Chapter 16 #2
“Beau? It’s me, Norah.” The voice on the other end is familiar, hurried, a little breathless.
“Norah?”
“Yeah.” She exhales, and I can hear wind whipping across the line, the faint creak of wood. “Look, there’s a bit of a situation. Don’t laugh.”
My brows knit. “What kind of situation?”
A muffled shout cuts through in the background—high, feminine, frustrated. My stomach dips because I know that voice.
“Wren,” Norah admits, lowering her tone. “She—well, Pancake got himself stuck up in one of the big maples behind my shop, and she thought she could climb up after him. Except now she’s stuck too.”
Another shout: “I’m fine! Don’t call anyone!”
Norah sighs. “As you can hear, she’s not fine.”
I bite back a smile, rubbing the back of my neck. Of course. The image of her wedged in a tree is so vivid I can’t stop the tug at my mouth.
“I’ll be right there.”
“Thank you.” Relief softens her voice. “She’s gonna hate me for calling, but… just come quick.”
“On my way.”
I hang up, grab my helmet, and head back into the bay. Daniels is waiting, arms crossed.
“Everything all right?” His tone says he already disapproves.
“Neighbor’s cat. And the neighbor,” I admit. “They’re stuck in a tree.”
His mouth hardens. “You know protocol, Rhodes. Calls go through dispatch.”
“Yeah, well, this one’s personal.” I tug my jacket on. “And if it keeps the shop from turning into a circus, I’ll handle it.”
Daniels doesn’t move, but his glare sharpens. Jamila pushes off the table and grabs the keys.
“Let’s roll,” she says easily.
Daniels’ jaw ticks, but he doesn’t stop us.
We climb into the truck, engine rumbling to life. Jamila drives, her hands sure on the wheel, while I watch the town blur past the window.
It’s almost four, shadows stretching long, a handful of folks pausing to wave as the rig thunders down Main.
When we pull up, the scene is exactly what I pictured—only better.
The maple’s branches cut wide across the yard behind Norah’s flower shop, leaves whispering in the wind.
Pancake’s crate sits abandoned on the grass, and halfway up the tree, clutching a branch with white knuckles, is Wren.
Her sundress has hitched high on her thighs, sandals dangling from her toes, hair loose around her shoulders like a halo.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” she calls down the second she spots me.
I grin anyway. Can’t help it. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Jamila mutters, “Oh, this is priceless,” under her breath, but I ignore her, grabbing the ladder and setting it against the trunk.
“Stay put,” I call up. “I’m coming to you.”
Norah looks relieved, arms crossed tight, while Pancake meows pitifully from just above Wren’s perch.
I climb steadily, the rungs creaking under my boots, until I reach her branch. She’s hugging it like her life depends on it, knuckles scraped raw.
“Hey,” I murmur, bracing one hand near her shoulder.
“Hey,” she says back, voice thin, cheeks pink.
“You good?”
Her eyes flash. “Do I look good?”
I bite back a laugh. “You look better than most people stuck in a tree.”
That earns me a glare, but it’s soft at the edges. Carefully, I shift, coaxing her hands free one at a time, guiding her down rung by rung until her sandals hit the ground.
Pancake leaps down after, trotting straight for Norah, who scoops him up with a relieved sigh. I turn back to Wren.
She’s flushed, scraped along her calves and forearms, but otherwise fine.
“We should call the paramedics so they can have a look at you,” I tell her, brushing dirt from her arm.
“I’m okay,” she’s quick to stop me. “Just a few scratches.”
“Wren?”
“Beau!” She rolls her eyes before offering me a soft smile. “I’m okay, I promise. Additionally, you’re aware of how many people are already aware of this. There is no way I’m adding more gossip to the rotation. You have Band-Aids, right? I can clean the scrapes, and then I’ll be good as new.”
“You’re stubborn.” I smirk. “She’s stubborn,” I tell Jamila.
“She does have a point. We can clean her up. The scratches look superficial,” Jamila contributes.
