Chapter 1
Chapter One
WREN MARIE BAXTER
Three months earlier
A cautious, considerate woman about
to veer seriously off course…
C ontext.
Sometimes it isn’t a big deal.
Example: You open a gallon of milk, and it smells like ass.
Perhaps memories of all the spoiled milk you’ve encountered before flash through your head. Perhaps you have theories as to how the milk came to spoil—your little sister left the fridge open a crack overnight or your boyfriend didn’t check the expiration date when he went shopping last week—but in the end, it doesn’t really matter.
The milk is nasty and down the drain it must go.
No context required. Anyone with a nose knows that’s the logical next step.
Now, if you were to smell the milk, run outside to fetch a machete from the shed, and run back inside screaming “Vengeance will be mine!”
Well…some context might be required.
That’s where I am right now. In the middle of a spoiled milk and machete moment, losing my cool in a way that probably seems ridiculous considering Barrett McGuire is doing his best to rescue me from a forced dance encounter with Marvin the Not Marvelous.
Marvin is a stone-cold oddball who’s had a crush on me since kindergarten. In sixth grade, he gifted me a basket of rocks for Valentine’s Day because it was “what a penguin does when trying to woo a mate.” A few years later, he crept into the girls’ locker room during my gym class and stole the hair from my brush. When he was caught and hauled into the principal’s office, he confessed he had plans to make a voodoo doll that he would use to make me fall in love with him.
Now that we’re adults, he shows his affection mostly in loud shouted greetings across the town square and song dedications on the “Friday is for Lovers” show on the local radio station.
It’s discomforting, that’s for sure. A girl can only have “I Want it That Way” by the Backstreet Boys dedicated to her so many times before it starts to feel ominous—What is “that” way? Why does he want it so much, but simultaneously never want her to say that she wants it that way? Was that an accident in the lyrics? Yet another case of the double standard for men and women in love, romance, and pop music? A hazard of the song being written by Swedes, who seem to be an enigmatic people? Will this mystery ever be solved?—but oddly enough, Marvin isn’t the part of this that requires context.
Marvin is just Marvin.
No, he’s never physically lifted me off my feet or hauled me out onto a crowded dance floor before, but I’ve never seen him this drunk, either. I’m not afraid for my safety, however. In all the years I’ve known him, Marvin has always respected my boundaries.
When I told him I didn’t want to be his penguin mate, he was disappointed, but respectful. When I said making a voodoo doll stuffed with my hair was creepy and would be grounds for immediate social media unfriending if he tried it again, he apologized and vowed to shun witchcraft in matters of the heart.
I’m sure, if I’d had the opportunity to ask him to put me down, he would have done so.
But before I can get more out than, “Geez, Marvin, you scared the crap out of me,” Barrett is on top of us.
Barrett, who I’ve been in love with for nearly as long as Marvin has been in love with me. Barrett, who still thinks of me as a little kid in need of his protection, even though I’m thirty years old and the senior nurse at his OB-GYN practice, where I’ve worked for six years.
Barrett, who always seems to know just how to cut me to the quick, without even trying.
I’m sure he doesn’t mean to hurt my feelings when he grabs Marvin’s arm and shouts in an authoritative voice, “Put her down, Marvin. Wren doesn’t dance. And even if she did, you’re supposed to ask first. She’s a person, not a sack of fucking potatoes.”
“Oh, dude, I’m sorry,” Marvin says, glancing down at where I’m still a captive in his arms, my feet dangling several inches off the floor. Marvin is barely five seven, but even in my dancing heels, I’m the shortest woman in the honky-tonk. “I didn’t know that.”
“You didn’t know what?” I ask, pushing at his chest.
“That you didn’t dance,” Marvin says, looking genuinely upset. “Why don’t you dance? Dancing’s the best.”
I push at his chest again, huffing as I add in a louder voice, “Will you put me down, please?”
“Right, sorry,” Marvin says again as he sets me free.
