Chapter 8
Wes hadn’t been kidding when he said he was a good cook. Dinner had been fantastic, and he’d even had peanut butter swirl ice cream to feed me for dessert. I insisted on washing the dishes, but Wes dismissed me and shoved everything into the dishwasher except for his state-of-the-art knife, which he wiped clean and put away. He retrieved a couple of bottles of local microbrew and herded me into the living room. We settled on the couch. We started with an entire cushion between us, but without even realizing it, I shifted closer as Wes flipped through TV channels. By the time he settled on something to watch, I was practically leaning on him.
His arm pulled me close. I stiffened, not sure if I wanted this. I mean, I knew I wanted it, but I also knew I was giving Wes mixed signal
