Love in Bloom (Haven #2)

8. Chapter 8

March

“W allflowers,” Wren answered the phone, “how may I help you?” He heard the smile in her voice. His plan might work out after all.

“I’d like one beautiful florist delivered to my house tomorrow around sixish.”

“I’m sorry, sir, we seem to be all out of those.”

“Please?”

“Why?” It wasn’t hard to hear the irritation in her voice.

Miller sighed and rubbed his forehead. He’d thought he was making progress with Wren. They’d gone to listen to the DJ one more time before Jackson and Emily hired her and the “swans” had joined the “posse” one night at the Galley.

The swans was the nickname Croix had given Emily, Wren, Rica, and London, because he was tired of having to say their names. The posse comprised him, Jackson, Croix, and Parker. It was a leftover nickname from their teen years that had stuck.

Miller had been charming and accommodating on both occasions, but the polar ice cap was melting faster than she was. It didn’t help that she ran hot and cold with him. One minute she was calling him Counselor in her ice-maiden voice and the next she was melting and all but purring his name.

Miller hated playing the guilt card, but if that was the only trick he had, he would. “I need help with a project. For the wedding.” He heard her sigh in resignation.

“In that case, we do have a slightly wilted florist. Will that work?”

“That will be perfect.” Miller smiled and looked at his watch. Time either crawled on Friday afternoons or moved at warp speed. Today it crawled. He didn’t like slow days, but he appreciated the necessity of them. He’d cleared off his desk, followed-up on a few non-urgent phone calls, and checked his personal calendar for the next few months. Miller should have started sooner on Jackson and Emily’s wedding gift, but he’d been procrastinating. He needed help. He’d been stewing on the idea ever since he’d seen Wren’s paintings.

“Do I need to bring anything for this project?”

“No, just yourself.”

“Feeding me again, Counselor?” He didn’t hear the ice maiden, but he didn’t hear purring either. Slight progress, maybe .

“Yep. It’s a habit. Six o’clock. Come earlier, if you can.” Miller hung up the phone. Feeding Wren had become an easy habit, and it was one he intended to keep.

As Miller shut down his computer, William Anderson, founding partner of the firm, entered his office. “I reviewed your billing sheets for the last few months,” he started. Aaand , thought Miller. William was a slow speaker, which made it difficult for Miller to follow his boss’s thoughts. His mind wandered between sentences. He was working on being patient with the older man. “Your billable hours are up ten percent, which is nice to see.”

“Thank you.”

“But your pro bono percentage is also up. We warned you about this in the fall.” Miller kept his mouth shut. There wasn’t anything to say. William continued, “Before committing the firm to any more pro bono cases, you will need to bring them to me. If I think it’s one the firm should take on, I’ll decide who will handle it.”

William stood taller as though preparing for an argument. Miller wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He’d battled with William before about pro bono cases, but the penny-pinching elitist wouldn’t listen. One thing was sure: when Miller became partner, they’d have to change their thinking.

“Understood.” Miller nodded.

“We can’t afford to give away our services.”

“I understand,” Milled repeated louder. William placed the reports on Miller’s desk and left his office. What the hell is wrong with these people?! His pro bono work was barely more than it had been last time. It made no sense for AAS to be busting his chops for a negligible increase in free work when his billable work was up over ten percent. The pro bono work made all the family law and divorce cases tolerable.

And now he’d have to clear everything with William. He’d be lucky if he helped anyone. Miller didn’t think legal advice should only be available to the people who could afford it. He turned off his office light and shut the door quickly, the adult version of a teenager door slam.

M iller wiped his floured hands on the towel tucked into his jeans before he opened the door.

“Hi,” Wren said. Miller noticed her tracks through the snow and then looked at her.

“Sorry about that,” he said, pointing to the tracks. “I shoveled after lunch and then lost track of time. It definitely picked up.” He stepped back to let her in. By the time he’d shut the door, she’d removed her winter coat to reveal a baggy sweatshirt and jeans. Disappointment coursed through Miller, but he had no one to blame but himself. He’d prefaced the evening as casual, and Wren had followed his instructions.

I’m obviously not worth the effort of changing into a nice sweater , he thought as he hung up her coat. Miller forgot his complaints as he watched Wren dispose of her boots. Her well-worn jeans hugged her backside like a second skin. But all too soon, Wren had the boots off and she followed him up the stairs to the small galley kitchen.

He poured her a glass of red wine and went back to shaping the dough. Wren settled herself on the bar stool across from him and leaned her elbows on the counter. “This is nice,” she commented as she looked around. The main level was an open floor plan. A granite island separated the kitchen from the living room, with its fireplace on one wall and a big-screen television on the other. French doors with large windows overlooked the Poplar River on the side opposite the kitchen, and bookcases flanked the stone fireplace. They overflowed with a variety of books and an occasional framed photo. The grey and blue color scheme suited him. Clean, contemporary, and masculine.

