Chapter 12
December
“What about your place?” Ricky asks Wade.
Wade nods. “Cool with me. I’ll check with Cammie when she gets here. Anyone know where—”
“Cap.” Gus nudges my arm.
“What?” I tug on the constrictive collar of my dress shirt.
The only reason I came to this holiday party was because Gus had begged for a ride, and I’ve been ready to leave since we arrived. Hopefully, he’s finally come to the same conclusion.
“Isn’t that Wren Kensington?”
My head whips left, following the direction of his nod.
I don’t have to look for long or very hard.
Wren is impossible to miss. Her hair is longer, the blonde strands falling in a cascade of golden curls.
Her dress is short and shimmering, black with glints of silver.
She’s wearing heels, and her legs look endless.
I walk that way without saying a word.
Wren is talking to a girl I don’t recognize, who appears to be roughly our age.
“… Kit won’t care,” she says. “You know the house?”
“Of course I do,” the girl says eagerly.
“Perfect.” Wren glances my way, holding my gaze. “See you there.”
I grab Wren’s hand as soon as it’s within reach, tugging her down the hallway, past the bar, and toward the kitchen. Even in her heels, she keeps up with me easily.
There’s a small stockroom tucked around the corner, where nonperishables and extra supplies get stored.
I pull Wren in there, flip on a light, close the door, and face her. “I thought you were in Paris.”
Weeks ago, one of her letters mentioned that she was spending the holidays in France. That’s not what I intended to say to her first, but … I’m shocked. She was supposed to be on the opposite side of the Atlantic.
Wren shrugs a slim shoulder, the strap of her dress sparkling under the fluorescent lights.
She looks wildly out of place in front of the shelves lined with takeout containers and soda cans.
“Plans changed. My cousin Kit is having a party here tonight, so Rory and I drove down earlier. You said you’d be at this, so …
” Her head tilts, studying me—way too intently.
Because … fuck. She just showed up here. To see me, it seems, because Hanson Ellsworth is a member of the Atlantic Yacht Club, but no Kensington is.
Wren hasn’t been that far away. Same state. Manhattan is roughly a hundred miles from here. She’s been untouchable during the months we’ve been exchanging letters though.
She’s suddenly touchable. Talking and breathing and near and so goddamn gorgeous that my chest burns.
I can’t summon a single reasonable reaction to her proximity, which unnerves me because nonchalance has never been hard for me to find before.
“Kind of a lame party out there,” she adds, nodding toward the door.
“Tell me about it. Gus wanted to come.”
Wren leans back against a shelf. My guess is those ridiculously high heels are hurting her feet.
“The Captain only does what he wants. Right?”
I’m not sure we’re talking about my plans for tonight all of a sudden.
I battle the urge to unbutton my collar. “Right.”
“I came to invite you to Kit’s, if you’re free after this rager wraps up. Your friends can come too. There will be tons of food and free booze, and they’re setting off fireworks at midnight …”
Part of me wants to go. The rest knows it’s a terrible idea. Our worlds don’t overlap. Pretending they do, even for one night, is foolish.
We were a summer fling. Summer is over.
“Yeah, okay.” She shoves away from the shelf and steps closer, a familiar scent surrounding me.
I know nothing about perfume, but I could pick this particular smell out of thousands. The floral scent lingered in my truck for weeks after the night we went swimming together. If I could think of a casual way to, I’d ask what flower it is.
“That was the second, less important reason I came,” Wren continues. “I mostly came … because I wanted to come.”
She smirks, proud of the double entendre. My lips twitch as I fight smiling back.
Wren on paper is compelling. In person, she’s dangerously charismatic. I’m watching her walk closer, entirely aware that I should probably stop this and utterly powerless to.
I want her. I’ve wanted her for months, replaying that night in my truck on repeat.
I’m not sure who moves first—probably me—but we’re kissing. She moans into my mouth as my tongue invades hers, hands already working my belt.
This shouldn’t feel so familiar—we haven’t hooked up since July.
This shouldn’t be so exciting—it’s already happened twice.
Somehow, it’s both.
Logically, I’m not sure this is a good idea.
But I’m really lacking in logic right now.
