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)
I don’t know what to expect when I confess that. Shock, horror, embarrassment on my behalf? Avery seems to still be processing as she mumbles, “Why answer the phone then?” but Hazel looks to the ceiling and begins whispering. Listening closely, I can make out, “Please let it have been my stupid brother. Please. I don’t have time to bail him out for beating the shit out of some rando Wren decided to hook up with.”
I laugh bitterly. “Jesse wouldn’t beat someone up because I hooked up with them, but it was him.”
Avery and Hazel look at each other and then me before busting out in laughter. And then I hear Grandpa Joe laughing in the hallway from where he’s obviously been eavesdropping the whole time.
Finally, Hazel manages to get out, “Jesse would absolutely destroy anyone who dared touch you. You’re his. He’s just been waiting for you to figure that out.”
“More like the whole town is waiting for you to figure that out,” Grandpa Joe adds, forgetting any semblance of not listening as he comes back in and sits at the table again.
It’s my turn to look at them in confusion. “Jesse and I had a thing a while ago, but we’ve barely talked in ages. I’m not his . . . whatever that means.”
I don’t tell them that my proof is that he called me “baby,” the most generic endearment in existence. It’s the one thing you call a woman when you can’t be bothered to use her name at the most intimate of moments. And I know for a fact that he’s called other women that—waitresses, friends, strangers, women he’s probably fucked. I’ve heard it with my own ears, which is why it pisses me off so much.
I know what we had was casual, but when he couldn’t even bother to use my name while inside me, it hurt. A lot. And I’m Wren Fucking Ford. I don’t do hurt. So I shut down, went distant, and that’s where we’ve been for almost a year.
Until he barged through my door and made me gush like a fucking fire hose while on the phone for a work situation.
And then he did it again. “Baby,” my ass.
I blink, coming back from my thoughts to find Avery, Hazel, and Grandpa Joe peering at me with concern.
Hazel leans over to Avery to stage-whisper, “We’ve been waiting for this moment, but now that it’s here, I think this one’s on you, girl. I know my limitations, and if I do it, it’s not gonna go well.”
Grandpa Joe grunts. “Agreed. If she’s too stupid to have figured it out herself, someone’s gonna need to spell it out a-b-c style so she gets it. I thought she was the smart one of your group?”
“Are you talking about me?” I snap. “I’m right here, for fuck’s sake.”
“Faster,” Hazel tells Avery, pushing her on the shoulder encouragingly.
Avery closes her eyes and inhales loudly. This is bad. It’s written all over her face and has Hazel shaking in her boots. Whatever she’s about to tell me . . . it’s bad.
“What?” I demand. I’d rather rip the Band-Aid off than pussyfoot around whatever this is.
But Avery is stuck on gentle mode, like I’m some delicate silk in the washing machine that can’t handle a rough toss. “Wren, you know how much everyone in this town loves you—”
I glare at her, not needing some nice-mean-nice sandwich to get to the crux of whatever this is.
Avery makes a sound of discomfort and then spits out, “Have you seriously never wondered why no one, and I mean no one, from town asks you out? I mean, you’re gorgeous, intelligent, independent, respected, and from a well-known family. The quintessential prom queen, debutante, sweetheart every man dreams about. You’re basically the Holy Grail of potential dates. Yet no one asks you out. Or at least no one from here.”
I squirm uncomfortably, not wanting to admit that I’ve definitely thought about that. But only when I’m watching stupid rom-com movies, sipping spiked hot chocolate and eating white chocolate popcorn, alone under a fluffy blanket, and drowning in my feels. And I rarely do that.
Keeping up my tough exterior, I lift my chin. “No, because I know why. I’m driven, focused, ambitious. The level of single-mindedness I have on my career isn’t exactly what guys are looking for. Even now, I’m settled in my job, and have more time, but I’m . . . me.”
I know who and what I am. I knew it already, but I definitely found out in law school. I’m a petite, pretty blonde who men consistently underestimate and want to manipulate, expecting me to look sexy on their arm and make them look good, like I’m no more than a showpiece. When they find out that dynamite comes in small packages and is partnered with an actual brain, high standards, and a backbone, they run.