“Thanks. I like it.”

“Is it the same layout as Jackson’s?”

“Yep. All four of the houses on this street are the same.” Miller dusted flour on the countertop. “Bottom level is at the river and we all have a dock and boat. Street level is the garage, mudroom, and utility closet. Then there’s this level. Top level has the master suite and another bedroom.” Miller pulled pizza toppings and a container of antipasto from the refrigerator.

“So, what’s the wedding project you need help with? I didn’t think you had to do anything.”

“I have plenty to do, but I will admit, you have more. Dinner first and then we’ll talk about the project.”

“Can I help?”

Miller studied her before answering. Wren’s hair had grown out to shoulder length and hung loose for a change, and he liked it. The bright lighting in the kitchen highlighted her freckles and the dark circles underneath her eyes. He couldn’t be sure if they were due to the harsh lighting, the curse of being fair complexioned, or to being tired.

“No. I actually like cooking. I find it relaxing.” Wren watched as Miller slathered on the sauce, covered it with different toppings, and placed it on the pizza stone in the oven. “Let’s move to the couch while this bakes. It’s a lot more comfortable than that stool,” Miller said as he grabbed the bottle of wine and the tray of antipasto and led the way to the living room.

Wren settled back on the couch and curled up. That move had always fascinated Miller. When men sat on a couch, they sprawled everywhere and took up as much room as they could, but women curled up. Wren looked tiny and tired. “I know what I’m about to say is a terrible no-no,” he started.

“Well, this should be fun,” Wren deadpanned and took a sip of her wine.

“You look exhausted. I’m not saying bad, just exhausted.” Miller held up his hands in defense.

“You’re right, Counselor, and to prove it, I’m not even going to argue with you.” Wren filled her plate from the antipasto tray, sighed, and snuggled further into the couch.

“Busy at work or is it something else?” Hopefully, not someone else, he thought.

“Work. I was up late last night working on the Kister funeral flowers and then up again early this morning to finish them.” Wren popped an olive in her mouth and then continued. “Mr. Kister is just devastated. They’d been married for over sixty years. It took a long time for him to decide on the flowers, and of course the ones he wanted I needed to order, and they didn’t arrive until this morning. Mrs. Kister was a great knitter, and the daughter thought it would be nice to include some knitting needles in the casket spray. I thought that was a nice touch. When they left, she said they’d be right back with the needles, but they were waylaid at home and didn’t get back to the shop until later in the evening. Nice people. Lovely people. But their grief slowed everything down. I’m sure that makes me sound like a horrible person.” She stopped and looked at Miller as if to gauge his reaction.

“No, it must be difficult dealing with people at that time.”

“In a way, it’s much easier to deal with the people who are working on automatic pilot, keeping their grief at arm’s length. The ones who act as though ordering a casket spray was just like ordering a large centerpiece. Will it be the right size? Will it complement the casket? Those types of questions.” Miller remained quiet so she’d continue to talk and unwind. “In fact, when I first started doing arrangements, I was terrified of doing casket sprays. But then, my Aunt June explained they’re nothing more than an oversized centerpiece, and voila, no more fear.”

“You must deal with all sorts of emotions and customers during the week.”

“I do, but funerals are by far the worst.” Wren tucked an errant piece of hair behind her ear.

“Well, I’d like to be like Mr. Kister when my wife dies. I’d like to be devastated.”

Wren tilted her head and studied him.

“You look surprised,” Miller said.

“I am. I figured with the number of divorces you handled, marriage would be the last thing you wanted.”

“You figured wrong.” Wren pointed her empty wineglass at Miller and he poured her some more. “The goal is partnership at AAS and then marriage.”

“So, you, the missus, two kids, a minivan, fenced-in yard for the dog, the whole shebang, eh?” Wren said, smirking.

“The whole bit, yes.” Miller smiled. If Wren was trying to embarrass him, it wasn’t working. “Although, I’m not too sure about the minivan.” He surveyed the remaining appetizers and settled on a piece of prosciutto-wrapped mozzarella. “I’ve seen lots of successful marriages, and from what I can tell, you need respect, friendship, patience, and the belief that it’s a partnership. I think I can find it, and when I do, it will be a lifelong love affair that ends in devastation.” Wren squirmed. Miller didn’t know if it was from physical, mental, or emotional discomfort.

“I’m not judging you, or your marriage, Wren,” he said to reassure her. “It takes two to tango and when one partner dances with someone else, then the whole equation changes.”

