Chapter 8 Robin #3
“Mm, you should make that noise more often.” Wren whispers on my left and I wave him off as I ungracefully shovel more of the delicious soup into my mouth. I can’t let him always get a rise out of me, which still doesn’t stop me from blushing till I squirm in my seat.
Phin next to me has a soup full of veggies, which still looks and smells delicious.
Like myself, my best friend is eating like he’s been starved, probably soaking up the alcohol he’s consumed already today.
He nudges me with his elbow, breaking the spoon away from his lips, “You know, I can hear you both.”
Wren just shrugs without a care and swallows. I try not to look at his throat, or the snake tattoo that wraps around the side. “You’re not her Father. She’s already my wife.”
“We’re enemy gangsters, old sport. What if I steal her?”
“Fucking try.”
Phoenix pulls a fake plastic revolver out from the gun holster he’s been wearing, the toy looking tiny in his large hand.
He pokes it into my side. “See here Missy, that husband of yours ain’t no good for ya.
” He says in that terrible accent. I tear a piece of bread with my teeth and poke him back.
“Give over, you goon. Let me eat.” Nothing comes between myself and good food.
A tattooed hand reaches across me and swipes the gun, tossing it onto the table.
“Behave, Now. Let her eat.” He nearly growls over my head and the protectiveness in Wren's tone has the bread nearly falling from my mouth.
I realise he never moved his arm from the back of my chair and his thigh is still pressed against mine, warm.
“She’s a big girl Wren.” Willow snides, her fingers returning to tugging at his sleeve like she’s fed up of not receiving his attention.
Like the peace keeper she is, Mavis leans forward. “Wil, what character did you get?” Her tone is polite but lacks interest, her smile also a little hollow. She's seemed quite distant all day actually, but we haven't had a proper chat since the festivities kicked off.
Willow tosses dark hair over her shoulder. “I’m a dancer. At Wren’s—I mean, Mr Wilson's club.” I can feel his muscles tighten as she touches him again, and it’s starting to piss me off. “We’re also having a not so secret affair.”
Whilst she rests her chin on her crossed hands, I hear Cardinal’s mocking scoff. Her smile drops, sharp eyes zone in on him—ready for a verbal onslaught.
“So Cardy,” I interrupt to stir the conversation back to neutral ground. “What character did you get?”
“I’m Mr Baker, a driver for the Buchanans.”
“Are you into cars?”
‘Not really.” His tone is unamused, but probably not because he knows Jordan Baker is a pro golfer, not a driver. He looks down to his soup and back up to me, like he’s fighting off ignoring me but doesn’t want to be impolite. “What character are you?”
“Mrs Wilson. I’m just a little gangster's wife.” Trying to lighten the mood, I want to joke around, but I feel a gaze burning into my skull from the opposite side of the table. I would love to look his way and return the glare, but it’s never smart to antagonise someone like him.
As chatter continues amongst the table and we all finish our appetiser, Willow attempts to talk to Wren two more times and through the uncomfortable pit in my gut from the constant visual interrogation, I’m getting more frustrated than I have any right to be.
With great timing, Maggie returns with the trolley, empty this time and starts to collect everyone’s bowls.
Some of the guys start to rise to help and she shakes them off, forcing a relentless Merle who insists on going to bring the mains for her.
Our host never even looks in her direction, as he slouches back in his chair, still looking at me.
Aya holds his left hand, but she’s deep in conversation with Phin.
His gold fingertips reach out to touch my shoulder. “A different kettle of fish, but Rob’s just had her debut novel published." He says, my body naturally leaning into the conversation.
“Yeah, I’m contracted for two more.”
“What do you write?”
“Crime—”
“She writes silly little detective stories.” Corbin interrupts me.
I don’t know what annoys him more; that she's speaking to me, or the fact I’ve published one of those little stories.
He always saw my writing as a hobby that would stop me from getting a real job.
A childish pipe dream he’d phrased it, guilt tripping me whenever I wasn’t free to trapse around on his arm.
He would always remind me too that the money left to me in Mum’s will would be better spent in investments, than allowing me to be lazy.
I’m already exhausted from being in his company.
“They’re not silly little stories,” Wren laughs sharply, resting a large hand over mine.
“Robin just ranked number three in The Times best sellers. She’s also in the top ten charts for crime fiction, currently.
