Chapter 24 Wren
Wren
The house is quiet after dinner. Atticus is tucked in, freshly bathed and sun-drunk from his long afternoon with Hunter and Sugarplum.
He must’ve ridden for hours. Tonight he fell asleep mid-sentence, something about building her a stable out of sticks and duct tape.
I pressed a kiss to his forehead, pulled the covers to his chin, and stood in the doorway for longer than necessary, just watching him breathe.
I’m making my way back downstairs when I hear water running and dishes clinking. Stopping at the bottom step, I peek into the kitchen.
Hunter McCrae is washing my dishes.
He’s got his sleeves rolled up, his stance relaxed, like this is just something he does.
Like it’s normal. Like we’re normal.
I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe.
“You’re still here,” I finally say.
He glances over his shoulder. “What, like I had somewhere else to be?”
When he turns back to rinse a plate, I swear I see the faintest smile playing on his lips.
We finish the rest together—quietly, efficiently, without any of the weird tension I expected. It’s a kind of silence that’s easy, not empty. Natural, almost.
When the last dish is in the rack, I reach for a towel and dry my hands.
“I feel like I need to pay you for your services today,” I say. “What do I owe you?”
Hunter tosses the damp dish rag on the counter. “Come outside and talk to me and I’ll consider it even.”
I squint before pressing the back of my hand to his forehead. “You feeling okay?”
He captures my wrist, eyes locked on mine. “Haven’t felt okay since the day you walked into my world and turned it upside down, honey.”
My stomach flips.
“You’re romanticizing me.” I pull my hand back with a smirk. “I’ll talk to you outside, but don’t kiss me.”
He drags his finger across his chest, marking an X. “I promise I won’t kiss you.”
We step out onto the porch, the night wrapping around us like a worn quilt. No wine. No beer. Just the creak of the swing and a million stars overhead. The seat shifts beneath us as we settle in, and Hunter leans back, arm stretched along the backrest, close but not quite touching me.
“So tell me about that idiot who left you at the altar,” he says out of nowhere, like it’s a question he’s been waiting forever to ask.
“That’s . . . random.”
“Not at all.” His brows lift as he stares straight ahead, confident. “I want to know how he fumbled you so I don’t make the same mistake.”
I fight a laugh and shoot him a look. “You won’t make the same mistake.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you won’t have the opportunity,” I cut back. “Nice try, though. That was a good line. I should use that in a book.”
“Fine. I’ll give you exclusive rights to use that line in a book—but only if you tell me what happened.”
I wait a beat, exhale, then say, “The day of our wedding, his high school girlfriend messaged him on Facebook.”
“Why was he checking Facebook on his wedding day? Shouldn’t he have been . . . I don’t know, doing more important things?”
“That’s a great question, and I don’t particularly need to know the answer anymore.”
“Did he get back with her?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” I say, leaving out any mention of Nick texting me the other week.
I didn’t respond, and he hasn’t reached out since.
There’s nothing he could possibly say to change how I feel about him and what went down.
As callous as it may sound, Nick is dead to me.
“And he didn’t technically leave me at the altar.
I was in the parking lot outside the church.
With my dad. Minutes from being walked down the aisle. ”
A quiet beat rests between us.
“I’d written him this beautiful love letter for that morning.
Had my maid of honor, Reese, deliver it to his hotel suite along with these platinum cuff links I had custom made with his monogram.
Anyway, that letter . . . poured my heart and soul into it.
It was more personal than anything I’d ever written—I mean, I thought I was writing to the man I was going to spend the rest of my life with.
” I suck in my cheeks, the phantom sting of foolishness sending a flash of heat to them.
“When I spotted him in the church parking lot before our ceremony, I thought it was odd he wasn’t inside, waiting for me at the altar.
He wasn’t smiling. Didn’t seem happy to see me.
His expression alone was a punch to the gut.
Before he said a word . . . I knew. And then he handed me a folded-up piece of paper, a letter written on hotel stationery.
Told me he was sorry. Got into his car and drove away. ”
“Jesus.” Hunter massages the back of his neck before blowing a breath between his lips.
I wait for him to ask what the letter said, but he doesn’t, and I’m grateful for that because I don’t even remember.
It was some hastily scribbled half-assed apology about how he realized he’s still in love with his ex and marrying me wouldn’t be right.
“Cliché, right?” I shake my head. “Thing is, it hurt. It was humiliating. But the worst part was what it did to my son. Atti thought Nick was going to be his dad.” I stare down at my hands, wringing them. “I’ll never let anyone do that to him again.”
