Chapter 2
Wren
Edie Montgomery. Nick’s ex.
The woman I should’ve never looked at twice, but did—when my brother brought her home for Christmas and I felt my stomach drop like I had ridden my bike over a steep hill way too fast. The kid who grew up with us, was a couple of years and grades younger than us… she had grown up. And she was gorgeous.
She’s going to show. I know it. The same way I know engines, or when a carb’s about to flood from just the sound. There’s a certainty that lives in my gut that started the first time I saw that Christmas photo Nick sent.
A year of pretending I wasn’t picturing her when I fixed bikes and a year of trying not to see her in the corner of every crowded room, in every woman with a too-kind smile.
I’ve been wanting my brother’s girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, now. Thank God.
The bell above Mike’s door chimes at 10:02, and there she is—rain drenching her hair and cheeks pink from the cold.
Jeans that hug too well… shit, a red sweater that shouldn’t be legal this close to Christmas.
She’s everything I’ve wanted to see come walking through that door today.
The exact princess you hope rings a rusty bell and makes eye contact with a surly waitress who has huffed more sea lion shit than cinnamon-scented holiday candles.
Edie spots me immediately, and the smile that touches her lips punches me in the face.
“You came.”
“You sound surprised.” She slides into the booth across from me, rain still shining in her curls. Vanilla drifts across the table.
“Not surprised,” I say. “Grateful.” I signal for another cup. “Figured you might talk yourself out of it.”
“I tried.” Her voice has that hitch I noticed two years ago, the kind that betrays emotion she doesn’t want to show. “Made a whole list of reasons this is a terrible idea.”
“How long was the list?”
“Three pages. All mental, of course.”
“Damn. Yet here you are.”
“Here I am.” Her fingers find the sugar dispenser, fidgeting. “Though I’m not sure why.”
Marcy, the waitress, drops off a mug and the caramel syrup without being asked.
Small-town nosiness stipulates that everyone knows everyone else’s business.
Edie adds sugar until it’s a dessert in a cup, and I can’t stop watching her.
The focus. The small, pleased sound she makes after the first sip.
“What?” she asks, catching me staring.
“Nick always gave you shit about how you took your coffee, didn’t he?”
Her cheeks are redder, despite being in the warmth. “Said it was childish.”
“Nick’s an idiot who drinks overpriced bitter water and calls it sophisticated.” I lean back. “Besides, I like sweet things.”
She laughs. “Is that your move? Coffee shop double entendres?”
“I don’t have moves,” I say. “Just intentions.”
Her gaze flicks up, curious. “And what exactly are your intentions?”
“To drink coffee with the most beautiful woman in this diner,” I say. “Maybe convince her to try Mike’s terrible pie. See if I can make her laugh hard enough to forget my last name.”
“That’s all?”
“For now.” I take a slow sip. “The rest might send you back to your three-page list.”
Her laugh breaks something open inside me. It’s too genuine. Something that’s lacking even in this town these days.
“You’re nothing like Nick,” she says.
“Thank God.” The words come out rougher than I mean. “Sorry. Long history.”
She studies me. “Twenty years of it?”
“Twenty-eight.” I run a hand through my hair. “He’s been competing with me since we could walk. Always had to have the better everything. Better grades, better sports equipment, better car…” I snort. “Better girl.”
Her eyes sharpen at that, but she doesn’t call me out on it. Instead, she says, “That must be exhausting.”
“For him.”
“You stopped playing the game?”
“College. When I realized I didn’t care if he won.”
“Do you really think he won?”
Instead of answering, I signal Marcy again. “Two slices of apple pie, please. A la mode.”
“I didn’t agree to pie.”
“Trust me.”
When it arrives, she takes one bite and groans. “Oh, my God. This is awful.” Another bite. “Why is it so good?”
Probably not the best idea to tell her that more than one woman has said that about me. “Mike burns the crust just enough to make it crunch, uses too much cinnamon, and the apples are always a little raw. It shouldn’t work. Must be the fact it’s still homemade.”
She looks down, hiding her smile. We eat in silence for a moment—only the rain against the glass and the hiss of the espresso machine between us.
Oh, never mind. Someone’s come in and ordered some kind of coffee that requires that GRIND that never ends until you’ve lost half your teeth from smashing them against each other. Like homebrew TMJ.
It doesn’t stop me from conversing with the prettiest girl I know.
She asks about my bikes, and I tell her. About the pre-law path that nearly killed me, about fixing a busted Mazda and realizing I’d never go back, even if Nick himself gave me a million bucks he thinks he’s going to have someday, the wily bastard.