” I’m momentarily stunned and I couldn’t tell you if it’s because of how his skin is literally humming where we touch, or the fact he knows this information about my work.
My debut novel is my baby and I like that he’s on my side, protecting us both.
He sits back comfortably, our skin still sparking magic. “I think it’s really fucking cool.”
My best friend looks at me with such pride and I see a warmth in Aya as she nods in agreement—a warmth that is too good for Corbin, who is grinding his back teeth in a silent war. Both of their glares clash for a moment too long, Wren’s words from earlier appear in my mind. Play along.
Twisting my palm up and lightly tickling the inside of his palm, his head snaps down to watch me entwine our fingers.
My hand is so tiny in his and I trace over the ink there, the moon and stars, the words on his knuckles.
On the other hand he has the sun, his band’s name with clouds that stretch onto his wrist. He is such a work of art and I think—no, I know all my assumptions are wrong.
I’m not the only one staring at our hands, so I squeeze it lightly, silently exchanging I’m ready to play.
Before I lose my nerve, I lean into him until my breath is hot on his ear. “My, my Wren. Stalking much?”
He chuckles low, almost nuzzling the side of my face when he replies. “My Wren? That has a nice ring to it.”
Heat pools low in my belly, which is hard to ignore. “You wish Hastings.”
“Practicing your future last name?”
“Thank you for sticking up for me.” I drop the teasing and he nods, his smile slightly shy.
“I asked around, about your book.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and there's so many things I want to ask, but even with conversation picking up around us once again, I can still feel unwanted gazes.
Maggie returns with the trolley for a third time and again, the guys on the opposite side of the table stand to help her distribute.
The clink of ice being swirled in a whisky tumbler grates on me, but I do my best to ignore it.
Everyone thanks Maggie and then digs into the plates of meats, veggies, vegetarian roasts and more dishes scattered around.
Wren lifts a lid from a smaller plate and inhales, becoming giddy as his eyes flash to meet mine.
“Do you like mushrooms? Garlic?”
“Yes to both. Love them.” I reply, intrigued. He moves the plate of what looks like buttery garlic mushrooms towards himself, grabbing another with chips. Using tongs to place a heap onto the plate, he starts to mix the garlic mushrooms with them and my mouth instantly waters. “You’re a genius.”
“It’s my go to hack on tour. Sometimes in Europe, catering can be really weird. You have to make a meal out of some pretty random dishes.”
“Try being Vegan. I’m always going hungry.” Phin chimes in, nudging my shoulder lightly as he stabs at chips on his own plate. “The garlic butter smells so nice, but ugh—butter.”
Maggie floats by with a gravy boat and hovers, “You thought I wouldn’t use plant based? Shame on you, Mr Claythorne.”
He inwardly shivers, shaking his head sternly. “Please just call me Phin. Mr Claythorne is so…formal.” His brother tuts, and to my delight Maggie rolls her eyes. I bet she would happily smack him around the head with a plate.
Phin dives for the garlic mushrooms and chips, allowing Wren to add some for me before stealing it.
We all eat for a few silent minutes before small conversations start again.
Wren finally removes his arm from the back of my chair, but places it on my thigh as we eat.
My cheeks tint pink a little and he throws me a wink—which definitely doesn’t leave my panties twisting.
I’m dying on this hill, remember? He has no effect on me.
FINISHING up dessert after the giant main course, I put the spoon down and shift slightly in my seat.
Wren has found a way to keep physical contact the entire time we ate, whether it’s with his hand, his thigh or just remaining close enough to speak low in my ear.
I’m so engrossed by his presence that I completely miss Aya’s question, and I have to blink a few times for my brain to grasp at straws.
Knowing who’s watching, he walks two fingers down my bare arms, over my hip and down onto my thigh, too confidently.
Aya’s eyes narrow because I still haven’t replied, Lil’s rambles filling space in the background, but when a disdained scoff rumbles from the end of the table, her head snaps to the side.
Immediately Aya stands, her chair scraping back against the hardwood floor and the noise makes a bunch of the guests jolt.
Wren's hand tightens slightly on my leg and I find my own hand has found its way onto his bicep. Ice scatters across the table cloth, as the whisky seeps in from Corbin’s knocked over glass.
Lily is already out of her seat, dabbing at the mess with a number of napkins.
“Gosh I’m such a clutz sometimes, I’m so sorry.
I was reaching for the bottle of champers. ”