“Such a delicate way to say ‘cheated,’” Wren teased. “And I think you mixed your metaphors, Counselor. I hear what you’re saying, but I think my marriage was doomed from the start. I was too young and too unsure of myself. Toward the end, Michael admitted one of the reasons he chose me was because I was the total opposite of his mother.” Wren shook her head as a self-deprecating laugh erupted. Miller watched as the soft lights in the living room bounced off her hair. “For a momma’s boy, he sure liked pissing her off. And then I turned into her. I think that’s what drove his behavior.”

“Maybe, but he chose to have an affair. He saw what was happening to you, and from what you’ve said, I’m guessing he didn’t do anything to support you or help.” Wren said nothing for a while.

“If I’d been more confident, I don’t think I would have been swayed so easily by Beverly, my ex-mother-in-law. That’s what I’m working on now. To figure out who I am and who I want to be, instead of being what others want me to be.” She sent him a weak smile and looked into his eyes, as if she were warning him.

“What do you want to be?”

“A successful business owner, independent, part of a community, and maybe someday, if the right man came along, I wouldn’t mind trying marriage again.” Wren rolled her head. “As a divorcee, I’d like to say there’s no such thing as long-term marriages, but I’m reminded it exists every week at work. So, there’s hope.”

Wren looked at her wineglass as she swirled the deep purple liquid and watched the wine’s legs slide down the inside of the goblet. “Here’s to being devastated when our spouses die,” Wren toasted and then cringed. “Ugh, sorry. That sounded much better in my head.”

“It usually does”—he clinked his bottle against her glass—“but I agree with the sentiment.” He studied her as he took a drink and her eyes never left his. Wren didn’t look at him like she was indifferent to him.

“This is nice.” She broke eye contact and played with her wineglass again.

“The shiraz?”

Wren shook her head no and the corner of her mouth quirked up. “No this. Sharing. I’d forgotten how nice it was to wind down like this and have someone listen to my day.”

“Careful, Wren,” Miller cautioned, leaning toward her. “Sharing is what friends do.”

“I know, Miller,” Wren whispered before looking from his eyes to his lips. Miller set his bottle down and slipped his hand behind her neck, urging her closer. Wren’s eyelids fluttered closed as he bent his head.

The oven shrieked, startling them. Miller quickly stood to check on the pizza and silence the blasted buzzer. He cursed the rotten timing. The moment was lost, but he’d keep his eye out for another opportunity if Wren gave him one.

He returned a few minutes later with the pizza, plates, and another bottle of Kaliber for him. He sat closer to her on the couch, their thighs almost touching. If she’d noticed it, she didn’t say anything or scoot away. Scooting was difficult on his soft couch, but if she’d wanted to scoot, she could have.

Wren’s stomach growled as he plated a piece of pizza for her. A cheese strand clung to the pie, and Wren used her fingers to break it off. “Careful, it’s hot,” Miller warned. Wren wound the melty strands around her finger before sucking them into her mouth. Miller couldn’t stop watching her, and Wren watched him just as intently. He tore his gaze away from her full lips and handed her the plate.

“Oh, this is delicious,” Wren said around a mouthful of pizza. Miller watched her catch another errant string of cheese with her tongue. He shifted in his seat and took a long, cold drink.

“So, since we’re friends,” Wren started, “what’s with the Kaliber? Don’t you like wine?”

“Actually, I do like wine, I’m just not a fan of the non-alcoholic ones.” Miller knew this conversation would happen at some point, but that didn’t mean he had to make it easy on Wren.

“So, it’s alcohol you’re not a fan of?”

“No. I’m OK with alcohol and I’m OK with people drinking it.”

“But, yet, you don’t, usually.” She tilted her head to the side as though he were a puzzle she didn’t understand. “Why’s that?” she asked. Miller slowly chewed his pizza. Good manners bought him some time. He much preferred asking questions than answering them, especially when they were personal and painful. But as a newcomer to Haven, Wren probably didn’t know his story.

“Listen, forget I asked,” Wren blurted as she helped herself to another piece.

“No, it’s OK, I was just gathering my thoughts. To be honest, no one’s ever asked me this before, so I don’t have a pat answer. I guess it’s because they already know the answer.”

“Who’s they?”

“Everyone in Haven, I guess. They all know my legacy and they’re just waiting for me to step up and claim it,” he said as he wiped the corner of his mouth. He hoped he hadn’t sounded bitter.

“What legacy?” Wren asked.

Miller stared at the bottle in his hand. “My grandfather was the town drunk until the day he died, and my father was well on his way to sharing the honor, but he left town when I was thirteen.”

“Oh, Miller, I’m so sorry. That must have been rough on your family.” Wren placed her hand on his arm. Miller covered her small, rough hand with his own and wound his fingers through hers before continuing.