“You must’ve scared your family,” she says, half-teasing. “Your Dad’s a lawyer, right?”
“My father didn’t speak to me for months. Mom cried. Nick said I was wasting my potential.” I meet her gaze. “But it’s the happiest I’ve ever been.”
She tilts her head. “Are you happy now?”
“Closer,” I admit. “Getting there.”
Her eyes linger on me like she’s trying to read what I’ve put into the subtext of a chapter book page. I know, I know. She’s a kindergarten teacher… but I know that look. My high school English teacher did the same thing.
“What about you?” I ask. “Always wanted to teach?”
“Always. Even when I was little, I’d line up my stuffed animals and teach them the alphabet.
” She laughs, one hand smacking the table as the other holds on to her fork.
“Nick said it was cute at first. You know, the kind of thing that everyone can agree is great for society. Like donating to animal shelters or funding cancer research. Later, he called it my ‘little job.’”
“Asshole.”
“Yeah.” She picks at the crust. “He wanted me to be… shinier. Someone he could show off. Wanted me to go back to school myself to get more credentials for ‘higher aspirations.’” She sticks her fingers into scare quotes to drive the point home.
“‘My girlfriend teaches kindergarten’ doesn’t sound as impressive as ‘my girlfriend lectures at the university,’ huh?”
“Exactly.” She sighs. “He was always trying to make me more. But I liked who I was.”
“You should,” I say. “You don’t need upgrading. You’ve gotta follow your dreams and do what’s right for your life.”
The way she looks at me… as if I’m touching on a sore spot. Well, she’s right. I intend on no sore spot poking. Should I have an apology locked and loaded in my chamber?
“I’m not perfect,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “And that’s a good thing. Perfection is impossible. And also boring.”
Something twists inside of me. I shouldn’t say it, but I reach across the table and take her hand. Her skin is warm from the coffee cup and soft against my calloused fingers.
“You don’t even know me,” she hisses.
“I know enough.”
“Like what?”
“That you volunteer at the animal shelter, you buy coffee for the guy outside the cold Safeway every week, and that you sing in your car when you think no one’s watching.”
Her eyes widen. “How—”
“Small town,” I say. “And I pay attention.”
“What’s the ‘cold’ Safeway, exactly?”
“Uh, the one by the river.”
“Which river?”
“They’re both by rivers?”
“Do you not get out to North Bend much?”
“I only practically lived in North Be…” I cut myself off. This is ridiculous. I turn her hand over, tracing her palm. “I know Nick tried to make you someone you’re not, but you were smart enough to back away. That’s not who you are.”
“Who am I, then?”
“You’re the woman who wore a gold dress to Christmas dinner even though he hated it. Who helped my mom without being asked. You came here today, even though every sensible thought in your head told you not to.”
She doesn’t pull away. The rain intensifies outside, splatting against the glass.
“Wren…” she says, my name trembling on her lips like she’s never said it before.
“Yeah?”
“This feels like trouble.”
I smile. “The good kind, though.”
Her mouth curves, reluctant. “I don’t know yet.”
“You will.”
I want to kiss her—God, I want to. But I don’t move. Not yet. The wanting is its own kind of worship, and I want to savor it.
Outside, the rain turns to fog, the streetlights blurring into gold smudges. Inside, it’s just us, the pie cooling between us as the ice cream melts, and a silence growing larger the longer I let it go on. But I can’t always have the last word, now can I?
She watches our joined hands, thumb grazing the ridge of my knuckles. “What else is on your list?” she asks. “Those other… intentions you mentioned?”
“You really want to know?”
Edie hesitates, then nods. “Yes.”
I lean closer across the small table, lowering my voice so someone like Marcy, who is standing behind the counter, waiting for something to happen, can’t hear.
“I want to take you to my garage,” I say. “Show you the Triumph I’ve been rebuilding to keep from thinking about you. I want to see you standing there with grease on your fingertips, pretending you don’t notice the way I’m looking at you.”
“And then?”
“Then I want to take you upstairs,” I admit. “Lay you out on my bed. Spend hours learning every sound you make and every way you say my name.”
The color rises in her cheeks. “Wren…”
“I want to make you forget what it felt like to be tolerated instead of wanted.” I lift her hand, pressing my lips to her palm. Her skin tastes… good. God damnit, she tastes great. Way better than this pie. “I want to keep you warm, Edie. That’s all.”
Her lashes flutter. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.” I release her hand, even though it feels wrong to stop touching her. “But I’ll settle for showing you my garage. For now.”