Chapter 2
Chapter Two
BARRETT
I ’ve lost my mind. Clearly.
But she lost hers first. If she hadn’t, I would never have seen her do that bouncing thing she did with her tight little bottom or be experiencing all the completely inappropriate feelings I’m experiencing right now.
I don’t look at Wren’s backside.
Ever.
Wren is my employee, my little sister’s childhood friend, and a sweet, slightly skittish person who’s been on my “Needs Protection” list for as long as I can remember. And not just because she’s not much bigger than she was at twelve.
Wren is one of those people who never quite fits in. She’s too nerdy for the “cool” nurses at the practice and too intelligent for the vapid ones. She’s a homebody who seems both socially delayed and old before her time, spending most of her leisure hours hunched over her jewelry-making supplies. She’s the only one of my sister’s friends who doesn’t have a boyfriend, husband, or children.
Not that I’ve paid much attention, but I don’t think she’s been on a date in years. Several of them. On the rare occasions I’ve thought about Wren’s relationship status, I’ve assumed she would age into being an old maid, like her mother, albeit without the two kids from a failed marriage to raise all on her own.
With her red-framed glasses, oversized scrubs, and lack of a sex vibe, such an eventuality seemed like a forgone conclusion.
Then she stormed out of the club in that tiny dress, told me off, and started twerking at me, and the world turned upside down.
And now, I’m kissing her, and it’s the best kiss I can remember. Her arms are twined around my neck, her phenomenal ass is in my hands, and she’s nipping at my lips with her teeth in between seductive sweeps of her tongue against mine.
She’s fire, heat flooding my veins, and I’m…confused.
I’m also on the verge of getting a hard-on, and there’s no way she won’t feel it through the thin fabric of her dress. Which means I have to move away from the flame. Now.
I put Wren down so quickly that she stumbles in her high heeled boots. I reach a hand out to steady her, but she slaps it away with a huff. “What the heck was that?”
“What the heck was what?” I ask, fighting to keep my voice even and my cock under control. I can’t get a hard-on in front of an employee, let alone because of an employee. That’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.
Not really. There’s nothing in the HR handbook expressly forbidding doctor/nurse relationships. And you aren’t at work right now…
Ignoring the inane inner voice, I continue, “It seemed like the best way to convince you to let me drive you home.”
She blinks, gives a shake of her head, then blinks again. “Kissing me?”
“Yes,” I say, fighting to look bored as I add, “The hypothesis was—if you were drunk enough to kiss me back, something you would never do when sober, then it follows that you are, in fact, intoxicated, and a danger to yourself and others if allowed to operate a motor vehicle.”
“The hypothesis,” she mutters, her brow furrowing and what looks like disappointment flickering in her gaze. “Kissing me was part of a scientific experiment?”
“Indeed.” I draw my shoulders back. “And I’d say the results are conclusive.” I hold out my hand, palm up. “Keys.”
She pulls in a deep breath, as if she’s gearing up to let me have it all over again, but after a beat, she exhales, deflating before my eyes. All the fire goes out of her as she reaches into her purse, pulls out her keys, and dumps them into my hand. “Fine. Drive me home. At least that way I won’t have to risk getting pecked in the backside by the other asshole in my life. Since Kyle’s afraid of you and all.”
Ignoring the jab, I say, “Have you considered naming the turkey may have been a mistake? It’s easier to put down animals without names.”
She narrows her eyes but doesn’t respond.
After a long beat, I motion toward where her SUV is parked a few spaces down. “Fine. Kyle it is and Kyle he’ll stay. After you.”
She turns and walks stiffly toward the vehicle. I pop the lock and move around to the passenger’s side to open her door, but when I follow behind her, she turns back to me, her finger aimed at my chest again. “No. You’re not opening the door for me. I don’t need false chivalry in my life, thank you.”
“It wouldn’t be false. I always open the door when I’m with a woman. You know that. I’ve opened the door for you at least a dozen times.” I pause, searching my memory bank. “I must have. I know we’ve driven places together before.”
Fresh sadness or disappointment or whatever it is that filled her gaze before fills it again. “But you don’t remember. You don’t remember opening my door or where we were driving together or what we talked about on the way.”
