Chapter 9 #2
“I don’t know what to say.” Then she snorted with disbelief.
“Holy crap on a cracker, Wren. You’ve actually rendered me speechless.
That’s never happened before. Three Hawthornes?
Three!” She climbed back onto the couch to give this conversation the respect it deserved. “I guess my first question is... how?”
Over the next hour, Wren gave Jocelyn a full rundown of everything that had been happening in her life. Of course, Jocelyn wanted every inappropriate detail, but that was what made her a bestselling author of some of the hottest Viking smut to ever hit the page.
When Wren finished, Joce looked at her watch and whistled low. “Damn, it’s only ten-thirty. Ah, fuck it. Close enough. This calls for something stronger than caffeine. Oh! And I just got a new bottle of that peanut butter whiskey! Be right back.”
“If you’re hosting an event tonight, should you be drinking?”
“It adds to my charm,” she yelled as she rummaged through the shelf of bottles in the other room, glass clinking against glass. “Besides, I have an iron liver.”
When she returned with a bottle and two glasses of ice, Wren stopped her. “I have a yoga class to teach in an hour.”
“One glass won’t kill you. We have to celebrate. You got fingered by Greyson Hawthorne. This is mega big.”
“Ugh.” Wren winced. “We’re too old to use words like ‘fingered.’”
“Says the thirty-year-old virgin.”
“Hey! You keep that information in the vault.”
She waved her concerns away with amber liquid sloshing. “Who doesn’t love a virgin trope?”
Sometimes Wren felt like the most inexperienced woman in the world. “Does it even count as fingering if there technically wasn’t penetration?”
Jocelyn cocked her head in confusion, ice cubes clinking. “Jesus, any slower of a burn and the fire’s going out. What do you mean he didn’t penetrate?”
“I don’t know. It was more…rubbing.”
“Like an old-school bump-and-grind?” Jocelyn cocked her head, thought about it for a second, then shrugged.
“Okay, that’s hot. But which billionaire bad-boy will it be?
So many options! The golden retriever, the reclusive woodsman, or the alpha.
” Despite her objections, Jocelyn poured two glasses.
“What about the bonfire incident? Are you finally over that?”
The bonfire was something they never discussed because it had been that big of a deal to Wren when it happened. Just the mere mention of it made her entire body tense, muscles coiling with remembered humiliation.
It had been years ago. She was still in high school, but Greyson was years past graduation. She’d just heard back from the business school she’d applied to. Rejected.
The sting still resonated, a paper cut on her pride that refused to heal. Who knew it would only get worse before the day was over?
Wren didn’t know why Greyson was the first person she ran to for comfort, but he was. When she got to his house, he had some friends over. This was before he’d built his home in the woods, and he still lived with Magnus.
She’d walked up on them in the midst of a conversation about typical guy stuff—work, sports, women. One of his friends spotted her first and smiled. The other men quickly noticed her as well. Everyone seemed friendly enough, except Greyson.
“What are you doing here, Wren?” They no longer spent as much time together as they had in high school, and she wondered if that was more than circumstantial. Sometimes, it felt like a personal choice—but never hers.
“I didn’t know you had company.”
“Whoa, Grey, did you double-book?” one of the guys sitting around the bonfire joked, flames casting shadows across their faces. “We can take a walk.”
“Shut the fuck up, Andy.”
She realized then that his friends assumed she was just one of his booty calls, another girl in a rotation she never knew existed.
“This isn’t a good time, Wren.”
“Oh.” The sting of the rejection letter burned through the back pocket of her jeans like a brand. She didn’t want to go home, and she didn’t want to think. She came there because she wanted to forget, to lose herself in his familiarity.
Without invitation, she pulled a beer from the cooler, condensation slick against her palm.
Greyson caught her hand before she could open it, his fingers firm and warm against her wrist. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Having a beer.”
He took the bottle from her, and his friends howled and whistled as if she’d just been called to the principal’s office. “Not a chance.”
He had a lot of nerve. He’d been drinking since freshman year and she was just around the corner from graduating. “Don’t be a hypocrite.”
“Looking out for you isn’t hypocritical.”
“Well, you’re not my father.” She yanked the bottle out of his hand and cracked it open, the hiss of escaping carbonation sharp in the night air.