I scoot back several steps, smoothing my skirt.
“Why come to Bubba Jump’s if you don’t dance?” Marvin continues, clearly nonplussed. “It’s like…all there is to do here. They don’t even have darts.”
“I do dance,” I say, my cheeks heating as I glance between Marvin and Barrett, who’s glaring at me down his perfect nose, like this is somehow my fault. “I dance all the time, Barrett. And I was dancing when you grabbed me, Marvin.”
Marvin snorts. “Oh yeah, you were. I forgot. I’ve been drinking.” A hopeful look brightens his bleary eyes. “So, you do want to dance then?”
Before I can respond with a firm “no, I do not, I want to go back to my friends,” Barrett cuts in, “If you dance, why are you always by the cake at weddings?”
“I’m not always by the cake,” I shoot back.
“Yes, you are. Or by the cheese plate. Not that I’m judging, I’ve just never seen you on the dance floor.”
“That’s not true.” I prop my hands on my hips. “I danced all night at Melissa’s wedding. I did the Electric Slide, YMCA, and the Macarena.” I try to hold back the next part, but it comes out anyway. “I even slow-danced. With you!”
“You did?” Barrett’s forehead wrinkles and his brows pinch above his blue eyes. Those whip-smart, dreamy eyes I gazed into while we danced at that wedding, praying I’d see a spark of the same attraction I’ve felt since I was twelve.
But he’d looked at me the way he always does, like I’m still a scared little girl who needs someone to sit with her until the other girls at the sleepover are done watching horror movies.
Like I’m sweet and likeable, but at least a little bit ridiculous.
It is ridiculous to be scared of a doll that murders people with a knife.
It is not ridiculous to expect a man you’ve been friends with for most of your life to remember that you like to dance. And that he did, in fact, dance with you himself on more than one occasion.
“I’m not forgettable or invisible,” I say, the words out before I consciously decide to speak them. I don’t decide to poke Barrett in the chest with my finger, either, but suddenly I’m doing that, too. “I’m not the butt of the joke or a kid in need of your protection.”
“You would rather I let Marvin hump your leg without intervening?” Barrett asks, still glaring at me like I’m the one who’s out of line.
“I wasn’t going to hump her leg,” Marvin says.
“Shut up, Marvin,” I say, jabbing my finger in the general direction of his face for a beat before returning it to Barrett’s stupidly sculpted chest.
A man who spends most of his time in a doctor’s office shouldn’t have a body like his. It isn’t fair or kind to those of us who would like to stop lusting over him, and I’ve had enough whiskey to be pissed about that, too.
“It’s fine to intervene,” I rush on, “but there’s a way to do that without insulting the person you’re trying to help.”
“How did I insult you?” Barrett shakes his head, as if he truly has no idea what I’m talking about.
“Well, if you ask me,” Marvin says. “I think it was when you said that you?—”
“Shut up, Marvin,” Barrett barks, before adding in a softer voice. “I’m not going to argue with a drunk woman. We can discuss this on Monday when you’re sober. Or better yet, we can forget this discussion entirely. I’m sure that will be less embarrassing for everyone.”
“Embarrassing?” I squeak, so angry it feels like my head is about to explode. “I have nothing to be embarrassed about. Unlike you, you arrogant, entitled, smug jerkface poo-poo head!”
Barrett takes a step back, his eyes widening.
He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head that speaks entirely in Pig Latin, but I don’t let it throw me. I said what I said, and I meant it—though I wish I’d used harsher language than “jerkface poo-poo head.” But years of conditioning myself not to curse in front of patients or their small children is hard to break, nearly as hard as the voice in my head that insists that I can’t flip Barrett off and storm away without saying goodbye.
But flip him off and storm, I do.
I dimly remember telling Tatum that I’m leaving the club and being desperately envious of the way Drew, Barrett’s brother, is looking at her—like she’s the answer to all his prayers as well as a fully grown woman worthy of his consideration and respect.