Bristling I say, “No, but neither do you. It’s impossible to remember every piece of small talk you’ve ever shared with a person. Especially a person you talk to almost every day.”
“Exactly,” she says. “You talk to me almost every day, but you don’t know me at all.”
I snort. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Say that word one more time tonight, and I’m going to run into the woods, howl at the moon, and hope a wolf pack swings by to adopt me,” she says, an intensity in the words that makes me reluctant to test her.
“All right. Fine, just…get in. I’ll take you home, walk you to your door, and we can forget this night ever happened.”
She gets in, muttering beneath her breath as I circle around to the driver’s side. She continues to mutter as I pull out of the parking lot and aim the SUV toward her cottage on the edge of town.
Thankfully, it’s the edge closest to Bubba Jump’s. A fifteen-minute car ride is going to be plenty for me in her current mood.
“So, what else haven’t you noticed?” she asks.
“That’s a trick question if I’ve ever heard one,” I say, not about to fall into a female conversational snare at this late hour. I’ve been up since before dawn, delivering a baby, attending to patients, and stalking her stupid turkey. All I want right now is a shower, my pajamas, and maybe a podcast on rare congenital diseases in my ears to keep my mind off that kiss and Wren’s unexpectedly perfect ass.
“Okay, then I’ll make it easier for you,” she says, crossing her legs, drawing my attention to the way her skirt slides up her thighs.
That’s another thing I’ve never noticed—that Wren’s thighs are curvy in all the right places and look gorgeous in see-through black hose.
“What’s my go-to lunch food, pizza or salad?” she continues. “That ought to be easy enough. I eat the same thing almost every day.”
“Salad,” I say with as much authority as I can muster, considering I literally have zero memories of watching Wren eat.
I must have seen her with her lunch hundreds of times—I go into the breakroom to grab whatever I’ve brought from home from the fridge almost every day while the nurses are eating—but my mental screen is blank.
But Wren is a healthy person. I feel confident salad is the correct answer.
She makes a loud honking noise, followed by, “Wrong. I eat vegetarian sushi for lunch. Every day except Fridays, when the girls and I get takeout from a restaurant in town as a special treat.”
I scowl. “That isn’t fair. You cheated.”
“I didn’t cheat. I proved a point. You don’t know me. At all.”
“That isn’t true,” I say. “Just because I don’t pay attention to all the senseless minutia doesn’t mean I don’t know the important things.”
She shifts in her seat, fixing her full attention on my face. “Okay. Then tell me something important about me. Something you have paid attention to.”
“You like making jewelry, and you’re very good at it,” I say, grateful to see the turn onto Wren’s road up ahead. Five more minutes. If I can make it five more minutes with drunk and disorderly Wren without saying the wrong thing, we can put this strange night behind us and start fresh on Monday.
I know Wren, the real Wren, and she hates conflict. If only I can escape the SUV without saying something that will drive a permanent wedge between me and my best nurse, she’ll be happy to pretend this never happened.
“That doesn’t count,” she shoots back. “You bought jewelry from me for your family for Christmas, and you always remember things when there’s money involved. Your fiscally responsible gene demands it. Give me something else.”
“All right,” I say, hating that she’s right.
She clearly knows me, but I know her, too. I do…I just can’t think of anything to prove it at the moment.
“I’m waiting.” She cocks her head.
“I’m thinking.” I push down harder on the gas, willing to risk a ticket in the name of getting her home ASAP. “I had an early morning. I’m tired.”
“So am I. I’ve barely slept at all this week. I’ve been too stressed about that stupid turkey finding a way to squeeze through the old dog door out back and peck my eyes out while my guard is down,” she says. “But I can still remember that you love soccer, hate football, and can’t resist a game of pick-up hockey on the lake once it’s frozen over. I know that you eat quinoa topped with grilled vegetables for lunch almost every day and sometimes sneak in lemon bars you believe you keep cleverly hidden in the pantry above the tea bags. But the other nurses and I all know that they’re there and sometimes we steal tiny pieces because they’re really tasty and you should tell us where you get them.”
