Chapter 40
forty
RYAN
I wake up with Wren curled against my side, her hair spread across my chest. For a moment, I let myself pretend this is normal. That I wake up next to her every morning. That we’re not stealing time we don’t really have.
The sunlight streaming through the villa’s floor-to-ceiling windows makes everything look golden and perfect. Like we’re in a movie or a magazine spread instead of reality TV contestants sneaking around behind everyone’s backs.
“Morning,” she mumbles against my chest, her voice thick with sleep.
“Morning yourself.”
She lifts her head to look at me, and her hair is sticking up in about twelve different directions. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
“What’s the plan for today?” she asks.
“I was thinking we could try parasailing.”
She makes a face. “You want me to strap myself to a parachute and get dragged behind a boat?”
“I want to see you fly.”
“That’s not flying, that’s controlled falling with extra steps.”
I laugh and roll us over so she’s pinned beneath me. “Come on, Rustin. Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“I left it in my other pants. The ones I’m not wearing because I packed nothing but dental floss disguised as swimwear.”
“I like the dental floss.”
She swats at my chest. “You would.”
But she doesn’t say no. She grumbles about it, makes increasingly dramatic complaints about the tiny bikini she’ll have to wear, but she doesn’t actually refuse. Because Wren’s never backed down from a challenge in her life, and she’s not about to start now.
An hour later, we’re on the beach. I’m trying not to stare as she strips off her cover-up. The bikini is barely there, just scraps of bright blue fabric that make her skin look like honey and her legs look impossibly long.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she says, but she’s smiling.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to eat me.”
“I do want to eat you.”
Her cheeks go pink and she throws her cover-up at my face. “You’re impossible.”
The parasailing instructor is a guy named Carlos who looks like he spends more time in the gym than on the water, but he knows what he’s doing. He gets us fitted with harnesses and life jackets, explains the basics, and assures Wren that she’s not going to die.
“People do this every day,” he tells her.
“People do a lot of stupid things every day,” she mutters back.
When we’re finally strapped together and the boat starts moving, I feel Wren tense against me. Her hands grip my forearms so tight, I’m going to have bruises.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Ask me when we’re back on solid ground.”
But then, we’re airborne, the parachute catching the wind and lifting us up above the water. Everything changes. Wren’s death grip on my arms loosens. Her breathing slows. When I look down at her, she’s smiling.
“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh wow.”
The view is incredible. Crystal blue water stretching to the horizon, the coastline spread out below us, the villa looking like a tiny dollhouse from this height. But I can’t stop watching Wren’s face, the way her eyes are wide with wonder.
“This is amazing,” she says.
“Yeah, it is.”
She catches me staring and grins. “You’re not even looking at the view.”
“I’m looking at the best view.”
She rolls her eyes but she’s still smiling. When a gust of wind makes us spin slightly, she laughs and throws her arms up like she’s on a roller coaster.
That’s the moment I know I’m completely screwed. Watching her laugh with pure joy, her hair whipping around her face, her whole body relaxed and trusting in my arms. This isn’t just attraction anymore. This isn’t just physical.
I’m falling for Jay’s little sister while strapped to a parachute three hundred feet above the ocean. There’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.
After we land, we take the jet ski back to the villa’s private beach. Wren sits behind me, her arms wrapped around my waist, her chin resting on my shoulder. I could get used to her holding on like this. But I don’t know how to ask her to stay.
“That was incredible,” she says into my ear.
“Better than controlled falling?”
“Significantly better.”
We hit a wave and she laughs, the sound vibrating through my chest. Her hands are splayed across my abs and every time we bounce, she grips me tighter. It’s torture and paradise all at once.
Back at the beach, we collapse onto one of the oversized lounge chairs. Wren immediately starts digging through the bag the villa staff packed for us, pulling out water bottles and snacks and enough sunscreen to coat a small army.
“Come here,” she says, patting the space next to her. “You’re already turning red.”
