Chapter 16 Wren
The smell of sunscreen and coconuts bake under the heat of the sun. Gentle waves lap the shoreline in a rhythmic lull, and overhead, birds glide across the azure sky. I set my cocktail aside, settling on my pool floatie, and let out a blissful sigh.
Ah, this is the life.
“This is fucking ridiculous.” From behind my heart-shaped sunglasses, I pop an eyelid in time to see Tayce reach for my cell. She stabs pause on my “Relaxing Beach Sounds” playlist and tosses the device onto my bare stomach. “And it’s hotter than hell in here.”
“Then you must feel right at home, honey.” I roll onto my front and turn the playlist back on, turning up the volume to full blast to drown out the sound of the rain beating down on the window. “Just relax. Close your eyes and imagine you’re on a beach in Fiji.”
Her air mattress lets out a loud squeak as she flops back on it. “I need a real vacation.”
“You got back from a real vacation less than twelve hours ago,” Rory tuts, adjusting the side tie on her bikini bottoms. “I, for one, am having a great time.” She plucks the cocktail umbrella from her pina colada and tucks it behind her ear.
“Who needs a honeymoon when you have friends like you two, hey?”
I beam up at her despite the sadness pressing on my chest.
Rory should be on a real beach, with her new husband. Instead, she’s with us, in her guest bedroom, lying on a pool floatie in front of an industrial-strength heater I borrowed from the bar.
As for Angelo, he’s down the hall. Every so often, I hear the office door open, and my ears prick up at the sound of hushed Italian words and feet treading floorboards.
Then it closes and an unwarranted disappointment rolls through me.
Because no voice is deep enough, no footstep dense enough, to soothe this itch beneath my skin.
Gabriel’s secret visit left me restless, and I fear it won’t go away. It’s of the clock-watching, sheet-tangling, appetite-stealing variety.
A cocktail that’s lethal when mixed into my bloodstream.
I flip back onto my back, unable to get comfortable.
It’s nothing in the grand scheme of things, of course, and it’s definitely not the same.
It’s a phase, like when I went brunette for a week, or the time I got my nose pierced and lost the stud the second I sneezed.
It’ll soon drift past, like a cloud on a breezy afternoon. Then one day, I’ll look back and laugh at the time I thought I had a crush on Gabriel Visconti.
Jeez. It’s a reach to even call it a crush. He’s just a man, and I’m just a girl who has never been touched by one. Hell, even Matt could have gripped my jaw like that or called me a good girl, and my body would have gotten all confused.
Sighing, I shuffle onto my side and pick at a loose thread on my towel.
Lying’s bad. Lying to yourself is even worse.
No, but it’s really not a crush. I’m not capable of crushes.
The more I stew on it, the more I realize it’s not actually him I’m drawn to but the anticipation he brings with him.
I never know where he will be or what he will do next.
One day, he’s folding me into his trunk, and the next, he’s teaching me how to get out of it.
“Lesson one” came out of nowhere, and “lesson two” will apparently come when I least expect it.
Despite baking under the heat lamp, a cold thrill skates over the curve of my waist.
I won’t lie to myself twice: I’m looking forward to it.
A sigh leaves my lips, too loud and wistful. I glance up at the girls to make sure they didn’t notice, but Rory’s still engrossed in her book, and Tayce is too busy contorting her body to take selfies of her ass.
As I reach for the fruit platter, there’s movement in the hall. My heart swells, then deflates when muffled laughter seeps under the door.
Definitely not Gabriel.
While I nibble on a strawberry, my gaze drifts back to Rory. “How’s Angelo holding up?”
Her brow dents over the top of her book. “He’s … busy. And stressed. I haven’t seen him much, to be honest.”
“I bet. Are they any closer to figuring out who was behind the explosion?”
“Uh-huh. It was a rival shipping company farther south.”
I frown. “Really?” Now I’m even more surprised it hasn’t been picked up by national news. “What company was it?”
“Oh, none that you’d know,” she says, reading intently.
I reach for my phone. “Yeah, but I can Google it.”
“Actually, I can’t remember the name myself now.” She flicks the page. “Something beginning with s or a b.”
“I think it was a y,” Tayce drawls, pulling the sides of her thong bikini even higher over her hips and snapping another photo.
I open my mouth with the intent to interrogate further but close it again because I’m steering off track.
“Well, anyway. Angelo seems to be working around the clock, and I’m sure he’ll have the port back up and running as soon as possible, what, with all these late-night meetings.
” I make a show of looking at my watch before realizing I’m not wearing one.
“Who’s he in a meeting with at this time, anyway? ”
“Oh, you know,” Rory says, fluttering a dismissive hand toward the door. “The usual suspects.”
“Uh-huh. Like who?”
“Like Rafe.”
“Of course.” I pick up another strawberry. “Who else?”
“Cas. Nico’s here too, I think.”
“Cool.” I pause. “And?”
“Maybe Benny?”
“Is that it?”
Rory slowly lowers her book and narrows her eyes at me. “Is there someone in particular you’re looking for, Wren?”
Crap. I guess that wasn’t as subtle as I’d hoped.
The shells of my ears grow hot, and my brain can’t think of a casual reply quick enough. Before I can blurt out a sniffy comment about just making conversation, Rory sighs.
“Oh, Goose. You’re worried about Gabe, aren’t you?” She shuts her book, expression softening to something more sympathetic. “I made him promise he won’t go near you again.” She studies me. “He hasn’t come near you again, right?”
My nerves hum like a live wire, short-circuiting when they reach my brain.
