives me a cocky grin. “Oh, yeah.” He saunters over and gives me a kiss before sitting down on the couch next to me. “So, I have this idea I want to run by you.”

“If it entails tying me up and/or blindfolding me, I’m in. Wax and heat play, no thank you. Sorry, I have to draw the line somewhere.”

He chuckles. “Not that, but I think that could be arranged.”