I sigh. Nod. “I understand. And believe me, the last thing I want is to spend my time sitting around waiting for you to be done working. But I would also, just selfishly, love to experience being on set.”
He takes my hands in his. “Jo, I just…” he breaks off, sighs, trying to find the right words and struggling. “I know you may not be comfortable with this, but…this is gonna be all about you. That’s what it is. It’s how I want it. It’s how it should be.”
I let out a long breath. “And what you need to understand is that my whole life, everyone around me has made their whole life all about me. I’m the sick one, I’m the one who needs someone to spend hours with me while I’m getting radiated or whatever. I don’t want your whole existence to be solely about me. I want to make my life as much about you as I can. And I don’t want to live like I’m dying, okay? I want to live like I’m living. The Tim McGraw song is great, and I love it, and I sure as heck identify with it. But that’s been my life, living like I’m dying. I’ve seen Paris and Rome, I’ve seen the Grand Canyon, and the Mediterranean. I’ve done all that. Now, I just want to be normal girl in love. I want to fit into your life. I know the temptation is to…coddle me. And cater to me, and…all that. But don’t. Just be with me.”
He closes his eyes, draws in a deep breath, holds it, then summons a smile and lets the breath out. “Okay. I understand.” He cups my cheek. “So. How about breakfast?”
“I could eat,” I say. “What do you have?”
“You like omelets? Because I make a killer omelet, if I do say so myself.”
“With extra cheese?”
“So much cheese. Oozing great big gobs of delicious gooey cheese.”
“And bacon?”
He winks, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “You know it.”
I can’t hold back a grin. “Will you cook shirtless? And maybe put on some music and dance while you do it?”
He smirks. “Why, Miss Park, it feels like you’re objectifying me.”
I roll my eyes and bite my lower lip. “I mean, a little?”
He just laughs. “I could probably find it within me to cater to your lecherous desires.”
“Lecherous desires would be naked but for an apron, and an apron only because I wouldn’t want you to be burned by the spitting bacon grease.”
He touches his lips to mine. “You’re funny.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Who’s being funny?”
“So we’re doing naked breakfast, is what you’re saying? Because if I’m naked, so are you.”
“Clothes are overrated?” I say, phrasing a statement as a hopeful question.
He slides his hands under the hem of my shirt, grasping the bare flesh of my waist just above the elastic band of my shorts. “The only problem I see with naked breakfast is that if you’re naked, I’m not sure how much cooking or eating will happen. Because you naked is all sorts of distracting, and we’ll end up doing things other than breakfast.”
I snap my fingers. “Damn. You discovered my diabolical plan.”
He pulls me flush against his body. “Jolene, Jolene, Jolene,” he says with a sigh.
“Westley, Westley, Westley.”
“You don’t need an excuse, or a plan, or anything. You want something with me, or from me, just ask. Or, if not ask in words, communicate what you want somehow.”
My stomach growls, and I laugh. “Damn bodily needs. I’ll settle for Shirtless Chef.”
He rumbles a laugh. “That sounds like a dirty spinoff of Iron Chef.”
“We should pitch it. Sexy shirtless chefs in a cooking competition. Equal parts bodybuilding competition and cook-off.” I cackle at my own idea. “I mean, shoot, there’s been any number of shows objectifying women, right? Powderpuff football, for example. The bathing suit element in beauty pageants, if not the entire idea of beauty pageants as a whole. Point is, I think it’s high time we women get something for us, and I feel like Shirtless Chef is a great idea.”
He snorts. “Dinah says there’s nothing sexier than a hot guy doing housework. So why stop at Shirtless Chef? Shirtless vacuuming. Shirtless dishwashing.”
I widen my eyes and clap my hands as I laugh. “Oh boy, shirtless dishwashing would be a win. All those suds! Suds and Studs, you could call it.”
“Suds and Studs!” he echoes, laughing. “That’s a good one.” He tweaks a nipple over my shirt, more affectionate and playful than erotic. “Take a shower, brush your teeth, whatever. I’ll make us breakfast.”
“Wanna know something kinda funny?”
“Hmm?”
“Since I’ve been either bald or my hair has been growing back for in most of my life, and I don’t wear makeup, taking a shower and getting dressed for me is usually a matter of five, maybe ten minutes. I could probably shower and dress faster than you.”
“You don’t wear makeup? Ever?”
I shake my head and shrug. “Nope. Never saw the point. Not gonna get all dolled up to go get treatment, and I’m not gonna wear it around the house when I feel like poop. And when I am feeling good and going out, I don’t want to waste time on caking makeup on my face.” I make a ninety-degree angle with my hands, fingertips to heel of my palm, around one side of my face. “Besides, with a face like this, who needs makeup?” I say it with a grin and a laugh, as a joke.
He’s utterly serious, though, when he replies. “Can’t improve upon natural perfection.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, but I kiss him, because I can’t help it.
He pulls away from the kiss with a reluctant groan. “Gotta stop before I get carried away, and you need to eat.”
“I mean, I could wait, a little bit.” I nip at his lip with my teeth, playfully. “When I’m kissing you, the last thing I’m thinking about is being hungry.”
“We have all day,” he murmurs. “Let’s eat, and I’ll show you the house.”
I fake a pout. “Fine. Reject me, if you must.”
He groans a laugh. “I’m not rejecting you, I just—”
I laugh and push him away from me. “I’m teasing, Wes, jeez.”
“Don’t tease me, Jolene. I’m very sensitive.”
I pat his cheeks. “I know. That’s what makes teasing you so much fun.” I boop his nose with a fingertip. “I don’t really need a shower, but I wouldn’t mind brushing my teeth. Is our stuff still in the car?”
“Yeah, I’ll grab it.”
His house is surprisingly modest. In size, at least. A sprawling ranch with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a big kitchen open to a dining area and den, and a huge outdoor living space which opens to the kitchen and den area via accordion glass doors; the backyard is dominated by a rectangular infinity pool surrounded by an intentionally overgrown English garden, run through with little stone paths, an occasional concreter bench here and there underneath a spreading tree, the whole enclosed with a tall stone wall for privacy.
The interior of the house is comfortable, but not ostentatious. There’s only his one car, the Range Rover, in the garage. His closet is large, but it’s not an entire room like I’ve seen in some celebrity house tours. He doesn’t have any expensive collections or extravagant indulgences. The only thing I could reasonably call an indulgence is the recording studio built over the garage; it’s a full, professional studio, complete with sound baffles on the walls and separate booths for the mixer and musician. There’s a piano, several guitars both acoustic and electric, a ukulele, and a mandolin.