Chapter 28 Wren
Wren
By the time Natalie and I squeeze into a table at the Tipsy Turtle, my senses are already overloaded and the bottom of my heels stick like Velcro against the floor.
It’s perfect.
And downtown Des Moines could never.
Natalie flags down the server and orders us a round of vodka sodas while I peel off my denim jacket, already regretting my choice of long sleeves. I dressed for the cooler weather that hits on these late spring nights, but in here, it might as well be subtropical.
“You’re officially back.” She grins. “You can’t call yourself a Colton Valley girl again until you’ve sweated through your bra at the Tipsy Turtle at least once.”
“Is that the town motto?” I tease.
“It should be.”
We’re mid-catch-up when two women approach our table—both blond, perky, and painted in enough self-tanner to survive a long winter underground. Natalie recognizes them immediately.
“Hey, girls,” she says, gesturing to me. “This is Wren. She’s the one I told you about. The one who charmed the uncharmable farmer.”
Both their faces change, eyes wide, lips curving into the kind of knowing smirks that say they’re very aware of who she means.
“No shit? You’re the one who charmed Hunter McCrae?” one of them asks, not even trying to hide her intrigue. She leans against our table, resting her chin on the top of her hand. “Tell me all your secrets. Teach me your ways.”
I try to wave it off. “We’re just neighbors.”
“Mm-hmm,” the other one sings, shooting me a look like Sure, Jan.
They peel off before I can correct the record, and Natalie chuckles into her drink.
“You’re kinda famous around here now and not because you write books,” she says. “Better get used to being ‘Hunter’s neighbor’ for the foreseeable future.”
“We’re not a thing,” I clarify, because that feels important to say out loud, even though I’m the only one who needs convincing.
She arches a brow. “You know he’s the most eligible, most grumpy, most off-limits man in this county, right?”
“Maybe I have a type.”
“Apparently you do. But just so you know, you’ve got another admirer tonight.”
I blink. “What?”
She tips her chin across the room, where an objectively attractive man has been posted up at the bar, gaze locked on me like he’s already decided how the night’s going to end.
Tall, built, wavy dark blond hair, dimpled smile.
He’s dressed like half the other guys here—jeans, boots, some kind of farm cap—but he wears it with a little more swagger.
“That’s Cole Benton,” Natalie says, sitting straighter.
“Runs a huge farm on the west side of the county. We went to school with his sister, Cara. I don’t know if you remember her.
She was always really quiet. Anyway, he’s single, stupid rich, and allergic to long-term commitment. Just a heads-up on that.”
I barely have time to register any of that before he pushes off his stool and saunters our way, beer in hand, confidence dripping off him like sweat.
“I hear you’re the new author in town,” he says, stopping just shy of my knee.
“That’s what you’re leading with?” I say, blinking up at him.
“I figured the stories were exaggerated, but . . .” His gaze slides down, then back up, and I fight the urge to cross my arms. “I don’t think they did you justice.”
He’s charming—in a cringey way, I’ll give him that. A Des Moines girl would eat him for breakfast. This sort of thing would never work there. But here? His smile is sharp and smooth, the kind that’s probably gotten him out of speeding tickets and into an awful lot of beds.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, voice slick.
“I’m good, thanks,” I tell him, holding up my half-full glass.
He sits anyway, plopping onto the seat beside me, elbows on his knees like we’re already mid-conversation. “You always this hard to impress?”
“Only when I’m not trying to be impressed.”
Natalie lets out a low laugh beside me, covering her mouth.
“You write those . . . dirty books . . . don’t you?” Cole asks, leaning in closer like we’re sharing a secret.
“Contemporary romance novels,” I say. “Not erotica, if that’s what you’re assuming. There’s a difference. Not that there’s anything wrong with writing erotica. Just setting the record straight.”
Regardless, he gives me a look like he’s just caught me red-handed stealing from the smut shelf at the library.
“Should’ve known a woman that sexy would be a writer,” he says, practically drooling from the corner of his mouth. If I had to guess, Cole’s about six beers in and the night is young. “Bet you’ve got quite the imagination.”
I force a polite smile, already over it.
I don’t want to smell his cheap cologne or catch another whiff of his stale beer breath.
“What do I gotta do to get you on my arm tonight?” he asks, flashing a grin like it’s the most reasonable question in the world.
“I’m not looking for anything,” I say, decisive.
“Oh come on. Doesn’t have to be serious,” he shoots back, his knee knocking into mine like it’s intentional. “Just a little fun.”
“I’m not into casual,” I say.
His smile falters for half a second before he tries again, leaning closer. His breath smells like bourbon and bravado.
“Tell you what,” he says, “I’ll put you on my payroll. How’s a hundred grand a year sound? You hang on my arm, smile pretty, let me show you off, keep my bed warm on those lonely nights. That’s your only job.”
I laugh, because I can’t not. “You serious right now?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Easiest money you’ll ever make.”
I shake my head, an incredulous grin stretching despite myself. “It’d take a lot more than that to make me want to be with someone who thinks they can buy me.”
His grin fades, and the cheap charm wafting off him a second ago vanishes like a snapped light switch.
“Please,” he sneers, speaking between clenched teeth like I suddenly disgust him. “You’re just a smut writer. I’d be doing you a favor.”
I open my mouth, but Natalie’s already shooting up, standing between us like she’s about to throw hands in the middle of the Tipsy Turtle.
“Okay, time for you to get the fuck out of here, Cole,” she says, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Go harass someone else.”
Cole throws his hands up, muttering something under his breath before slinking off toward the bar like the coward he is.
I sit there, stunned, heart pounding.
Natalie sits beside me again, her mouth tight. “All men suck.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, but I’m only half listening because my mind’s somewhere else.
On someone else.
Hunter.
He doesn’t suck.
At least not yet.
Not so far.
He’s rough, sure. Grumpy as hell. But he’s never once treated me like I was less than. He’s never once looked at me like I was a thing to win or buy or collect.
I stare down into my drink, swishing the ice.
I’m not ready for love. And I’m definitely not looking.
But if I ever gave someone a chance again . . . maybe it’d be him.
Not now.
Not yet.
But maybe someday.
Maybe.