I fumble for a condom while she strokes my erection, both of us breathing heavily between kisses.
I can hear the distant murmur of voices and holiday music, but the party might as well be happening on another planet.
“Bend over,” I say once I’m covered.
“Don’t mess up my dress,” Wren warns, spinning and gripping the nearest shelf. “It’s Oscar de la Renta.”
I don’t know—or care—what that means. But I do tell her, “That’s why I told you to bend over.”
“Or you’re just impa—fuck.”
I swear too. I didn’t forget how fucking her had felt, but I doubted my recollection. She couldn’t have been that tight and responsive and—she is.
It’s heaven and hell, being buried inside of her. It feels so good, and it won’t last, and I’m not sure I’ll last, yet I’m determined for this to not be a repeat of our first time.
I think about breaking my arm as a kid. Recite my freshman year stats.
And then she’s spasming, the clench of her pussy making it impossible for me not to fill the condom. Still embarrassingly fast, but at least she came first this time.
I catch my breath, then pull out, ripping open a new package of napkins to clean up the mess.
“So, are you coming?” Wren asks, carefully fixing her dress.
“I just did.” I toss the condom and napkins into the trash can. Nothing but net. My future might be fucked, but I’ve still got a good arm.
She rolls her eyes. “To the party.”
I zip up my pants. “I can’t. I already made plans with the guys.”
Truthfully, they’d probably be thrilled to go to a Kensington party. Wade’s house has lukewarm beer and not much else. Definitely no caviar or champagne or fireworks. But they don’t have to know about the invitation.
Wren nods. “Okay.”
She doesn’t sound disappointed. It makes me feel better—and annoyed—about lying. She shouldn’t care if I go or not. No doubt there will be plenty of guys there, thrilled to keep Wren company.
“Are you free to hang out tomorrow? I’ll probably sleep in since it’s going to be a late night, but we could meet later?”
Fuck. I want to tell her yes, and that’s … what is up with that? I don’t do—I need out, to end whatever this is.
So, I force myself to hold her gaze as I reply, “Why?”
I watch that rude response detonate between us.
Watch the word hit her. Watch Wren’s composure falter, then harden.
She’s accustomed to people accommodating her.
And I’m not trying to be the outlier. I’m just calling quits before she can.
Being left behind sucks less when you retreat first. At least, that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of.
Seconds of silence pass, but they stretch like hours. Like lengthy letters, filled with inside jokes and … I never should have written her back.
Wren lifts her chin, her eyes never wavering from mine. “Nice of you to say something before you got laid.”
She sounds annoyed more than anything else. I was right—this meant nothing to her. I’ve just bruised her pride.
“Don’t act like you didn’t want it,” I drawl, irritated she’s acting like I lured her here.
She showed up. She told me she was here for sex.
Wren stiffens. “I’m not—I never said that. I just forgot what an asshole you are.”
So, she’s given up on her theory I’m secretly a decent guy. Good.
“I told you I was.”
“Yeah.” She scoffs. “You sure did. Thanks for the reminder.”
We stare at each other. I don’t know what else to say. I figured, after the pity invitation, she’d waltz out of here to get to her non-lame party.
“What do you want from me, Wren?” I ask because I truly don’t know.
She doesn’t know everything about me—I’ve never mentioned my family in any letters, for instance—but she knows enough to realize I’m a dead end. No trust fund, no college plans, no exciting future.
“Nothing.” Wren shakes her head once. “I mean, we already … so there’s … nothing.” Finally, she heads for the door. “Bye, Captain.”
My nickname sounds different this time. An insult instead of a tease.
I sort of hate it.
I also hate how I’m realizing my future mail will only be bills and junk mailers.
No way will Wren write me again, not after I rejected her twice.
She’ll go to her cousin’s fancy party—laugh and dance and drink and kiss another guy at midnight.
Return to her penthouse. Take vacations to places I’ve only ever heard of.
Have her pick of colleges. If I see her again, it’ll probably be from a distance, if she ever returns to the marina.
And … it sucks.
The door opens and closes, and I’m alone in a glorified pantry. Just me and the temper I inherited.
I’m a lost cause.
Everyone knows it.
About time Wren realized it too.
It shouldn’t bother me so much that she finally has.