Chapter 34 Wren
Wren
The porch is dark except for the soft glow of my phone screen, casting cold light across my lap, and the porch light drawing in dozens of milky white moths by the minute.
Atticus went to bed an hour ago, but I’m too restless to follow. My phone keeps buzzing, screen lighting up with the same name, over and over.
Nick.
I haven’t heard from him in weeks, not since the texts stopped and the silence stretched long enough for me to believe he’d finally taken the hint. But now, out of nowhere, he wants to talk. Wants to “catch up.” Wants to “check on me.” And tonight, he asked if he could talk to Atticus.
Like hell.
Atticus is too young to understand. Too innocent to grasp that Nick was only ever playing house with us until something shinier came along.
I’m not about to let him crack that little heart of his wide open just to disappear again.
No way. If I have any say in it, Nick will be a faded, half-formed memory to Atticus—an old face in forgotten photos, nothing more.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts I don’t realize a truck has pulled up until the crunch of gravel snaps me out of it.
My heart jumps until I see Hunter stepping out, his silhouette familiar even in the dark.
“I was driving past,” he calls. “Saw your porch light on. Figured I’d stop. Neighborly thing to do.”
I fight a smile, thinking of my Bat-Signal theory, but it pushes through anyway. He’s standing at the bottom of my steps like he’s asking permission to come closer, and I have no idea why that makes my stomach flutter the way it does.
“Just sitting here, scrolling my phone,” I say.
He climbs the steps and sits on the swing beside me, his body warm and solid. He smells faintly like motor oil and soap, like someone who worked a full day and cleaned up just enough to be respectable.
I shouldn’t be this happy to see him.
But I am.
So far, he’s proven himself a man of his word. Solid. Steady. He said I could call if I ever needed anything. Which I haven’t. And yet he continues showing up anyway.
Still, I remind myself—people are always on their best behavior in the beginning, before they’re comfortable enough to show you their true colors.
“You have a good day?” he asks, his gaze lazy, comfortable.
“Yeah. Actually. I wrote ten thousand words.”
His brow rises. “Is that good?”
“That’s really good. Best day I’ve had in over a year,” I say. “I think I’m getting my spark back.”
It’s because of him, but I keep that part to myself.
I wrote a scene today—dirty, unhinged, the kind of stuff I’d never admit was inspired by the man sitting next to me.
I even thought about writing the truck scene—but it felt wrong.
Like I’d be using him. I’ve always avoided putting real people in my books out of respect, even partners.
It’s a boundary I’ve never wanted to cross, and his reaction when I joked about using that scene the other day only reaffirmed that rule of mine.
He glances sideways at me. “What’re you smirking about?”
I blink, caught. “Was I smirking?”
“You were.”
I shrug. “Just . . . thinking.”
Hunter looks at me like he’s seeing something rare, something precious. His gaze lingers, substantial and easy all at once, and I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it. But I notice. I notice everything.
No one’s ever looked at me the way he does.
My phone buzzes again in my lap.
“You need to get that?” He points.
“Ex-fiancé.” I roll my eyes. “He’s been texting all day.”
Hunter’s face darkens, his jaw tightening. “He bothering you?”
“He’s just—persistent,” I say. “I block him, and he creates new Apple IDs to text me. It’s annoying but harmless.”
“Tell him to call you,” he says.
“What?”
“Right now. Tell him to call you.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “No way. I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Wren.” His voice is firm but not unkind. “Let him call. You won’t be the one talking to him anyway.”
Another text from Nick pops up—I just want to talk, Wren. Please.
I lock eyes with Hunter before firing back: Fine. Call me. Right now.
The phone rings two seconds later. My heart starts this stupid uneven gallop, but Hunter holds out his hand. I hesitate but place the phone in his palm.
Hunter answers. “Is this the pathetic dumbass who fumbled Wren?”
There’s a beat of silence, then I faintly hear Nick’s voice. “Who . . . who is this?”
Hunter leans forward, elbows on his knees, calm as ever. “Sorry, pal. She’s moved on. She doesn’t want to hear from you again, so stop contacting her or you’ll have bigger problems to deal with than your fragile ego. Consider this your first and final warning.”
Then he ends the call without waiting for a response.
I sit there, stunned. Blinking. My heart hammering in the best way.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I finally say.
“Yes, I did,” he tells me, voice low and sure. “Guys like that? They don’t respect women. But the ironic part is, they’re spineless. He’d never act like that around another man.”
He hands me back my phone. “He’s going to leave you alone now.”
I stare at him, my chest tight, my throat warmer than I’d like to admit, and my lips on fire because I could kiss this man.
No one’s ever stood up for me like that. Not really. Not like that.
God help me. I’m starting to think Hunter McCrae might actually be exactly who he says he is.