“It was what we knew. Dad had always been a drinker. It was a big part of his identity. I remember when I was in elementary school, maybe second or third grade, he’d come home from work, grab a beer, and yell ‘it’s Miller time.’ That was my cue to grab whatever ball was in season and we’d go out in the backyard and play catch, just the two of us. I thought it was our special time. It was only as an adult I learned ‘Miller time’ was a slogan and not a special moment.” Miller stopped, embarrassed to have shared that memory, that secret. “My younger brother, JD, is named after Jack Daniels.” It seemed that after a lifetime of keeping his mouth shut, his vocal cords wanted to make up for lost time.

“Wow,” Wren mumbled. “And your mom was OK with naming her sons after booze?”

“My mom did whatever she needed to do to keep dad happy. When he was happy, he drank less. She did the best she could. None of it was her fault,” Miller said harshly as he defended his mother.

“I’m not assigning fault or blame. I’m just trying to make sense of it.” Wren squeezed his hand.

“Well, if you do, let me know. I gave up trying long ago.” Miller took a deep breath, hoping it would ease the tension in his chest. It didn’t. “Anyway, his drinking got worse when he lost his job at the mill. My uncle was logging in Montana and Dad left to join him. He sent money home on a fairly regular basis. We survived.” He gave her a reassuring smile and hoped she wouldn’t notice how fake it was.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“He made it to my law school graduation and then the next time I saw him was at his funeral.”

“So you avoid alcohol because you’re afraid you might be like them?” she asked.

“Seems the best course of action in case it’s genetic.”

“But you were drinking before the auction.”

“True. Usually I only drink if it’s an important celebration. But there are rare occasions, like the auction, where I wander off the straight and narrow. I catch myself pretty quickly though and get back on the path.”

“Well, you’re only human, and none of us are perfect.” Wren squeezed his hand and Miller released the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

He set his empty bottle down and reached for the remote control. “I don’t know about you, but after sharing my baggage, I’m ready for something light. Let’s find a movie to watch.” Miller was all done talking, and, luckily, for once, Wren fell into his plan and didn’t argue with him. He didn’t want to focus on the past; he’d done enough of that. He wanted to focus on the future and the possibilities that lived there. Wren moved closer and curled up at his side.

“Puck drops for the Wild at eight. We could watch that or you could tell me about your mysterious wedding project?” She didn’t have to ask twice about hockey. Miller turned on the game and settled back with Wren tucked into him. Right now, the future felt pretty good.

The future was even better two and a half hours later when the Wild won. Miller turned off the television. Wren had snuggled further into his side after he’d put his arm around her. Her head rested against his chest and her left hand was a little below that. Miller watched the gentle curve of her breasts rise and fall with her slow and even breathing. She was asleep. Should he wake her or stay where he was?

With the television off, the living room was dark. The bright full moon cast long shadows in the room. Through the patio French doors, Miller saw the snow was still falling heavily. The local weather channels had predicted anywhere from ten to fifteen inches of the fluffy white stuff, but it looked like it could be more, a lot more. Wren stirred and lifted her head. “Did we win?”

“Yeah, we won. Good nap?” Miller smiled down at her.

“Very good.” She fiddled with his shirt button before looking at him. She bit her lip. Miller wondered if she was doing it to torture him. “Miller?”

When she didn’t continue, he prompted, “Yes?”

“Is this the bachelor auction date Mrs. Hart won?”

“Don’t you mean the bachelor auction date Mrs. Hart bid on for you, since you had to pay her with a painting?”

“Don’t argue the details, just answer the question.”

“Do you want it to be the bachelor auction date?”

“Leave it to a lawyer to answer a question with another question,” Wren grumbled and Miller chuckled, but didn’t say anything. He wanted Wren to answer his question.

“Well, it can’t be the bachelor auction date. For that, you promised a home-cooked meal—“

“Which you got.”

“And entertainment—“

“We watched the Wild.”

“Na-ah-ah,” she scolded, wiggling her finger at him. “You said we’d go to a Wild game. This was us sitting on your couch. Not much effort there.” She shook her head.

“Hey, I made you homemade pizza, including dough made from scratch. I put plenty of effort into this date,” Miller defended.

“This can be a date, but it can’t be the bachelor date, because for that you also promised dessert, and I haven’t seen any dessert.”

“So, you’re busting my chops for a technicality?”

“I’m afraid I must, unless you have dessert somewhere,” she teased. Miller tossed his head back against the couch and ran through the food in his pantry and freezer. He didn’t stock desserts, they were too tempting, but there might be a half-eaten pint of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream in the freezer and a leftover bag of chocolate chips in the pantry.

“Well?” Wren moved the hand that had been torturing Miller by playing with his shirt buttons slowly up his chest to his chin and turned him to face her.

“I’ve got nothing in the kitchen. Sorry.”

“Dessert doesn’t need to be from the kitchen.” She traced the outline of his lips with her slim finger and then stretched up to kiss him.

“Wren,” Miller whispered against her lips, “what are you doing?”

“I’m— I’m not sure. But I want to keep doing it.”

