Page 55 of Spin Control

But then a low voice says “Jacobs, is that you or is there a murderer in there that I need to be incredibly worried about? I am not cut out to be a final girl.”

Rather than answer, I open the door. And then there’s Wes Grant in all of his casually devastating glory. I have no idea why he’s wearing a backwards Red Sox hat indoors at night, but I’m not mad about it. Especially when he’s paired it with one of his slutty little cut-up shirts and a pair of black joggers.

“It’s just me,” I say. “Although jury’s out on whether or not I commit murder tonight.”

Wes’s mouth tilts up into a lopsided grin. “Who are we disposing of?”

Though a perfect rejoinder floats through my brain, I can’t voice it because my eyes fill with the tears I’ve been keeping at bay. I try to will them away before Wes notices, but I’m not fast enough. “Elizabeth, what’s going on?”

Horrified, I take a few steps away from the door and turn so my back is to him. I’m not going to cry in front of Wes Grant.

I hear the door close, and I’m momentarily thrilled that, for once, he’s left me alone. But when I glance over my shoulder, Wes is standing in the room, looking concerned.

About me.

Goddammit.

“Talk to me, Jacobs,” he says, his voice gentle, just as two fat teardrops careen down my face. “Why are you back so early?”

“You don’t need to worry about it.”

“And if I want to?”

I huff out a sardonic little laugh. “You don’t want that.”

Suddenly, he’s so close that I can feel the heat of his body at my back. “Why do you think I’m here?”

I shrug. “You were bored and my sister invited you.”

“You’re far too smart to believe that.”

A shiver dances over my skin. I ignore it. “Why else would you be here?”

“Maybe because I want to worry about you, Jacobs.”

That might be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. But the last thing I need is Wes Grant developing feelings for me. “You don’t have to do this, Wes.”

“I know I don’t. But I want to.”

I whirl around, my temper flaring. “Well, I don’t want that.”

“Too fucking bad,” Wes says, punctuating each word. “I’m going to worry about you whether you like it or not.”

I grit my teeth. “It’s a wasted effort.”

The man has the audacity to grin. “Nah. I don’t think so.”

I’m about to tell him to get out when he crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s made you so upset you abandoned your night out with Jane and cried when I asked who we’re murdering instead of ordering me to get a shovel.”

“Why do you care?”

I mean for it to be a cutting question that puts him in his place. But my voice betrays me, delivering the words with a desperate edge.

“Because I want to know you,” he says immediately, casually, as if that’s a normal thing to say to someone else. “I find you fascinating, Jacobs. You’re wicked smart and confident as all hell. You command rooms without saying a damn word, and you aren’t intimidated by anyone or anything. You know what you want, and you don’t just take it, you demand it. But there’s more to you than just sharp edges. I want to know your full shape.”

I blink at him, dumbfounded. How the hell do I respond to that?

I don’t trust many people. I’ve never been good at making friends and my experiences with opening up about my personal life have rarely been positive. I’ve learned the hard way that women don’t always support other women, and that when men find out your father is a misogynist, their eyes light up at the idea of daddy issues.