And then I’m outside in the parking lot, stomping toward my SUV as fast as I can in my three-inch boots. I’m nearly five four in heels, but still feel like an Oompa-Loompa compared to Barrett. He’s over six feet tall, with the long legs that come with it.
Which means he catches up with me long before I reach my vehicle.
“Give me your keys,” he demands, holding out a bossy hand.
Even his hand is bossy! And it sends my blood pressure spiking all over again.
“No,” I snap, clutching my purse tighter to my side. “I’m fine to drive. I only had one and a half whiskey sours.”
“And you’re the size of a large rabbit,” he says. “Your blood alcohol level is probably well over the legal limit.”
I stop, turning to glare up at him as I hiss, “I am way bigger than a rabbit. Take that back.”
“I said a large rabbit,” he says.
“Bigger than any rabbit,” I insist. “I’m a full-grown woman, not a woodland creature of any kind. So, take it back.”
He stands up straighter, increasing the difference in our heights until he’s literally towering over me. “I’m not going to argue with a drunk person. I’m going to take you home and ensure you get safely inside without being attacked by a feral turkey. That’s how this evening is going to proceed.”
“Oh, is it?” I ask, allowing sarcasm into my tone for the first time in my entire relationship with this man. “Is that how it’s going to proceed? Must be nice to be so omnipotent that you can tell the future. Tell me, Mr. God-Like All-Knowing Human, what am I going to say next?”
He exhales a weary sigh, as if I’m literally the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.
“I’ll help you out,” I continue, kicking the mockery into full gear. “I’ll even give you a multiple-choice list to make it easier for you. Am I—A. Going to be a good little girl and let you drive me home. B. Kick you in the shins and call for the club security to help me fight off an intruder. Or C. Knee you in the balls and make a run for my SUV while you’re doubled over in pain?”
“You wouldn’t. You’re not a violent person,” he says, but I notice his hand shifts a little closer to his crotch, just in case.
I step in, until there’s only a few inches between us and tip my head back. Holding his gaze, I whisper, “You didn’t think I danced, either. And I assure you, I do. In fact, I’m an excellent dancer.”
And then, I do something truly out of character, and I can’t say why.
Maybe it’s the whiskey.
Maybe it’s the rage.
Maybe it’s the context.
Maybe I’m finally so tired of Barrett looking right through me that I’m willing to step way out of my comfort zone to prove that I’m right and he’s wrong.
All I know for sure is that one second, I’m staring Barrett down in the chilly parking lot. The next, I’m lifting my arms over my head and dancing like nobody’s watching to the music drifting from inside the honky-tonk.
I dance like it’s my last dance, my last chance to prove to this man I adore (in spite of his many faults) that he ought to adore me, too. Or, at the very least, he should open his eyes and see who I really am before he decides I’m unworthy of his time and attention.
I sway my hips and toss my hair. I spin and dip and run my hands seductively down my sides, skimming the velvet of my scandalously short dancing dress.
I didn’t dress to impress or to fit in at the office tonight. I dressed to seduce, hoping I might finally meet a guy who would help me break this hold Barrett has on me, once and for all.
Instead, I’m here with Mr. Oblivious himself, doing my best “Private Dancer” impression.
“Stop,” he grunts after a few seconds, clearly uncomfortable.
“Never,” I shoot back, with a full body swivel that would make my Cardio Pump teacher proud—even though I can never do the push-ups at the end of class. “I’m a maniac on the floor.”
“I’m serious,” he grits out. “Stop.”
“Make me,” I toss over my shoulder as I do something close enough to twerking that I know I’m going to regret it tomorrow.
I don’t know exactly what I expect to happen. I’m not sure I’ve thought that far ahead. I may, in fact, be ever-so-slightly buzzed—though not too impaired to drive—and making a fool of myself.
One thing’s for certain, I don’t expect Barrett to wrap an arm around my waist, haul me against him, and kiss me.
That was absolutely nowhere on my Night Out Bingo card.