Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Wren seriously considered faking food poisoning.
Not that she thought Lark would buy it. Her twin had developed an almost-supernatural immunity to Wren’s excuses over the years. But maybe if she committed hard enough—complete with groaning and clutching her stomach—she could at least delay the inevitable.
Unfortunately, her sister had shown up at her apartment armed with mascara and determination, pulling out a black shirt that Wren hadn’t seen since Christmas last year.
Because that was when Lark had given it to her as a gift.
Wren had thanked her for it, then promptly stashed it deep, deep in her closet, never again to see the light of day.
Until today.
“You’re wearing this,” Lark announced, tossing it onto the couch before reaching over to rip off the tag still attached, shooting her an accusatory glare.
Wren stared at the shirt, unable to fake the same gratitude she’d nailed at Christmas. Where was the eggnog when you needed it? “It shows too much cleavage.”
“Oh, the horror.” Lark fake shuddered. “That’s kind of the point.”
“I’m not comfortable wearing a low-cut shirt.”
“Tough,” Lark retorted.
“You use that word too much,” Wren said. “You need to find a new one.”
“I only use that word with you. Because you make me.”
Wren folded her arms. “I don’t want to go to Whiskey Abbey.”
“I’d say tough again,” Lark said with a grin, “but for the sake of variety, I’ll hit you with a new word. Wrong. You would probably love to go to Whiskey Abbey, but you don’t want to leave your comfort zone. What would Sophie say?”
That was another thing Lark was saying way too much lately. Mainly because Wren had made the mistake of sharing with her sister that the therapist believed she’d turned a corner at the wine festival. Though, to be fair, Lark tricked her into confiding that.
And by trick, she meant her sister showed up with margarita fixings and Taco Bell three nights earlier, insisting it was time for their annual rewatch of Twister. She’d even shown up sporting her favorite tee that said, “I gotta go, Julia. We got cows.”
Margaritas always made Wren chatty. So in that moment of tequila-fueled weakness, Wren told Lark about Sophie’s assertion that working the wine festival had been a good thing, since it had taken her out of her comfort zone. Sophie pointed out that she’d not only survived the weekend but enjoyed it.
Of course, Sophie had been privy to more details about exactly why Wren had fun at the festival—details that had less to do with the crowds and more to do with the sex-on-a-stick vintner standing next to her—but that didn’t matter.
Lark had heard those words and taken them as a green light on dragging Wren back out into the real world.
The problem was, Wren wasn’t as resistant as she thought she should be. Because Sophie’s words during their last session had bolstered her. Sophie had smiled in that calm, patient way therapists had and said, “You feel safe with Grayson.”
Wren had immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut about the kiss and Grayson’s initial visit to the library, because Sophie had latched on to those facts like a dog with a bone.
“Feeling safe matters,” Sophie had continued. “After trauma, your nervous system learns to associate vulnerability with danger. But your body is beginning to recognize the difference between actual threat and emotional risk.”
“I still froze,” Wren had pointed out.
Sophie shook her head. “No. You paused. That’s different.”
The distinction had felt annoyingly important.
“I also pulled away,” Wren added, mainly just to be contrary.
“Not immediately. And it’s interesting to note, you regret that. You wanted more from this man because you felt safe with him.”
Wren hadn’t responded to that because she hadn’t been sure how to.
“You were nine years old when someone violated your trust,” Sophie had reminded her gently.
“A family member. Someone who should have protected you, but instead frightened you. Children in that situation often learn to make themselves smaller. Quieter. Hyperaware. You’ve spent years believing safety comes from self-control and avoidance. ”
She had done that.
Somehow, Grayson had broken through that control—even if just for a little while—and it had shaken Wren to the core.
Sophie hadn’t been telling her anything she didn’t know. Even Dr. Holloway had managed to explain that much to her. The difference was, Sophie always went further.
“Now, you’re experiencing moments where your instincts are telling you someone feels safe. That doesn’t mean you throw yourself into situations that overwhelm you. It just means that you’re ready to cautiously allow yourself new experiences, while maintaining boundaries you control.”
Boundaries.
Wren liked boundaries. Boundaries had walls and locks and library hours.
And then, because Sophie was absolutely wonderful at her job, she’d driven the point home. “You are allowed to say no at any point, Wren. You’re allowed to leave. You’re allowed to change your mind. Healing doesn’t require you to become fearless. It requires you to trust yourself.”
