Chapter 22
“Baby, Let’s Just Light the Fire”
Wren and Greyson circled each other like wary predators, choosing to avoid eye contact or conversation at all costs.
After an evening of aggressive wood chopping and restless home repairs, Wren spent the evening dozing on and off on Greyson’s couch.
She awoke at three a.m. with a full bladder and found him snoring softly in his bed. Alone.
He’d put another blanket on her, refreshed her water, and checked the fire while she slept, but he wasn’t sleeping with her anymore.
Now, it could have been due to the endless sneezing, obnoxious coughing, and stuffiness that made her snore like a lumberjack.
But more likely—according to her inner critic—he was mad about the reference to his dad’s will.
And when Greyson got upset, it took him years to confront his feelings and get over it.
In other words, she fucked up.
She pushed for too much from him too fast, and her desire to help him confront his father’s health might have truly crossed a line. But what if the clause in Magnus’s will was actually the catalyst to Greyson’s sudden interest in her?
This thought, and many other worries, kept her up until four a.m. That was when she decided to drive home—just before dawn.
She questioned if skipping out on him was the mature response to an argument, all the while knowing in the back of her mind it was the cowardly thing to do.
But by that afternoon, when Greyson hadn’t stopped by or even texted to ask why she left, she spiraled into a whirlwind of doubts and realized—where relationships were concerned—she knew nothing at all.
She hated when her inner critic was right. But not as much as she hated that she questioned his motives. Why had she done that?
She’d been under the weather and exhausted. Logan got in her head. She should have never listened to him.
Glancing at her phone again, she suffered another wave of anxiety.
What if she’d ruined everything?
What if Greyson took such offense to her question that he no longer wanted her?
What if this went beyond that and she damaged more than just their current relationship?
She went against her silent promise to give him space and texted an I’m sorry. Twenty minutes later her stomach hurt and she still had no response.
“Damn it.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Lilly asked, as she stepped into the employee kitchenette.
“Huh?” Wren looked up from her phone. “Oh. Nothing.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing, the way you’re huffing and fidgeting over there. You’re biting your nails down to nubs. Eat something else. Here.” She tossed a cookie tin onto the table. “Birdie stopped by to drop these off.”
“I’m not hungry,” Wren said as she cracked open the container. Foil-wrapped chocolate kisses dotted with powdered sugar littered the mix of chocolate chip, peanut butter, and thumb-pressed jam cookies. She pulled out a peanut butter one and bit into it, then frowned. “Why do I taste mint?”
“Because Birdie made them. She’s a hot mess. I doubt she even owns measuring cups. She only brought them here in search of gossip.”
“Then why did you give them to me?” Wren spat the cookie back into the tin and shut the lid.
“Because you’ve been pouting all day. It’s the Christmas season. Don’t you know the rules about that?”
“What rules?”
Lilly bopped her head from side to side. “You better not pout, you better not cry…” She looked at her expectantly. “No?”
“I know the song, I just…” She didn’t have an excuse, not one she’d share with her staff. “Sorry. I’ll cheer up.” Wren tossed the tin of cookies into the trash and glanced at the schedule on the wall, searching for a distraction.
It might have only been December ninth, but Christmas ruled the calendar.
Bodhi and Astrid were hosting a sound bath in the studio that evening.
She stopped by to check on them, happy to see so many guests making use of the cozy chairs and the inviting fireplace in The Haven’s lounge on the way.
Pine garland draped the mantels, and the scent of cinnamon candles mixed with woodsmoke created the perfect holiday atmosphere.
From the hall, she could hear the rattle of gongs and the hum of sound bowls followed by her aunt’s voice. “It sounds better over here, Bodhi. The acoustics are just better when we aren’t up against the glass. Plus, I don’t fancy freezing my ass off. There’s a draft.”
“There’s no breeze, Astrid.”
“Then why do I have wind up my back?”
“It’s probably coming from your own keister.”
“How’s it going in here?” Wren asked as she stepped into the studio.
Bodhi rolled his eyes as he relocated the gong away from the window.
“Your father thinks I have gas. I know my own damn smells, Bodhi. There’s a draft!”
Wren inspected the window. No obvious leaks caught her attention, but the temperature had dropped enough that a draft appeared to be present. “Maybe she’s right, Dad, and the wall would be a better backdrop. Especially for an evening session, when the sun’s down. I can also turn up the heat.”
