Chapter 1 #2
I should say no. She’s my ex’s sister. This violates every reasonable boundary. But standing here in the Christmas tree lot, with the lights twinkling overhead and this beautiful woman looking at me like I’m something special, I can’t remember why those boundaries matter.
“Just coffee?” I ask.
“Just coffee. Though fair warning, I might try to convince you to try Mike’s pie. It’s terrible in the best way.”
“Like their coffee?”
“Exactly.” Her grin is infectious. “So is that a yes?”
“It’s a maybe.”
“I’ll take a maybe.” She pushes off my car, stepping back. “Ten o’clock tomorrow. I’ll be there, either way. The corner booth with the ripped vinyl that looks like Elvis’s hair.”
“You have a regular booth at Mike’s?”
“I have a regular everything at Mike’s. Drives Nick crazy, which is part of the appeal.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “You two really don’t get along, do you?”
“We get along fine as long as we stay in our separate worlds. He’s got his law office and political ambitions. I’ve got my garage and motorcycles.”
“Your garage?”
“Custom bikes, repairs, restoration. Wren’s Customs, over on Virginia Avenue.”
“The place with the vintage Indian in the window?”
Her eyes light up. “You know bikes?”
“I know they’re pretty to look at. That Indian is gorgeous.”
“’47 Chief. Restored her myself.” Pride flickers in her voice. “You should come by sometime. I’ll show you around.”
“Is that another maybe situation?”
“Everything with you feels like a maybe situation,” she says, smiling faintly. “Like maybe this is a terrible idea, but maybe it’s not. Maybe you’ll show up tomorrow, maybe you won’t. Maybe we’re both thinking about things we shouldn’t be thinking about.”
“And what are you thinking about?”
She steps closer, close enough for me to see the faint smudge of grease on her jaw, the flecks of rain clinging to her eyelashes. Her voice drops to a husky whisper. “Things that would make you run if you were smart.”
“Maybe I’m not smart.”
“Or maybe you’re tired of playing it safe.” She’s close enough now that I can smell her—cedar perfume blending beautifully with floral shampoo. Her gaze drops to my mouth. “You’re biting your lip again.”
I release it, not even aware I’d been doing it.
“You do that when you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t.” Her lips hover near my ear, voice soft and rough at once. “Ten o’clock tomorrow, angel. Corner booth at Mike’s.”
“Still a maybe.”
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the heat there makes me forget how to breathe. “No, it’s not.”
The confidence in those three words should annoy me. Instead, I am about to giggle.
She backs toward her truck with that same effortless swagger. “Wear something you can ride a motorcycle in.”
“Who says I’m getting on your bike?”
She grins and opens her truck door. “Ten o’clock. Don’t be late.”
Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the fog-damp parking lot with weak knees.
This is such a bad idea. Meeting her tomorrow would be complicated and messy. Nick would be furious if he found out. The rational part of my brain is listing all the reasons to forget this happened.
But the rest of me is already planning what to wear tomorrow. Because Wren—Wren—looked at me like I was worth noticing. Worth remembering. Worth pursuing even though it goes against every bit of conventional wisdom.
I drive home carefully, the tree occasionally shifting on my roof. When I pull into my apartment complex, my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
“Jake gave me your number. Hope that’s okay. Just wanted to make sure you made it home safe with the tree. – Wren”
I stare at the message for a full minute. “Made it fine. Tree is still attached.”
Three dots appear immediately. “Good. Sleep well, Edie. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Maybe you will.”
“I’ll take another maybe. Goodnight, angel.”
The endearment makes my heart flutter. Nick never called me anything but Edie—said pet names were juvenile and could be used against us by the media.
(To which I always wanted to retort, “What media? Who do you think you are?”) But “angel” in Wren’s low, feminine rasp feels like trouble wrapped up in a neat Christmas bow.
I wrestle the tree off my car and into my apartment, setting it up in the corner for now.
It’s perfect, exactly the right size and shape, as Wren predicted.
As I practice stringing lights around its branches, I think about dark hair and tattoos, about the careful way she secured the tree to my car, about the possibility of coffee tomorrow.
My phone buzzes again. A photo this time—the corner booth at Mike’s Diner, torn Elvis-shaped vinyl visible. The caption reads: “Reserved for 10 AM. Your maybe plus my hope equals...”
I laugh, typing back, “That’s not how math works.”
“Good thing I’m better with my hands than with numbers.”
The implication makes me warm all over. “Goodnight, Wren.”
“Sweet dreams, angel.”
I put my phone down and focus on decorating the tree, but my mind keeps wandering to tomorrow.
To the possibility of coffee and terrible pie.
To blue eyes that see too much. To a woman who is everything her brother wasn’t…
rough where Nick was polished, honest where he was calculated, interested where he was indifferent.
By the time I place the star on top of the tree, I’ve made my decision. Tomorrow at ten, I’ll be at Mike’s Diner.
I fall asleep thinking about motorcycles and callused hands. Corner booths and second cups of coffee where all bets are off. A woman who notices things, who pays attention, who thinks too much is exactly right.
…And my eyes snap open, because how the hell am I going to get that tree back on my car and into my classroom?
Cool. A problem for the Edie of tomorrow!