“I’m not hiding them,” I lie. “That just seemed like a good place to store lemon bars. Out of the way. Off the counter where all the cups are always drying.”
“I know that you secretly love stand-up comedy,” she continues, clearly unimpressed by my excuse. “You’re also a surprisingly excellent singer—considering most of your family is tone deaf—and you don’t own a single pair of white socks.”
My lips part in a retort that I absolutely do own white socks, but suddenly I’m not sure. I don’t pay attention to my socks. I just…put them on every morning.
Perhaps I don’t pay attention to my head nurse, either?
I dismiss the thought almost as soon as it forms. I don’t know these silly kinds of things about Wren, but that’s because I’m not that kind of person. I’m a big picture man. “You see details. I see patterns,” I say, relieved to also see the porch light on Wren’s house up ahead.
“Like the pattern that I eat vegetable sushi routinely for lunch?” she challenges.
I tip my head, giving her the point. “That escaped my attention, but I know that you enjoy time at home over evenings with large groups of people. I know that you don’t make friends easily, but that when you do, you’re fiercely loyal. And I know you’d do anything for your family, especially Starling, and that you’ve always been more like a mom to her than a big sister.”
“That’s because she’s so much younger,” she mumbles, some of the intensity fading from her tone. “And Mom was working two jobs after Dad left.”
“I know.” I park the SUV and scan the area for the elusive bird that had me crouched in her bushes half the night. When I see nothing but a few old prints in the snow, I shut off the engine. “Looks like the coast is clear, but I’ll walk you to the door. Just in case.”
“I’m fine, thanks. I can walk myself,” she mumbles, grabbing the keys from the cupholder and slamming the door behind her before I can respond.
But instead of starting for the front door, she walks toward the shed in the light of the SUV’s headlights. They reflect off her long, loose hair, making it shine. I’ve never realized how beautiful her hair is before, like a glossy sheet of dark water spilling over her shoulders.
I blame her hair for the fact that I don’t realize she’s pulled a gun out of the shed until she’s locked the door and turned back to the SUV, lifting her hand against the glare of the headlights in her eyes. Hastily shutting them off, I exit the vehicle and start toward her.
Reaching for the shotgun, I say, “Here, let me take that for you.”
“No, I need it,” she says, clinging to the barrel. “For tomorrow morning. Kyle’s afraid of you, so he’s hiding out now, but he’ll be back to wreak havoc on my Saturday morning.”
“You shouldn’t be handling a gun when you’re intoxicated, either,” I remind her.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not drunk, Barrett. I swear. Just let me go inside and forget tonight ever happened.”
As much as I would like the same, my conscience demands I ensure Wren is safe before I leave. “Let me carry the gun in. Then I’ll leave. I promise,” I say, adding almost as an afterthought, “Though you should probably spend some time at the shooting range if you’re going to be armed as often as you are. If you do decide you’re ready to put this turkey down, you’ll want to be sure you hit what you’re aiming for.”
She looks up at me for a long beat before repeating, “Shooting range,” in a deadpan voice.
“Yes,” I say, sensing I’ve stepped in it again, but not sure how. “There’s one north of town. Not far from the old quarry. I could show you sometime. If you want. I go out there before deer season every year.”
“I also take part in deer season,” Wren says, “and have every year since my daddy taught me how to hunt when I was five. It’s the only thing he ever actually enjoyed doing with me, so I never missed a morning out. No matter how tired I was or how cold it was outside.” She thumbs the safety off on the rifle, sending a shiver of unease down my spine. “I moved beyond the need for target practice a couple of decades ago. This is going in the middle of the “O” in Home Fires Estates. Down at the intersection. By the streetlight.”
Before my lips can part to warn her that it’s awfully late to be shooting off a firearm, the rifle is poised at her shoulder, and she’s fired a single shot. She squints and nods before arching a brow in my direction.
I glance over my shoulder, my distance vision just good enough to make out the bullet hole in the wooden sign, dead center in the middle of the “O.”
By the time I turn back, Wren is halfway up the walk to her front door.
I follow, offering a heartfelt, “I’m sorry, Wren,” to her back.
