Chapter 14 Wren
Wren
It’s a quarter past ten when the power goes out.
One minute I’m rinsing a coffee mug and watching lightning thread across the far side of the river—and the next, the whole house sighs into silence. No refrigerator hum, no fan in the hallway, just the distant rumble of thunder and the rustling of early spring leaves through the open windows.
I pause for a moment, listening, taking it in as if it’s the first time I’ve ever truly experienced a storm rolling through.
It’s amazing what you can see and hear without the sound and light pollution of the city.
Atticus is out cold upstairs. He had a busy day of playing at his grandparents’ and was halfway to dreamland before his head even hit the pillow. And with the windows open and the air still mild, I’m not worried about him waking up sweaty or uncomfortable.
Despite the beauty and stillness of the moment, the silence of being out here in the country feels more profound in the dark.
I could easily turn on the TV and distract myself, but tonight I choose to embrace it by grabbing a book and my little clip-on reading light, and heading out to the porch.
The swing creaks softly under my weight, and the cushion still holds the sun-warmed memory of the day.
The storm’s moving east, but the air still smells like rain and electricity and the damp earth beneath it all. Sweet petrichor.
I don’t get five pages in before I hear the faint growl of a diesel engine in the distance.
Headlights round the bend that leads into my driveway and sweep across the trees like a determined spotlight before coming to a hard stop. I squint into the beams, shielding my eyes with my hand until my vision settles on a big white truck.
Hunter.
Of course.
He climbs out, messing with some electrical box near the road, before returning to the cab of his truck and idling down my driveway like this is just another Tuesday night.
I stay seated, book in my lap, reading light clipped to the edge of the cover and cutting unapologetically bright through the night darkness.
He’s holding something. A portable generator, maybe? I think I’ve seen one of those in my stepdad’s garage before.
“What are you doing?” I ask, half laughing because this is absurd.
“I had to disconnect the power at the road so when the power comes on it doesn’t fry this generator.” He nods toward the sizable object in his hand. “You lost power, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say slowly as I watch him get to work. Who is this man? “Just a little while ago.”
“Me too. Transformer’s out at the corner,” he says. “Happens every time there’s a storm. Power company’s notorious for being slow to fix it this far out. Thought I’d save you a long night.”
“So you just . . . you just . . . brought me a generator?” I ask, sitting up a little, lashes batting like they’ve got a mind of their own.
“Don’t go getting any ideas, honey,” he says, stepping onto the porch. “Just because I did this doesn’t mean you need to go making me another casserole.”
He holds up my empty baking dish in his other hand. I hadn’t noticed it until now.
“Looks kinda expensive,” he says. “Thought you might want it back.”
I grin. “It was an engagement gift.”
He arches a brow but asks no questions. Maybe he’s afraid to ask, just like I was afraid to ask about the carvings in the closet when I took him lunch.
The question was on the tip of my tongue the whole time, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.
Call it a hunch maybe, but I can’t help but feel his attachment to that place has more to do with this “Ben” person and less to do with all that talk about privacy.
“For a wedding that never happened,” I add.
“Smart man.” His expression is unreadable, but somehow I know he’s teasing.
I grab the dish from him, our fingers brushing in the exchange. “Just for that, I’m definitely making you another casserole. Something with eggplant. Extra soggy.”
He exhales, half amused, half exasperated. “Just . . . practice on someone else next time. Maybe that poor old mare you’ve got in the barn.”
“Nope. You’re officially my test subject now.”
He heads to the side of the house, near the garage, and hooks up the generator like he’s done it a thousand times before.
Efficient. Quiet. Focused. I lean against the front porch rails, watching his broad shoulders flex beneath his gray T-shirt.
As he works, I take him all in, paying close attention to the way his sleeves cling to his biceps just enough to be distracting, how his jeans are worn in a way that looks effortless, not trendy.
The way his hands are rough, steady, calloused, and capable.
God help me, this man could ruin me and never even know it.
When he finishes, he wipes his hands on a shop rag he pulls from his back pocket. He doesn’t look at me at first, just scans the dark horizon like he’s already mentally gone and onto the next thing. I can’t help but wonder if this man ever stays still long enough to just . . . be.