I barely pause. My breath comes out steady, wrapped around a two-letter lie that has no business leaving my lips so easily.
I don’t even blink. I don’t even feel a twinge of guilt about lying to my best friend.
My body is too distracted by the thrill of sharing a secret under the cloak of darkness with the Boogeyman, even if it was just a routine night at work for him.
It happened in the dark.
It didn’t happen.
“I’m bored,” Tayce announces. “Let’s watch a movie.” She grabs the controller off the floor and points it at the television. “Sorry, Wren. I’m vetoing Mama Mia! We’ve watched it twice already this month.”
Heart still thumping, I settle back on the floatie and stare at the screen while she navigates through movie trailers. Tayce wants to watch a low-budget horror, but Rory wants to watch a Christmas movie, so they compromise with The Nightmare Before Christmas.
Halfway through a musical number, Rory starts snoring and Tayce stops complaining, which means she must have fallen asleep too.
I can’t sleep though. The restlessness won’t let me. My eyes are on the movie, but my ears are on the bedroom door, straining for any hint of slow, heavy footsteps or the deep timbre of a rough command. The mere thought he could be under the same roof as me right now has me on a knife’s edge.
Frustration and curiosity are a dangerous combination, and I eventually give in to it. I just need to know. Grabbing my cell, I slowly rise to my feet, slide on a robe and slippers, and creep out into the hall.
Abstract shadows pass through the glow spilling out from beneath Angelo’s office door.
The possibility that Gabriel is somewhere behind it slows my movement.
I imagine he’s darkening a corner, his mere presence spilling out of the shadows and charging the particles in the room.
I bet he barely speaks, but when he does, the room falls silent, and everyone turns to listen.
I keep walking before I do something stupid, like knock and find out.
As I reach the top of the stairs, I freeze at the sight of a figure climbing them. It’s tall and broad but far too smooth around the edges, and when a glint of gold winks beneath the moonbeam coming through the entryway window, my heartbeat resumes its regular pace.
“Ah, it’s the lovely Wren.” Rafe’s warm voice rises toward me. He retreats to the bottom step and stands aside. “After you. It’s bad luck to cross on the stairs.”
He watches me descend, amusement curving his mouth at the sight of my robe. “Sleepover?”
“Kind of. We’re on a make-believe honeymoon in Fiji.”
“Ah,” he says, glancing at the sheet of rain on the other side of the window. “I trust you’ve remembered your sunscreen?”
“Of course. I don’t want to look fifty when I’m forty.”
His laugh is sheer silk. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be the most glamorous fifty-year-old on the beach.”
I beam up at him. “Oh, and congratulations on the new casino, by the way. I can’t believe it’s on a yacht!”
He dips his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you. Stop by anytime, we have the freshest lemonade on the Pacific,” he says, green eyes twinkling.
We bid each other good night, but when he’s halfway up the stairs, I remember something else.
“Hey, Rafe. I heard Penny is working for you, right?”
His shoulders form a tight line. After a beat, he slowly turns his head. “Who?”
“Penelope Price. You know, around my age, pretty short, red hair—”
“I’ve no idea who you’re talking about.”
I blink at the sharpness of his tone.
“Um, I guess you hire hundreds of girls, so …” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Well, anyway. If you happen to see her, please tell her—”
My mouth falls slack when he takes the steps two at a time and disappears around a corner, then a door slams shut.
“To stop by The Rusty Anchor for our girls night,” I mutter to myself.
Weird.
I brush it off and continue exploring the house in an aimless drift. I pass locked doors, descend more stairs, and marvel at how Rory navigates this place without a map.
As I move from room to room, flinching at every shadowy corner and feeling mildly disappointed when it’s empty, I realize I need to get on the other side of the office door.
I know—I’ll make brownies. Everyone answers the door for brownies.
Pumped by my bright idea, I find myself under the bright lights of the kitchen. I poke around in the four-door fridge and peer inside cupboards. I get distracted by the fancy coffee maker sitting on the center island and pull my cell from my robe pocket to Google the price of it.
As I gawp at the five-figure price tag, a notification pops up at the top of the screen. Absentmindedly, I click on it.
Dear User 3569,
Your edit has been rejected.
The kitchen spins in a blur of chrome and marble. My blood heats, and my heart pumps it around my body so fast it whooshes in my ears.
The midnight email is always bad, but it’s worse on the nights I’m not watching the clock. The nights when it hits me sideways instead of head-on, where I can at least see it coming and brace myself for the impact.
I fear she was right.
She always was, and maybe good deeds and a big heart won’t change it.
Law school probably won’t either. Those five words, thirty-five characters including spaces, are stitched together with an iron thread, forming a sentence as long as hers.
The full stop at the end of it is etched into my DNA, and each midnight email only deepens the scar.
I loosen the tie around my robe and press my palms against the countertop, but it does nothing to cool me down. I need cold air, need to feel the rain sizzle on my skin.
I need to breathe.
A rush of panic drives me to the glass door leading to the garden, but it’s locked. So is the one in the living room and the dining hall. I rattle doorknobs and handles along the length of the house with increasing frustration.
Finally, I find one at the back of a laundry room and burst through it.
The rain is louder out here, but it doesn’t fall. The air is colder, but there’s no bite to it.
Disorientated, I blink, trying to clear the tears blurring my vision. There’re stacks of boxes, and tools hanging from a pegboard. The smell of gasoline and burned plastic rise from the damp concrete floor, then I realize I’m in the garage.
And so is Gabriel.