She tried to deepen the kiss by running her tongue along Miller’s sealed lips, but he pulled back.

“Ginge, you’ve had two glasses of wine and you’re tired. I don’t want you to regret this.”

“I had two glasses of wine over two hours ago and twice that amount in pizza,” she replied while peppering his jaw with tiny kisses. “And, I had a long nap, so I’m wide awake. Look, I know I’ve been keeping you at arm’s length. But I’m tired of fighting my attraction to you.” Her eyes met his and he could see the desire in them. “Not every kiss has to be the start of a relationship.”

Miller took her hand and placed a kiss on her palm. Wren braced herself against him and swung her leg around to straddle him.

“So are we having dessert or not, Counselor?” she asked, her eyes focused on his lips.

“I thought you were done with the Counselor routine?” Miller concentrated on his breathing. Slow and steady. In and out.

“I’m hoping it will get me into your briefs.” He felt her smile against his neck. She ran her hand down his chest. “Miller, I’m tired of fighting my attraction to you. I know what I want.”

“What’s that?” he asked. In and out. In and out.

“To spend the night.” She looked him in the eyes. Miller’s breath caught.

“Before I combust, I need to clarify,” he said, exhaling forcefully while shifting Wren further back on this lap. “Am I sleeping on the couch tonight or in my own bed with you?” Wren stood up and held out her hand.

“In your own bed, and I’m hoping there won’t be much sleeping” She looked down at him, and there was no way he could resist. He grabbed her outstretched hand and stood. Miller led Wren through the darkened living room and up the stairs to his master suite. Wren in his bed. Yep, the future was full of possibilities.

W ren reached down to pull up the blanket. Her hand came up empty. She always had an extra blanket at the foot of the bed. Where was it? She opened her eyes and squinted at the sunlight sneaking in under the blinds. Odd, she didn’t get morning sun. As she came awake, it all came back to her. She wasn’t in her bed. She was in Miller’s. Alone.

She should feel panicked, but she wasn’t. She should be embarrassed, but she wasn’t. Shame? Regret? No, neither of those. Wren sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. A slow smile spread across her face. She’d like to credit it to all the sex, but she owed it to the man. As irritating as he was, Miller made her happy.

Now, she just needed to figure out how to gracefully exit the house. She’d never done this before and didn’t know the proper etiquette. How did one handle morning-afters when one wasn’t in a relationship? And they weren’t starting a relationship because involvement with Miller wasn’t an option. As much as Wren wanted him, and it scared her how much she did, he wanted something she wanted no part of. Partnership with AAS. If she could remember his goal, it would keep her from doing something stupid. Because if she followed her heart and not her head, it would end in heartbreak for her.

Wren contemplated Googling “morning-after etiquette” as she dressed, but that seemed silly. Calling a friend wasn’t an option either. They had too many friends in common, and it felt disloyal to share their intimate details. It wasn’t anyone else’s business but theirs. They were both consenting, responsible, reasonable adults. She needed to act normal. She finger-combed her hair and swished some of his mouthwash around in her mouth. Not the best look, she noted as she looked in the mirror, but it would have to do.

She headed down the stairs and peeked out the window. Everything was sparkling white. Haven looked lovely after a snowfall. Wren stood there and contemplated the difficulty in painting so many colors of white and the added challenge of capturing the glistening crystals. Her nose pressed against the window as her breath fogged up the glass. The street had been plowed, and her car was a spot of color in all the white. Miller shoveled me out , again . She’d never asked him, but she was certain he’d been the one to surprise her with a shoveled sidewalk the morning after her divorce celebration. She wandered into the kitchen and found a note propped against the coffee maker. I’m in the basement. Help yourself to coffee & come join me. We need to discuss the wedding project. ~ M

Wren popped a pod into the fancy, single-cup coffee maker and added milk and sugar to the cup as it brewed. Miller had a fully stocked kitchen and refrigerator so rustling up breakfast—or lunch, Wren realized when she looked at the clock—would be easy. He had enough food to last many days. Wren wondered what it would be like to be snowed in. Stuck with Miller. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.

After last night, she knew what her suggestion would be to keep them occupied, and she didn’t think Miller would disagree. Stop right there, missy . There can be no repeats of last night’s shenanigans! Think with your head, not your heart. The coffee maker sputtered out its last drops of nectar and Wren prepared to go find Miller.

Friend , she repeated with each step she took down the flight of stairs to the front door entryway. She opened a door and discovered the mudroom, which led to the garage. No sign of Miller, but she heard music. As she went down the next flight of stairs, the music grew louder. ABBA?

The Mamma Mia soundtrack surprised her, but the scene in front of her blew her mind and caused her heart to beat faster. Miller sat in front of a pottery wheel in a faded Bon Jovi concert T-shirt and low riding sweatpants. The wheel spun and Miller had his hands on the grey lump in the middle. Wren knew how lucky the clay was to be in his confident, sure hands. She watched the way his hands moved up the clay and the way he used his fingers to get the exact reaction he wanted from it.