“I still want her looked at,” I tell Jamila, giving her a look that I hope she interprets as displeasure. Then I turn to my stubborn girl. “How about this, Wren? How about we drop you off on our way back to the station?”
Wren thinks about it for a couple of seconds and then nods, too out of breath to argue.
Jamila swings the truck door open. “I’ll drive. You sit with the patient.”
Norah steps forward, hesitant. “I’ll stay behind, wait for her to come home. Make sure the shop’s okay.”
“Good idea,” I say, though I catch the way Norah studies me like she’s evaluating whether to trust me.
In the back of the rig, Wren sits on the bench while I dig through the first-aid kit. Her sundress is rumpled, patterned with little flowers, the neckline low enough that I have to focus hard on the antiseptic wipes in my hand instead of what’s beneath them.
“Hold still,” I murmur, dabbing at a scrape on her elbow.
She hisses softly, then exhales. “Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. Not your fault your cat dragged you up a tree.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to smile, but can’t quite manage it. Silence stretches, the hum of the truck filling the space.
And then she says, voice low, “About this morning… I’m sorry.”
I glance up. Her eyes flick away, fixed on her hands in her lap.
“Sorry?” I echo.
She nods, twisting her fingers together. “I saw you at the bakery. I ignored you. I just—” She exhales, frustrated. “I was embarrassed.”
My chest tightens. “Embarrassed about what?”
Her gaze flicks to mine, then away again. “Everything. What happened. The heat. That I couldn’t even look you in the eye after…”
“After we spent three days in bed?” I finish gently.
Her cheeks flame.
I set the wipe aside, leaning back against the bench opposite her, my gaze steady. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, Wren. Not with me. Not with any of us.”
She swallows, her throat bobbing, and for a second, the air between us hums with everything unsaid. The taste of her still lingers on my tongue, and sitting this close, cleaning her scrapes like some professional, is almost unbearable.
I force myself to focus, taping gauze over the last scrape. “There. Good as new.”
Her lips part like she wants to speak, but Jamila’s voice cuts in from the cab. “We’re here.”
The rig slows, pulling into the small clinic lot, and I push down every instinct to keep her close.
Because if I don’t, I’ll forget where we are. Forget the line I’m supposed to hold.
And right now, she’s already close enough to undo me with just a whisper.
Her fingers toy with the hem of her dress like she doesn’t know what else to do with them, and when she finally whispers, “Thank you again,” it hits me right in the chest.
I should leave it at that. I should nod and play it off casually.
But I don’t.
My hand moves on its own, rough palm cupping her cheek. Her skin is warm, softer than it has any right to be after climbing a damn tree, and I feel her lean into it just the tiniest bit.
“Wren,” I murmur, my voice gone low. “You can call me for anything. Doesn’t matter what it is—cat in a tree, busted lightbulb, you name it. If you need me, you call.”
Her breath catches. I see her lashes flutter, her gaze flicking down to my mouth. Every muscle in me coils tight. The air between us turns electric.
If I leaned forward just an inch, I’d have her lips under mine. If I let instinct take the wheel, I’d have her pressed against the bench, tasting her all over again, this time not because of her heat cycle but because she wants it.
Her lips part. I swear she’s about to—
The clinic door swings open.
We jolt apart like guilty teenagers. A nurse leans in, smiling too brightly, oblivious. “We’ve got a room ready for you.”
Wren clears her throat, her voice small but steady. “See you around, Beau.”
And just like that, she’s being ushered out, Jamila at her elbow, the sound of their low conversation trailing in her wake. Something about how “this isn’t necessary,” with Wren protesting and Jamila soothing.
I can’t move. My hands are clenched into fists on my thighs, my body thrumming with everything I didn’t do. I sit there, trying to breathe, but my cock is hard as stone, straining against the fabric of my pants.
“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath, scrubbing a hand over my face.
I can’t walk out like this. Not yet. Not with half the damn clinic out there, not with her maybe glancing back over her shoulder.
I need a minute.
Because fuck, no woman has ever gotten me this hard, this fast.