Hunter’s quiet for a while. “I don’t blame you. Anyone with half a brain would feel the same.”
I glance at him. “You said once that why you’re single was a story for another day. And, well, it’s another day and I want the story.”
He exhales slowly, eyes still on the stars.
“We’ve had a pretty good night, don’t you think?” he asks. “Let’s not go ruining it.”
That just makes me more curious.
He must see it on my face, because he smirks and adds, “Let’s talk about you instead. I kinda like talking about you. You’re a helluva lot more interesting than me.”
I roll my eyes at his compliment before adding, “You’re deflecting.”
“Maybe a little.” He pauses. “It’s just that I had you pegged wrong from the start.”
“How so?”
“I thought you were this stuck-up city transplant with too much attitude and no sense of grit. Someone who’d flake the second it got hard.
But you’re not. You’re tough as hell and you’re soft where it matters.
You’re sunshine and a rainstorm at the same time.
And the way you love that boy. You’re—” He stops, like he’s editing himself. “You’re magnetic.”
I swallow hard.
“No one’s ever gotten in my head the way you have,” he says. “I’m still trying to make sense of it.” A moment passes, then he adds, “And after the other week, I got one taste of you and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I give him a look. “You were probably just horny. You don’t date, remember? I bet you haven’t gotten laid in a while.”
He rolls his eyes, brushing my theory off. “If you knew how obsessed I’m becoming with you, you’d think I had a real problem.”
I snort. “Okay, Romeo. I’m also stealing that line for a book. It’s too good not to use.”
He groans, tipping his head back. “Wren.”
“I’m serious. You have a way with words,” I say, nudging his knee. “I’m using the shop scene too.”
He gives me a side-eye, not amused. Panicked, almost. Heavy on the silence, like the thought of it sucked all the air from his lungs.
“I’m kidding,” I add quickly. “You’re just .
. . giving me the kind of inspiration I haven’t had in a long time.
Seems wrong to waste it. The stuff I write about in books is the very same stuff you’ve been saying and doing.
You’re a real-life romance hero, and I don’t think you even realize it.
That’s the crazy part. Sometimes I feel like I wrote you into existence. ”
His eyes soften at that, and he reaches for my hand but doesn’t take it, just rests his fingers nearby.
The air is dense with unspoken things, but neither of us moves to fill it.
Eventually, he checks his watch and stands.
“I should head home. Have to run my truck to the mechanic early in the morning. Bad DEF sensor,” he says. This time it doesn’t feel like a made-up excuse, and I don’t even know what DEF is. “Thanks for dinner. Best spaghetti and meatballs I’ve ever had.”
Boxed Barilla pasta. Jarred Prego sauce. Frozen store-brand meatballs.
“You’re welcome, bad liar.” I rise, too, shoving my hands in my back pockets.
I walk him to the edge of the driveway, a few feet from his parked truck. We don’t hug. We don’t kiss. But the energy between us is loud and undeniable.
Once I’m inside and the door closes behind me, I head straight for my notebook.
And I write another letter.
Again the words come easily—easier than ever.
Maybe it’s because they’re from the heart.
I’d always thought fiction was easier to write.
It was less personal. Now I’m not so sure.
I’m hoping it won’t be long before I’m back to writing romance books, but until then .
. . this feels like bridging the gap—in the best way.
Hunter—
I told myself I wasn’t going to write to you or about you, that I was done fantasizing about some idealized version I crafted in my head. But here I am once again holding onto hope I’ve got no business gripping this tight.
What is this?
What are we doing?
I keep thinking about the way you looked tonight, casually standing at my sink, sleeves rolled up, hands in my dishwater like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I also keep thinking about how you watched Atticus ride that pony like it mattered, making sure his helmet was tight, that he knew all the commands. Teaching him what to do if he ever got bucked off. You genuinely cared about my son’s safety.
Additionally, I can’t stop thinking about how easy it is to talk to you when I’m not trying hard not to. How you can come across so cold and aloof to everyone else yet let me peek behind the curtain of your world is . . . fascinating.
I’m dying to know what it means.
I want to stop writing about you, but every time I stop, I find myself right back here, a blue-inked pen pressed hard against these lined pages, my handwriting barely able to keep up with my mind because it’s moving so fast.
Tonight you said you pegged me all wrong.
I’m beginning to wonder, though, if it’s the other way around.
And I’m not sure if that excites me . . . or scares me.
—Wren