Wren’s body woke up as it remembered the way Miller had coaxed her reactions last night. For her own sanity, she needed to stop watching him. Maybe she should go back upstairs and wait for him to come find her. No, the note had said for her to find him. They needed to discuss his mysterious wedding project. She was stuck. She couldn’t stay but she didn’t want to interrupt. Wren knew what it was like to be in the creative zone and didn’t want to pull him out of it. The wheel stopped and he looked up.

“Good morning,” he greeted. His voice was gravely, as if those were the first words he’d said all day. Wren noted the day-old beard and the bed head with clay streaks in it. Not the usual image Miller Lynch, Esquire, presented to Haven.

“This is not what I expected.” Wren swept her arm around the room.

“What were you expecting? Fifty Shades of Grey ?“ The corners of his mouth twitched up. Wren nearly choked on her coffee, but then realized he was playing with her. Maybe she could survive the morning after if they kept the mood light and impersonal.

“No, I wasn’t expecting that,” she said and felt the color rise up her neck. “And I wasn’t expecting show tunes either,” she teased, hoping to keep the conversation away from last night’s escapades.

Miller sat taller and narrowed his eyes at her. “ Mamma Mia is not show tunes.”

“All right, Counselor, consider me schooled.” Wren held up her hands in mock defense. She looked around the room. “Tell me about all of this. I know about painting, but I know nothing about pottery.” She picked up a metal string with handles on each end, sitting on the floor next to Miller. “What’s this?”

“Wire tool. I use it to cut the finished product from the bat.”

“What’s a bat?”

“This plastic disk that sits between the clay and the wheel. It’s what I work on.”

“And this pointy thing that looks like something a baker would use to frost a cake with?”

“Wood model tool. It’s to clean up the lower edges before I cut the product off the bat with the wire tool.” Wren looked at the other tools on his table. She picked them up and then put them back down exactly as she’d found them.

“How long have you been doing this?”

“Since about six this morning,” he responded gruffly. Wren found Miller’s discomfort about his hobby endearing.

“Seriously. How long?” She grasped some of his tools, turning them over in her hands.

“I started in high school. Took a few classes in college. I enjoy creating things and working with clay is a challenge. Even if you get a piece just right, you can lose it in the kiln. Sometimes in the bisque firing, but most likely during the glazing.” Miller pointed at a small pile of discards against the wall.

“You keep them? Can you reuse anything?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad. When my paintings aren’t cooperating, I can paint over the bad spots.”

“I can’t reuse them, but I do repurpose them. After lousy days at work, which seem to come with regular frequency now, I come down here and smash them against the wall. When I’m done, I sweep up my mess and move on with the day.”

“It sounds cathartic.” Wren tore her gaze from the discard pile and looked at Miller. “You’re not happy at work?”

“Sometimes the partners and I don’t see eye to eye on everything.” Miller shrugged and turned on the wheel. Its slight hum filled the air.

“That must be frustrating.” She picked up a fired but not yet glazed bowl from the shelf and set it back down. “That’s one advantage to being my own boss. But when Dale or Cindy have an issue, we try to resolve it together as a team. I’d hate to think they were unhappy at work.” Wren finished her inspection of his studio and stopped in front of him. Miller grabbed the wire tool next to him, cut the bowl off the bat, and wiped his hands. He reached up and took her mug.

“Hey, Bucko, that’s mine. Get your own cup,” Wren said, reaching to reclaim her mug. He took another sip, watching her as he did so.

“For someone who was very generous in bed, you’re awfully stingy with your coffee.” Miller winked and handed it back to her. So much for light and impersonal , Wren thought cringing. This would be more difficult than she thought.

“Speaking of last night,” Wren started as Miller threw a lump of clay on the wheel and started it turning. “As good as it was, it can’t happen again.”

“Good?” Miller asked, focused on the clay. He sounded upset.

“Do you prefer fine?” she countered.

“How about”—he changed his voice to a slight falsetto as if to mimic her—“the best I’ve ever had, thank you very much, and when can we do it again?”

“Yes and no,” Wren admitted. She’d give him that. Compared to her ex-husband, the only other man she’d been intimate with, Miller was fantastic and therefore the best she’d ever had. Actually, he was likely the best she would ever have. He wasn’t making this easy on her. “A relationship between us wouldn’t work.” At that, he stopped the wheel, scraped off the clay, and glared at her.

“What are you suggesting then? That we’re just friends with benefits?” he challenged as he threw the clay back onto the bat. It landed off-center. Just like them now.

“Miller, last night was a one-off. We needed to get each other out of our systems so we could move past it and be friends. I don’t regret it, but it would be a bad idea to repeat it.”