“I took off two days to go deer hunting last year,” she says as she sorts through her keys in the glow of the front porch light. “It’s just more evidence that as far as you’re concerned, I might as well be invisible.”
“That’s not true,” I say, though I’m starting to wonder.
How could all these facts about a woman I value as much as I value Wren have escaped my attention for so long?
As soon as the thought is through my head, an answer presents itself.
Under normal circumstances, however, I’d never share said answer with anyone else. But tonight, is different. Wren is different. I’ve hurt her and if revealing my vulnerable underbelly can make that better, I have to try.
“I haven’t been myself the past few years,” I say as she opens the door and steps inside. “Since the divorce.”
Setting the rifle in an umbrella stand in the corner, she turns back to me, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’ve known you for a long time, Barrett. Way before you and Lane were married or divorced.”
“But you only started working for me six years ago. “Before then, I only knew you as Melissa’s friend, and I left for college before you two were out of middle school. I didn’t have the time or opportunity to learn who you were back then, and Lane changed everything. At first, I was too infatuated with her to pay attention to anything else.”
I hesitate, not wanting to confess the rest of it, but if it might banish the disappointment from Wren’s face, I have to try. “Then, I was too busy trying, and failing, to make her happy and learning to live with the fact that maybe I’m not the type of man who can forge a successful romantic partnership.”
Wren tilts her head to one side, her expression softening. “Lane was one woman, Barrett.”
“One woman who knew me better than anyone else,” I say. “And who wasn’t impressed with what she uncovered.”
“That’s not true. You two just had nothing in common. Everything she loved, you hated, and vice versa. Anyone who knew you both could have told you making a relationship work was going to be an uphill climb.” She shrugs. “But you gave it your best shot and loved her as best you could. There’s nothing to be ashamed of about that. And no reason to think you can’t find love again with someone else.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But I didn’t share those things to earn your sympathy. I just wanted to let you know the fact that I’ve missed things, overlooked them…it isn’t you. Truly. It’s me.”
Her lips curve. “Wow. From first kiss to the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ breakup line in less than half an hour. This might be a world record.”
“I’m sorry I kissed you,” I say, my gaze fixing on her lips in spite of myself.
I should go, but for some reason, I step closer, until I’m hovering just outside her open door.
“Are you?” she whispers. “Really? Tell me the truth. I think you owe me that much after forcing me to shoot a very expensive sign I’ll have to pay to have replaced.”
“I’ll pay for the sign,” I murmur as she tilts her head back, granting me a heart-wrenching view down the front of her dress, proving just how much I’ve missed.
Wren isn’t just blessed with the sexiest ass I’ve ever had the pleasure of squeezing, even for a few seconds. She’s curvy in all the right places, places a part of me wants to worship with my mouth for as long as she’ll let me.
But that part is dangerous.
That part is the same part that fell head over heels for Lane in one long weekend and sent me down a road paved with heartbreak and ridiculously expensive lawyer fees. I can’t do that again, especially not with Wren. I need her too much. She’s the soul of my practice and…my friend.
I may have had my head in the sand for a few years when it comes to really seeing my head nurse, but I know how much I look forward to our end-of-the-day tea and shop talk. It’s a lifeline during hard conversations with patients in need of complicated care and often the best part of my day.
I’ve obviously failed at making my feelings for her clear, but I treasure Wren.
And you don’t put a treasure at risk over one impulsive, sleep-deprived kiss on a Friday night.
I’m about to lie to her—I respect her too much not to—when she reaches up, pressing a finger to my lips.
“If you lie, I’ll know,” she says softly. “And I’ll leave the practice. I can’t do this anymore, Barrett. I can’t spend every afternoon sipping tea with you and pretending I don’t want to be more than friends. I thought I could, but after that kiss…”
My heart lurching, I hear myself say, “You don’t want to be more than friends with me, Wren. Haven’t I proven that tonight? Everything I did was wrong.”
“Not everything,” she says as she reaches up, curling her fingers around the back of my neck, pulling me down for another kiss.
As soon as my lips brush hers, I’m drowning in longing. It’s even worse than in the parking lot. I’m instantly hard and aching and desperate to erase every bit of distance between us.
No matter how much I’ll regret it tomorrow.