Chapter 22
“Why are we stopping here?” Gus asks as Wade takes a left toward the country club.
“I told Ricky we’d pick him up,” Wade replies.
“We wouldn’t have to make an extra stop if he’d stayed at the marina,” I comment.
Dusty wouldn’t have needed to hire new guys either.
“C’mon, Cap,” Wade says. “He makes better tips caddying.”
I grunt.
“What the hell is going on?” Wade adds as he circles the lot. “Every spot is full.”
“There’s a tennis tournament,” I tell him, noticing the large sign advertising it ahead.
“Great,” Wade comments sarcastically. “Can someone call Ricky? Ask him to meet us out here?”
“Can you pull up front?” Gus asks, pointing ahead. “I need to piss.”
I listen to a series of rings as Wade brakes by the main building.
“No answer,” I announce, popping my door open. “I’ll find him.”
“Cool. I’ll circle,” Wade says, then drives off.
“Meet you back here?” Gus asks.
I nod. Gus heads for the entrance to the country club. I try to call Ricky again. It goes straight to voicemail this time, so I release a frustrated exhale and follow Gus inside.
Damn, this place is fancy. I’ve driven by Atlantic Crest hundreds of times since it’s right by the marina, but never actually been inside the building.
Normally, you have to be a member or accompanied by one to be on the property.
They must have relaxed the rules a little because of the tournament since no one stops me or asks for identification.
I wander through the wood-paneled lobby, past a dining area, and out onto a stone patio.
People are milling around out here, sipping drinks and snacking off silver trays being whisked around by servers.
Past it, the brilliant green of the golf course stretches to the edge of the water.
Before it are the tennis courts, the stands surrounding them full of spectators.
I turn back toward the building, pulling my phone out to try Ricky once more. It’ll be impossible to find him in this crowd.
“Are you lost?”
I hesitate before glancing toward the voice. Not least to get the sudden spike in my heart rate under control. Also, whipping my head in her direction would look overeager.
Wren’s dressed for tennis—short white dress, high ponytail, and a pink racquet bag slung over one shoulder.
She looks good—she always looks good—but it’s the sly smirk that captures my attention most completely.
Ignoring her was supposed to tamp down this ridiculous draw.
Instead, her smile makes me feel like a starving sailor glimpsing land.
“You look lost,” she adds when I continue to stare at her silently, like an idiot.
“I’ve never been here before.”
She nods, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. “Doesn’t really seem like your scene.”
I don’t know if that’s a dig or a compliment. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to act like us talking is normal or not.
I nod toward the courts. “You played in the tournament?”
“Yeah, the singles competition just wrapped up. They’re starting doubles now.”
“It wasn’t, like, way too easy for you?”
Wren described herself as being “pretty good” at tennis in one of her letters to me. Meaning she could probably win Wimbledon.
She studies me. I guess I broke our unspoken rule: don’t discuss our past. We’re distant coworkers, at best, these days.
“Your compliments still need work,” she finally says.
I fight a smile. “Well, I’ve never actually—”
“Cap! You came!”
Macie appears out of nowhere, flinging her arms around me enthusiastically. I hug her back automatically, glancing at Wren as I do. She’s still smiling, but it appears thinner. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” Macie continues.
I feel guilty, letting Macie think I came here to see her play, but mentioning I totally forgot she’d told me about being in the tournament seems way worse.
I settle for hedging some. “I, uh … we stopped by to pick up Ricky. Thought I’d check it out while I was here.”
Macie nods, then glances at Wren. “Hey!” She hugs Wren next, pulling back to beam at her. “Congrats, champ! I tried to come over after you won, but you were totally mobbed.”
Well, I was right about it being too easy. She won.
When Wren commits to something, she goes all in. I feel a little sick with the realization that maybe that’s what she tried to do with us. Writing to Wren was separate from the rest of my subpar life, and I freaked out at the first unexpected collision.
My phone buzzes; Ricky is calling. I answer, and neither Wren nor Macie notices. They’re busy chatting with each other.
“Where are you, Cap?” Ricky asks. “We’re all at the car, waiting for ya.”