Doubtful.
“You always show up like this? All heroic?” I ask. “Ready to save the day at a moment’s notice?”
He glances over, frowning. “I’m not heroic.”
“You say that. But you keep saving me anyway. That’s what heroes do.”
He doesn’t answer, just turns back to finishing the task at hand.
“I appreciate it,” I say. “And I don’t know how to show you that other than subjecting you to my really awful cooking. Maybe if you told me something more about yourself, I could, I don’t know—”
He cuts me off. “I don’t need you to get me anything or return the favor. It’s not about that.”
“What’s it about, then?”
He seems annoyed, exhaling hard through his nose, but I’m still going to press. I have a feeling he rarely gets pressed, but I think it could be good for him.
“Why does it have to be about something? You’re a single mom with a small child, living alone in the country.
I’m your closest neighbor. You got your car stuck.
You lost power. Your kid almost . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence.
“What kind of man would I be if I watched you struggle and did nothing to help?”
My mind immediately goes to my ex-fiancé and a half dozen scenarios where he feigned incompetence to get out of actually having to help me with something. I’ve always had an independent streak a mile wide, and I never expected him to do everything for me, but too many times I made excuses for him.
Nick was good with Atticus, he helped with half the expenses even though I outearned him by a landslide, and he was funny. I’d focused so much on what I liked about him that I was willfully ignorant to all the reasons he wasn’t the ideal match for me.
“Well maybe one of these days you’ll need me,” I kid. “And I’ll get to rescue you.”
He snickers, peering over his shoulder and tossing me a half smile that lights up his face and takes away all the intimidation that tends to live there when he’s looking all serious.
“Rescue me from what exactly?” he counters.
“I dunno.” I lift a shoulder to my ear, lips cocked. “Maybe from yourself?”
Something flickers across his handsome face—just a flash of something sad or scared, or maybe he’s just tired and I’m making it into something it’s not. He rakes a hand along his beard, appearing lost in thought for a moment. The curiosity that was already simmering inside me roars to life.
“I don’t need to be saved from myself,” he says. “Last I checked, I’m getting along just fine.”
“Okay. Then maybe,” I say gently, “you just need to be needed.”
He doesn’t speak.
Just stands there, staring at the trees like they might have the answers.
“You’re describing a hero complex,” he finally speaks. “I don’t have that.”
“If you say so.” I return to the porch swing and put my book aside, patting the spot next to me. “Come. Sit down. Stay awhile. It’s so quiet out here. I’m still getting used to the lack of . . . people. I could use some company.”
He hesitates, his dirty boots planted firm in the wet grass.
I nod toward the far end of the swing. “Don’t make me beg.”
He shakes his head, lips parting like he’s about to mutter some kind of flimsy excuse, but then to my surprise, he trudges over, climbs the creaky, broken front steps, and lowers himself onto the swing. He’s careful not to crowd me, leaving plenty of space between us.
“Don’t go anywhere.” I get up, disappear inside for a moment, and come back with a bottle of red wine from some local vineyard and two stemless glasses.
This time, I sit closer to him. Maybe a good nine inches is all that separates us, but it might as well be a country mile.
His walls are up, but I’m determined to take them down even if I have to knock them over with a little help from my friend Cabernet Sauvignon.
“You don’t strike me as a wine guy,” I say, “but it’s all I’ve got.”
He takes the glass I hand him. Doesn’t complain.
I curl my legs against my chest, breathing deeply while Hunter sits rigid against the opposite armrest, the wind stirring the trees and the generator humming low in the background.
“You always drink on your porch with strange men in the dark?” he asks.
“Only the ones who bring me backup power.”
He huffs out something close to a laugh.
I sip my wine. “We’re not really strangers anymore, though.
You told me where you grew up and where you went to school.
I can see your house from here. I’ve been in your kitchen and in your truck.
We ate lunch together. I know how old you are.
We went to the same college. I’ve seen you around town.
Only thing I don’t know about you is your Social Security number and your mother’s maiden name. ”
He chuffs, peering my way through his dark lashes.