I settle beside her and she starts working sunscreen into my shoulders. Her hands are cool against my sun-warmed skin. She’s being completely practical about it, but every touch sends electricity shooting through me.
“Turn around,” she orders.
I do. Her hands smooth across my back, working the lotion in with slow, thorough strokes. When her fingers trace the scar from the shoulder surgery I had two years ago, I tense.
“Hockey?” she asks quietly.
“Shoulder separation. Nothing dramatic.”
Her fingers linger on the spot for a moment longer than necessary. “Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
She doesn’t say anything else, just continues spreading sunscreen across my back with careful attention. When she’s done, she caps the bottle and settles back against the chair.
“My turn,” I say, reaching for the sunscreen.
“I can do it myself.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
She gives me a look but hands over the bottle. I squeeze some into my palm and start with her shoulders, taking my time, letting my hands glide over her skin. She’s trying to act casual about it, but I can see the way her breath changes when I work the lotion down her arms.
When I get to her legs, starting at her ankles and working my way up, she goes very still.
“You’re being very thorough,” she says, her voice slightly breathless.
“Don’t want you to burn.”
My hands slide up her calves, over her knees, along her thighs. The bikini bottoms she’s wearing are practically nonexistent. When my fingers brush the edge of the fabric, she makes a soft sound that goes straight to my cock.
“Ryan.”
“Hmm?”
“You’re supposed to be putting on sunscreen, not trying to get me naked.”
“Can’t I do both?”
She laughs and pushes my hands away. “Behave yourself.”
But she’s smiling when she says it. When I lean back against the chair, she curls up next to me, her head on my shoulder.
We spend the next few hours just talking. She tells me about her obsession with Greek mythology in middle school, how she used to check out the same books about ancient civilizations over and over until the librarian started saving them for her.
“I wanted to be an archaeologist,” she says. “I had this whole plan to discover some lost city and become famous.”
“What changed?”
“Reality. Turns out, archaeology involves a lot more dirt and cataloging pottery shards than discovering lost civilizations.”
She pauses, looking out at the water. “Don’t get used to this,” she says quietly, almost to herself.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shakes her head, forcing a smile. “Tell me about your worst hockey injury.”
I tell her about the time I broke my wrist trying to impress a girl in high school by jumping off the roof of the gym onto a snowbank that turned out to be mostly ice.
“You’re an idiot,” she says, but she’s laughing.
“Yeah, well, teenage boys don’t make good decisions.”
“Some of you never grow out of it.”
“Hey.”
She grins and pokes me in the ribs. “Present company excluded, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
She gets animated when she talks, using her hands to gesture, crinkling her nose when she’s trying to remember details. All I can think about is how badly I want to keep her exactly like this. Happy and relaxed and mine.
The thought scares the hell out of me.
By the time we head back to the villa, the sun is starting to set and we’re both exhausted from the day. We rinse off the salt and sand in the outdoor shower, which is basically just an excuse for me to watch water run down Wren’s body while trying to keep my hands to myself.
“You’re staring again,” she says, wrapping a towel around herself.
“Can you blame me?”
She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling. “Come on, I’m starving.”
We raid the kitchen still wrapped in towels. I watch Wren hop up onto the counter and start devouring mango slices and leftover grilled chicken like she hasn’t eaten in days.
“You eat like a linebacker,” I tell her.
“Shut up, I’m hungry.”
“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
She throws a piece of mango at me and I catch it in my mouth, which makes her laugh again. The sound fills the kitchen and I want to record it, keep it somewhere safe for when this is all over and I’m back to my regular life where Wren Rustin doesn’t laugh at my stupid jokes.
For a moment, everything feels perfect. Natural. Like this is what we do. Like this is who we are together when no one’s watching and there are no cameras and no rules about who we’re supposed to be.
But then something shifts. I can see it happen, the way Wren’s expression changes, like she’s remembered something unpleasant. She gets quiet, withdrawn, pulling that invisible shield over herself that I’ve seen her use a hundred times when things get too real.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Fine.”