“Yeah. Uh, I’ll be—I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Hurry!” he says, then hangs up.
Macie watches me slip my phone back in my pocket. “You’ve got to go?” she guesses.
“Sort of,” I say awkwardly. “Gus tracked down Ricky, and there aren’t any parking spots in the lot with the tournament …”
“It’s fine,” Macie says. “I haven’t played since middle school, so this probably wasn’t my best shot at impressing you anyway.” She winks, and I tell my facial muscles to smile back. “I’ll text you later, let you know how it went.”
“Sounds good. Good luck.”
“Thank—oh, there’s Abby! Gotta go!” Macie jogs toward the bleachers.
I watch her braid swing back and forth until she disappears into the milling crowd, delaying looking at Wren. I’m surprised she’s still standing here. No doubt she has much more exciting things to do.
“You won the whole damn thing?” I confirm once we’re alone again.
“The singles tournament. Doubles has never been my thing.”
“Congratulations, Wren,” a woman says, passing by. “Give my best to your family.”
“Thanks. Will do,” she calls back. To me, lower, she says, “I know a shortcut to the parking lot.”
“Lead the way,” I say. My phone is buzzing in my pocket again.
“Great job, Wren,” an older man calls as we approach the patio. “Let Hanson and Josephine know how much we’re looking forward to the party on Friday.”
“I will,” Wren replies, cutting left.
The crowd is less congested farther from the tennis courts. We skirt the edge of the pool fence and walk along a line of parked golf carts.
“Watch your step,” she tells me as the trimmed grass transitions to mulch. “It’s just past—shit.”
I don’t have to ask her what’s wrong. I’m hit directly in the face by the spray of a sprinkler that suddenly popped up from the ground.
Another is aimed at my thigh, soaking half of my shorts.
The flower bed seems to wrap around the entire periphery of the main building, meaning there’s another hundred feet of sprinklers to navigate.
Wren’s laughing as she darts ahead, and there’s a reluctant grin on my face as I sprint after her, raising one arm in a pointless attempt to block the water.
I’m panting by the time we reach grass again. Wren looks barely exerted, despite playing tennis all morning, which is irritating and impressive.
“That”—I swipe an arm across my forehead like a windshield wiper, and water drips into my eyes—“was the worst fucking shortcut.”
“Sorry.” Wren doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic. Mostly amused.
I shake my head like a dog, sending some stray droplets her way. Wren doesn’t flinch or jump away, which is when I realize she’s as soaked as I am. Which is also when I notice the shorts and bra she’s wearing under her dress are entirely visible beneath the wet white fabric.
I do a shitty job of not staring.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before, Captain.”
I jerk my chin up, meeting her knowing gaze. Yeah, I have seen Wren naked before. But it’s not really a sight you get sick of.
I’m shrugging out of my gray T-shirt before I can analyze if it’s a good idea, tossing it to her.
Wren catches it, which I’m especially impressed by since her eyes are locked on my abs, not my throw.
“Nothing you haven’t seen before,” I remind her.
She doesn’t startle at being called out. Her gaze sweeps back up my chest, slowly, lingering like a physical touch.
I have to repeatedly remind my dick that nothing is going to happen. Not with Wren. Not now, not ever again.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” She lifts the damp, limp shirt.
“Wear it. It’s not see-through.”
Wren shrugs, then tugs my shirt on.
I swallow, hard, as the fabric falls around her thighs. A thin strip of her dress is still visible beneath the hem, but it mostly looks like she’s wearing my shirt with nothing under it, which is not a visual I needed.
We stare at each other, and suddenly, every second I spend around Wren Kensington seems like an increasingly dangerous idea.
“I’ve gotta go.” My phone is periodically buzzing again. At least it’s still functioning post-sprinklers.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I echo, then turn and jog toward the parking lot.
Wade’s sedan is easy to locate; it’s loitering in the same spot as where he dropped us off. I can see the back of Gus’s and Ricky’s heads in the rear seat, so I open the passenger door and climb in.
Wade glances over, eyebrows raised as high as possible as he takes in my wet hair and bare torso. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Long story,” I mutter.
It’s short though. I got lost—in Wren.