“Speaking of turning up the heat,” Aunt Astrid said as she rummaged through her carpet bag. “Have you read the latest copy of The Almanac?”
Wren reluctantly took the town newspaper. “Why?”
“Page six.”
“Oh, no.” Wren turned to the opinion section, where Lady Lovewatch’s latest column dominated the page. Lady Lovewatch—if she even existed as a lady—was Hideaway Harbor’s most informed and mysterious gossip.
Wren skimmed the column, her stomach sinking each time she spotted her name printed in black ink.
There was a write-up about the auction, and then the debacle about the check.
Lady Lovewatch questioned why one brother would pay for the other.
Then came the spectacle at the parade, reported in hearsay meant to pique the interest of those who still weren’t sold on the newest small-town secret romance.
The more she read, the more she wanted to hide under a rock until the New Year.
“So, which is it?”
“Huh?” she looked up at her aunt from the paper.
“Which Hawthorne’s been buttering your biscuit?”
Wren crumpled the paper. “It’s just a gossip column, Aunt Astrid. There’s no real truth to this stuff.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Her aunt laughed. “The truth’s written plain across your face, dear, in a blush darker than whatever ink the printer’s using.” She cocked her head inquisitively. “There’s no shame in taking care of your needs, sweetheart. Girl’s gotta eat.”
“Astrid, are you going to help move this stuff, or what?” Bodhi dropped the xylophone windchime with a clatter.
“What did I tell you about being delicate with my instruments? You’re like a bull in a china shop!”
Wren backed out of the studio, her fist cinched tight around the newspaper, when she bumped into something firm. She turned and immediately stepped back with a wince. “Mr. Drummond.”
“I put a request in at the front desk for more soap an hour ago.”
“I’m sorry. I can get that for you.” She led him down the hall to the supply closet where Lilly currently exited, an armful of toiletries in her grip. The moment the receptionist spotted their challenging guest, she scowled.
“Mr. Drummond needs more—”
“Soap for his room. I know,” Lilly said dryly. “I told him I’d deliver it.”
The CEO glanced at the haul of branded Haven products overflowing from her arms. “Is that conditioner? I need more of that as well.”
Lilly protectively turned away to shelter the supplies from his view.
Wren stole a bar of soap and a mini bottle of conditioner. “Here you go.”
“Is that an eye mask?”
“No,” Lilly said.
Wren plucked the mask from her arms. “Of course. There you are.”
He narrowed his eyes at Lilly, then winced when a sound bowl hit a particularly sharp frequency that howled long enough for everyone in The Haven to notice. “What is that ungodly noise?”
“That’s just our team getting ready for tonight’s sound therapy session. Have you signed up?”
“No, and I don’t plan to. Do you have any earplugs? How loud does it get?”
Lilly rolled her eyes. “You probably won’t hear it back in New York.”
“Lilly,” Wren snapped, then placed a hand on Mr. Drummond’s shoulder to walk him away from her feral receptionist. “I’m sure you won’t be disturbed by the sounds once you’re back in your cabin. And the sound baths usually only last an hour.”
“That for an hour? People pay for that?”
“It can be very centering.”
“So can a migraine.”
“Sound therapy can actually lower stress, help with sleep, and even reduce muscle tension and pain, Mr. Drummond.”
“Right,” he said, tone full of doubt.
“You might benefit from such an experience.” She gently squeezed his arm. “You’re still carrying a lot of tension in your shoulders.”
His oppositional mood softened until he glanced over her head and scowled. “Something you need?”
Wren turned and immediately let go of Mr. Drummond’s arm. “Greyson.”
“Wren, honey!” Aunt Astrid rushed out of the studio.
“Your father got a splinter from your cactus plant. Do you have tweezers?” Her aunt paused and took in the crowded hall where Greyson and the CEO faced off.
“Goodness, there’s enough testosterone in this hallway to fuel a small army.
” Her smile curved as her gaze bounced between the two men. “Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Astrid.” Greyson nodded in greeting, never taking his eyes off Drummond.
Wren’s heart fluttered, but not in a good way. She kept her eyes on Grey’s scowling face, not daring to leave to find the tweezers. “Lilly, see if there’s a pin or something in the drawer at the front desk.”
“I need to speak to you,” Greyson growled.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Drummond interrupted. “But you both work here and I’m the guest, right? We were in the middle of something.”