But she’s not fine. She slides off the counter and wraps her towel tighter around herself, putting physical distance between us that feels like a chasm.
“Wren, what’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, not meeting my eyes. “Nothing. I’m just tired.”
It’s a lie and we both know it. But I don’t push because I can see the walls going up, see her retreating into herself the way she always does when she gets scared.
“We can’t keep doing this, Ryan.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not real.”
The words hit me harder than they should. “Feels pretty real to me.”
“That’s because you’re good at making things feel real in the moment.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugs, but there’s something brittle in the gesture. Something defensive. “Guys like you are always good at this. Making things feel intense and important when they’re really just… temporary.”
“Guys like me?”
“You know what I mean.”
But I don’t. I really don’t. The fact that she thinks she has me all figured out, that she’s already writing the ending to this story before we’ve even figured out what it is, pisses me off more than it should.
“Actually, I don’t know what you mean. Why don’t you explain it to me?”
She crosses her arms. “Forget it.”
“No, seriously. Tell me about guys like me. I’m curious.”
“Ryan, don’t.”
“You brought it up.”
We’re staring at each other across the kitchen now. I can feel the energy between us shifting into something dangerous. Something that’s going to end badly for both of us.
“You think you know me?” I ask, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. “You think I get bored of people?”
She opens her mouth to say something but I don’t let her.
“You know who didn’t get bored of you? Me. When your brother was too busy being the golden boy to notice his little sister sitting in the corner with a book, when every other guy our age looked right past you like you weren’t worth seeing, I noticed you, Wren. I always noticed you.”
She flinches like I’ve slapped her. Her eyes go bright and her throat works around words she can’t seem to get out.
The silence stretches between us, heavy and loaded.
“Tell me how I’d leave you first,” I say quietly. “Because I wouldn’t.”
“Ryan…”
“I’m not fighting with you about this.” I run my hands through my hair, trying to keep my temper in check. “Not about something you made up in your head.”
But we fight anyway.
The words fly between us, sharp and scared and hot with everything we haven’t been able to say. She accuses me of not taking this seriously, of treating her like a game. I accuse her of being too scared to try, of deciding I’m going to hurt her before I’ve even had the chance.
“You don’t understand what it’s like,” she says, her voice rising. “To always be the consolation prize. The backup plan. The girl guys settle for when they can’t have who they really want.”
“If you think that’s what you are to me, then you’re an idiot.”
“Am I? Because from where I’m standing, this looks like you killing time until you figure out who you’re actually going to choose.”
“That’s not…”
“Isn’t it? You’re the bachelor, Ryan. You’re supposed to fall in love with someone on this show. We both know it’s not going to be Jay’s weird little sister who argues with you about everything.”
“Stop calling yourself that.”
“It’s what I am.”
“It’s not what you are to me.”
“Then what am I to you?”
The question hangs between us, heavy and loaded. I realize I don’t have an answer. Not one I’m ready to give. Not one that won’t change everything.
She wants a name for this. I can’t give her one, but not because I don’t feel it. Because I’m terrified it won’t be enough.
The silence stretches too long. Wren’s face crumples and then hardens again.
“That’s what I thought,” she says quietly.
That’s when I know I’ve lost her. When I see her retreat behind those walls, see her convince herself that my hesitation proves everything she’s been telling herself about why this won’t work.
“Wren, that’s not…”
“I’m tired,” she says, cutting me off. “I’m going to bed.”
She walks away, leaving me standing in the kitchen with my heart pounding. My hands shake slightly from adrenaline and hurt and the terrible knowledge that I just let the best thing in my life slip through my fingers.
I hear the bedroom door close. Then the lock clicks.
I reach for one of the kitchen chairs, my hand gripping the back of it so hard my knuckles go white. The villa feels different now. Hollow. All the golden light and perfect staging can’t hide the silence where her laughter used to be.
All I had to do was say it… but I didn’t.
Why am I such a fucking coward?