Which sounded great in theory.
But now, as Wren stood at the entrance to Whiskey Abbey in a low-cut black shirt, she wasn’t so damn sure.
Music thumped through the crowded bar. Glasses clinked. People laughed loudly around high-top tables while servers weaved through the room balancing trays of drinks and appetizers.
She tugged her neckline up for the thousandth time since leaving her apartment. Lark smacked her hand away.
“Stop messing with your shirt. You look incredible,” her sister assured her.
“Coming here on such a busy night was a bad idea,” Wren said. “Maybe I should have started with a Monday night first.”
Lark rolled her eyes. “Monday nights are worse, especially in the fall. All the bros sitting around, chugging pitchers of beer and watching football on the big screens. You’d hate it.”
Lark wasn’t wrong. Wren would hate that more. But only by a small margin.
Her sister grabbed her hand but made no move to pull her farther inside.
“I’m so proud of you for doing this,” she said, in a serious voice Wren didn’t often hear from her fun-loving, sarcastic sister.
“I know this is hard for you, so if it really is too much, just say the word and we’re out of here.
” Lark squeezed her hand. “But I promise, I won’t leave your side while we’re here.
I’m your true-blue, stuck-like-glue, girl. ”
Wren smiled in appreciation. “I know that. Thanks.”
Lark released her hand, looping their arms together as she steered her inside. They only made it half a dozen steps before Lark froze. “Shit.”
Wren followed her gaze—and instantly forgot how to breathe.
Grayson sat at a corner table with his brother Everett, and his cousins Nora and Remi.
“I thought you said Grayson never came to ladies’ night.” Prior to food poisoning, Wren’s plan to get out of the evening was telling Lark it would be dangerous for the two of them to be out together where Grayson could see them, and perhaps connect some dots they didn’t want connected.
“He rarely does,” Lark grumbled. “I mean, I’m here nearly every Wednesday, and I’ve seen him here once—twice, tops. Besides, when I talked to Jace today, he said he couldn’t make it tonight, and he seemed to think none of the other Storms were coming, either.”
“Looks like a few of them changed their minds. You know…they haven’t seen us,” Wren said, spying an escape. “We could just leave.”
That idea was immediately rendered moot, because apparently the universe had decided Wren’s exposure therapy needed a difficulty spike.
Grayson looked up, spotted them, and smiled.
God, why did his smile have to be so fucking perfect? It was warm, easy, and so genuine.
Everett spotted them as well, waving them over, while Remi hopped up and started stealing chairs from other tables, like it was a given they were going to sit with them.
“We can’t join them,” Wren said, refusing to move toward the table.
Lark waved back, lifting one finger. “It would look weird if we didn’t. Just act natural.”
Wren rolled her eyes. “This is stupid, Lark. What if Grayson figures out what we did? Nora is sitting right there with him. Are you willing to risk your job over a couple of beers at ladies’ night?”
“Listen. If Grayson was going to figure it out, he would have already.” Lark started making her way through the tables, dragging Wren with her. “We literally did a wine tasting together at the winery yesterday afternoon and everything was fine. Obviously, you nailed your performance of me.”
As far as Lark knew, working together was all they’d done. She didn’t know about the chemistry, the friendly conversations, the kiss.
Guilt worked its way through her system as she recalled her deceit.
Grayson couldn’t stand to be lied to, and that was exactly what she and Lark had done. His pet peeve confession had sent her into a tailspin. So much so, she’d almost scheduled an emergency session last Monday with Sophie, even though she’d just talked to her the Friday before.
Since starting therapy with Sophie, she’d been fine with two sessions a month. Obviously, she was going to have to see about increasing that to two sessions a day if she and Grayson kept running into each other.
Hearing Grayson’s recollections of his cheating girlfriend and that horrible Staci, had made her feel physically ill.
While her intention to help Lark had seemed like an innocent one-off, it wasn’t turning out that way. Because Grayson kept showing up, and their shared conversations felt meaningful and important, which meant her lie kept getting bigger and bigger.
He’d shown up at the library twice now, and she suspected that second visit wasn’t so much about checking out books, but because he wanted to talk to her.
And both times, Wren had found herself relaxing around him in ways that felt terrifying and wonderful all at the same time.
Even now, watching as they crossed the bar, his gaze settled on her.
Not Lark.
Her.