“Wren, it’s not just physical. There’s more to us than a ‘one-off,’ as you said.” He made air quotes as if to emphasize how ridiculous he thought that was. Wren couldn’t argue with him on that point since she was more attracted to the man than she was to his packaging. She needed to change tactics.

“I don’t know how this would work, Miller. Long term we want different things. You want to be a law partner and I don’t want that lifestyle.”

“What about the short term?” Miller asked without looking up from his clay.

“I guess I’m just an old-fashioned girl. I’ve never gone into a relationship thinking it was just going to be short term.”

“Wren.” His voice sounded calmer. “I’m not looking for marriage or anything long term right now, you know that. Hell, you just reminded me of that.” He cut the clay off the bat and threw it back on. Wren waited for him to give his closing argument, but he seemed more focused on throwing the clay. After a few more tosses, it hit dead-center, and he said, “I know I enjoy your company, and it’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed spending time with someone this much. I’d hate to lose out on some short-term fun because you’re worried about the long term.”

“I’m not hopping back into bed with you in the name of short-term fun,” Wren said.

“I’m not asking you to, but I wouldn’t complain, either.” He studied his shoes before looking at her. “I meant the kind of short-term fun we had last night before you fell asleep on the couch. You were right when you said the sharing was nice. I’d like more of that.” Wren heard the sincerity in his voice.

“I’m not sure I’m capable of short term.” Coward . Wren knew keeping it short term could be a problem.

“Fine.” It sounded anything but fine to Wren’s ears. Miller started the wheel again.

Spending time with him wasn’t a hardship. Wren didn’t need a man in her life right now, but having one now and then would be nice. “Can I think about it?”

“Fine, but while you’re thinking about it, know that I’ll be working to convince you of it.” Miller sounded confident and sure of himself, the opposite of how he’d sounded a few minutes earlier. Wren knew she was in trouble. It wouldn’t take too much for him to convince her of his short-term plan.

And when she thought about it, almost every relationship she’d ever had had been short term, even though she’d entered them with long-term expectations. Like the college boyfriends she thought she’d grow old with. Even her marriage hadn’t made it long-term, more like mid-term or short-mid-term. Maybe she could do this. She could have her cake and eat it, too. She’d have the benefits of a relationship without all the work. Wren could continue to devote her energy to her business and painting, and not have to devote it to a man and their relationship. Maybe she could enjoy Miller for the here and now.

“That sounds fair, Counselor. I’ll let you persuade me.” They shared a smile and Wren hoped hers wasn’t as goofy as his. She decided she’d better change the topic before Miller started his campaign to persuade her. “You mentioned you needed help with a project.”

“I was hoping to discuss it last night, but then you fell and asleep, and when you woke up you distracted me.”

“The project, Miller,” she reminded him before memories of last night distracted either of them.

“I’d like to make some mugs, serving bowls, and platters for Jackson and Emily as a wedding present.”

“That’s so sweet.” Wren smiled. “I know Emily would love it.”

“But I need help,” he admitted. “Usually, I don’t care too much about the color glaze I use and it can be difficult with my color blindness, which is why I glaze most of my pieces in brown or blue, or I use the tan speckled clay and a clear glaze. They’re fairly utilitarian colors.” Miller shrugged. Wren couldn’t tell if his color blindness embarrassed him or if he was apologizing for his finished products.

“I see some of your pieces are textured.” Wren wandered back to the shelves to inspect the completed items. “That adds a lot of visual interest.”

“Yes, but I’d like something more colorful for them. That’s where you come in, Color Queen.”

“Keep talking.”

“I’ve been thinking about this since I saw your paintings, and I’m wondering if we could collaborate.”

“What’s your vision?”

“I’m thinking maybe a green glaze with small flowers painted around the edges.”

“You’d want me to paint the flowers?”

Miller dunked his sponge into the water and squeezed as he pulled it out. “And you’d need to help with the glaze until we got the formula right. I don’t make my own glaze powders. I buy them from a guy in Minneapolis who has all the chemicals and minerals and a proper ventilation system for compounding. He’s willing to make small batches until we get the color right. Green is a problem for me.” Miller stopped trying to drown the sponge and looked at her. It wasn’t hard to see how nervous he was, and Wren sensed it was hard for him to ask for help with the colors. “Interested?”

How could she say no to helping Miller create this perfect one-of-a-kind gift for their best friends? It would mean working with him and spending more time with him. Time for him to persuade her. She’d have to double down on her head running the show. She glanced at her watch. Wren didn’t want to leave, but she needed to. There was a lot to process and to protect.

“I’d love to help, but not today. I need to get going.” She walked toward the door.

