Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 499(@200wpm)___ 399(@250wpm)___ 332(@300wpm)
Like she’s forgotten the way I could make her body sing. Like I don’t know what she feels like wrapped around my cock. Like she didn’t mark me up with those red nails she always has.
I don’t make a conscious decision to get up, but suddenly, I’m striding across the room straight toward Wren’s table. People hop out of my way, creating a clear path, until I’m looming at the table’s edge. The Asshole glances up and mistakes me for a waiter despite my dirty T-shirt and rough appearance. “Hey, man, I could use some more water. Thanks.”
I scoff as he looks at Wren and asks, “Would you like anything?”
I drop down to my elbows on the table, stealing a chip from Wren’s plate. “Yeah, Birdie. You need anything?” Eye to eye with her, I crunch on the chip that, despite being covered in Tayvious’s delicious chili and homemade queso, tastes like sawdust.
“He’s not a waiter, Oliver. This is Jesse . . . uh, my . . . brother’s wife’s brother. Jesse, this is Oliver.” She’s glaring at me, her eyes sparkling with anger her congenial tone doesn’t express.
She meant to say I’m the man who’s made her come so hard she nearly passed out. Okay, I don’t say that aloud, but I think it as I look deep into Wren’s green eyes, withstanding every bit of her fire. Hell, enjoying it. It’s damn sure better than the indifference she’s been giving me.
“Brother’s wife’s . . . what?” Oliver repeats, laughing at his own confusion.
“It’s not that complicated. My sister, her brother . . . married.” I clasp my hands to show their connection, and not at all because I desperately want to touch Wren. Nope, that’s not it at all. “No worries about the waiter thing, though. This one”—I lift my chin toward Wren—“thought I was a caterer the first time we met.”
Flashing a grin her way, I know Wren is remembering too. It was the day of her brother’s wedding, and Wren was making sure everything was perfect for Winston and Avery. I was setting out cupcakes under the big tent in the back garden of the Ford home, and she came barreling in with a mental checklist and an iron will, determined to complete it to perfection in record time. She’d bossed me around a bit, and when I suggested she take a breath, it’d gone over like a fart in church. She’d reared up, popping her hands on her hips and reading me the riot act. I’d bravely challenged her, saying that I knew exactly who she was, but did she know who I was . . . and we’d become friends. It was a while later that we became friendly.
And then . . . nothing.
Everything went well for a while, both of us on the same page about what we did and didn’t want, and then I texted her and she claimed she was busy. A couple more times and I found myself basically ghosted. Even in a town the size of Cold Springs, she avoided me. When Hazel and Wyatt invited everyone over, I’d hoped to rekindle things and had watched her like a tiger, ready to pounce at the slightest opportunity, noting every detail that had changed in the months since we’d spoken, but Wren was civil, polite, and somehow totally unaffected by the fact that I’d been inside her mere months ago.
I can take a hint. I know who and what she is, and I’m all too aware that she’s about ten notches out of my league. She slummed it with me for a bit, but moved on. And judging by Oliver, she’s moving up.
But just because I understand doesn’t mean I have to like it. She might be over us, but I’m not, and the months since I’ve had her beneath me feel like years.
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Wren rolls her eyes about the tease she’s heard before, and then she tells Oliver, “He’ll probably remind everyone about that at my funeral, even though I apologized profusely. It was a stressful day, and you were wearing an apron and holding a tray of cupcakes.” It’s the same go-round we always have. At this point, I’m just giving her shit. She knows I don’t hold a grudge for her entirely logical conclusion that day.
“Wh-what?” Oliver sputters, confused by the history in our conversation. History he’s not privy to.
“It was Winston’s wedding. My mom’s a baker. I was helping her out.” Short and to the point is all he deserves.
“Winston?”
Wren answers, “My brother.” At the same time, I register that he doesn’t know her family. I’d expect him to know the Ford family tree if he’s Chrissy’s lawyer, but maybe it hasn’t come up. “Not the one married to his sister, but the other one.”