Greyson scowled with disapproval as she chugged down several gulps, the bitter taste foreign on her tongue. The guys hollered in full support of her rebellion and pushed another chair closer to the fire, sparks dancing upward into the darkness.
Greyson, as always, got silent and pissed. Six beers later, and she was tripping over her words, laughing at jokes that probably weren’t that funny, and speaking without a filter while woodsmoke clung to her hair and clothes.
When she needed to pee, she excused herself. The walk back to the house from the yard was a long one that gave her plenty of time to realize she was drunk and should probably go home. But she wasn’t ready to leave—wasn’t ready to face the rejection letter or the uncertain future it represented.
After using the bathroom, she came face-to-face with Grey’s friend, Andy, who waited just outside of the bathroom like a predator who’d cornered his prey.
“Having fun?”
“Mm-hm. I am.” Beer was amazing, and she wondered why she’d waited so long to try it, why she’d been so good for so long.
Andy stepped closer, close enough that she could smell cologne mixed with smoke and beer. “So you’re a senior?”
She nodded, the movement making her head swim.
“Planning on going to college?”
She didn’t want to think about college at the moment, didn’t want to face the reality of closed doors and limited options. “I’m undecided.”
He looked down and took her measure with eyes that seemed to catalog every inch. “You seeing anyone?”
She shook her head. Andy was one of those guys who was always in the background at Greyson’s table or parties. She’d met him years ago but never really talked to him.
“How come?” He was standing right in front of her now, close enough to touch her, and when he did—fingers trailing down her arm with clear intention—she didn’t pull back. “You’re pretty enough. You should have guys falling all over you.”
It was a little hard to date when Logan or Soren or Greyson were always chasing guys away from her and scaring them off with threats and territorial glares.
When she did get the slightest attention, it reminded her how much she wanted a boyfriend and how nice it would be to have someone special in her life.
She looked up at Andy through beer-blurred vision. He seemed interested. He had a nice face and dressed okay. There wasn’t anything wrong with him that she could tell.
He grinned, catching her checking him out. “Like what you see?” he asked, holding her stare with confidence that left her unsure. He was either grossly cocky or attractively assertive.
Did he just move closer?
She had no game when it came to flirting. Her head was fuzzy with alcohol and rebellion, and she really didn’t have any concrete thoughts about Andy.
“I like your hat.” It wasn’t a typical baseball hat. It had a smaller brim, and she liked the olive green color. It looked vintage.
“Yeah?” He lifted the hat and turned it around so the brim was facing backward, then he angled his arm onto the wall to lean over her, caging her in. “What else do you like?”
She looked up into his eyes, very aware of his proximity, of the way her back pressed against the cool wall. “I don’t know.”
“How about being kissed? Do you like that?”
She shrugged and nodded at the same time, her heart hammering against her ribs. Andy leaned down and—
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Before Andy could answer, Greyson ripped him off of her and threw him a good six feet in the opposite direction, the sound of impact echoing through the hallway.
“Greyson!”
“Shut the fuck up, Wren!” He towered over Andy, every muscle coiled with rage. “What did I tell you about going near her?”
“We were just talking, Grey.”
Mortification choked her as Greyson turned into a complete Neanderthal. She shoved him with both hands. “Knock it off!”
He spun and caught her by the shoulders, his grip firm enough to bruise. “I told you to go home.”
“You’re not in charge of me!”
“This is my fucking house!” He pointed in the direction of the door with violent emphasis. “You’re drunk and making a fool of yourself. Go find Soren and tell him to drive you home.”
She glared up at him, fury and humiliation burning through her veins like poison. “You’re not the boss of me.”
Andy stood, brushing dust from his jeans. “I’ll take her home.”
Slowly, Greyson turned to face his friend and growled with lethal quiet, “Do you have a fucking death wish?”
“You’re being a prick, Grey. She’s graduating. She can do whatever she wants. Lighten up.”
Greyson literally seethed, tension crackling off of him like electricity, as he turned back to his friend.
“Grey, it’s fine.” Wren caught his arm before he could advance. Violence coiled beneath his skin. He was going to kill Andy. “I’ll go get Soren.”
“I want you both out of my house.”
Andy scoffed. “You’re ridiculous. If you’re gonna be that fucking territorial over some kid, maybe you should date her.” With that, he grabbed his jacket and stormed off, leaving the air thick with unresolved tension.
Greyson wouldn’t look at her. “Grey—”