Miller wiped his hands on a nearby rag and followed her out of the room and up the stairs. Wren found her purse and used the remote starter for her car. Hopefully, by the time she got outside, it would be warming up. Everything would still be cold and firm, but at least it wouldn’t feel like sitting on a cement ice cube. She slid her feet into her winter boots and shrugged into her coat. Miller leaned against the wall and studied her as she dressed for her escape. “Well, I think that’s it.” She muttered and looked at Miller.

“Is it?” He walked toward her. Wren stepped back and felt the door knob against her back. Miller placed his clay-streaked hands on the door, caging her in and blocking her escape. “Look at me, Wren,” he commanded softly. Wren licked her lips and acquiesced.

Miller’s lips claimed hers hard and fierce, releasing his caged hurt from earlier. Wren knew he wouldn’t stop her if she ducked under his arm to escape, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to be anywhere but here. She leaned into him and slid her hands around him. He was solid temptation as Wren melted around him.

His kiss gentled and she opened her lips, encouraging him to explore further. She didn’t realize she was clutching the thin fabric of his shirt like a lifeline until he stopped and stepped back. “Let me know when you’re done thinking,” he said with a smirk before going back down toward his studio. Arrogant man! Wren chuckled as she stuffed her hands into her mittens and let herself out the front door.

Wren thought about it the whole way home. She thought about it as she cleaned her small apartment. She thought about it as she caught up on Wallflowers’ bookkeeping, which took twice as long as usual. She thought about it as she flipped through her sketchbook.

Wren grabbed some colored pencils and tried to settle into a still life, but her brain and hand weren’t communicating. The only thing she sketched was Miller. I’m doomed , thought Wren.

It didn’t look like she’d be able to function until this thing with Miller, whatever this thing was, was decided and done. No matter what she decided, she knew more poor functioning would be in her future, because how can you function with a broken heart?

If she agreed to his crazy plan of short-term happiness, her heart would break when it ended. If she did nothing, her heart would break from longing and the missed opportunity. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t , she groused as she snapped her pencil case shut.

But, right now, Miller made her happy, and she needed happy in her life. She deserved some happy. Before she could talk herself out of it, she sent him a text.

Sunday, 6:53 PM

Wren : I’m done thinking .

She set her phone face down in the kitchen and went to take a shower. She would not sit by the phone waiting for him to reply like a desperate woman. Wren had things to do. Important things like giving herself a facial, applying a deep-conditioning hair treatment, and shaving her legs all the way up, not just the lower leg. And as long as she was wet, she might as well clean up her bikini line, too. Just in case. For no particular reason. Wren forced herself to move slowly. When she’d finished her shower and was moisturized from head to toe, she sauntered into the kitchen and made a cup of tea.

She stole glances at her phone when she didn’t think it was looking. As though the phone controlled the outcome. A crazy game, yes, but she was afraid to flip it over and look at the screen. If he responded like he was still interested, then she’d have to figure out the next move. If he’d changed his mind and was no longer interested, she’d be mortified. And if Miller hadn’t responded? The suspense would be the death of her.

The quote from Lord Alfred Tennyson popped up unwelcomed into her head: “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

This isn’t love, this is fun. She lifted her tea bag out of the steaming water and dumped it into the garbage can.

She was starting to second-guess herself and wished she could unsend her text. Not a good position to be in for a woman who was working on rediscovering herself and her self-confidence. Finally, her phone pinged.

Sunday, 9:12 PM:

Miller : And?

Wren : I’d like to try short term but we need to go slow.

There. She’d done it. She’d foolishly opened herself up for future heartache.

Miller : Open the door

Huh? Wren uncurled herself from the chair where she’d been sitting and peeked out the door. Miller stood on the other side. “Awfully sure of yourself, Counselor,” she greeted and tried to act cool. Inside, she was a hot mess. He hadn’t changed his mind. And he was here.

“No, but I’m awfully sure of us,” he said. Wren opened the door wider so he could come in. “I came straight from basketball when I saw your message.” Miller leaned down to kiss her, but Wren stepped back. “I need a shower,” he admitted sheepishly.

“It’s not that, but I meant what I said about taking it slow.”

“Horse is already out of the barn on that one,” he argued.

“Seriously? That’s your best argument?” She laughed.

Miller snaked his arm behind her and hauled her firmly against him. His other hand fisted in her hair and moved her head to the side. Miller nipped the base of her neck and kissed his way up to the sensitive spot behind her ear. Wren dug her nails into his shoulders. The anticipation was driving her insane. She threaded her fingers in his hair and tugged his mouth toward hers, but he stepped back.

“How’s that for an argument against going slow?” The insufferable man grinned at her while she tried to catch her breath.

“What if I’d said no?” Wren asked.

“Then I would have retreated and regrouped.” Miller dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Good night, Wren.” He shut the door behind him and Wren listened as he thumped down the stairs. It matched the thumping of her heart.