27. Wrenley
TWENTY-SEVEN
WRENLEY
I wake up to the sound of someone pounding on Saint’s front door like they’re trying to break it down.
“Expecting someone?” I whisper.
“No.” His voice is rough with sleep and something sharper. Suspicion.
The pounding continues, followed by a voice that makes the blood freeze in my veins.
“Wrenley! I know you’re in there! Your car’s in the driveway!”
Brenda.
I bolt upright, clutching the sheet to my chest. “Oh god. Oh no. This is bad. This is so fucking bad.”
Saint sits up, instantly alert. “Who is that?”
“My agent. My manager.” I scramble out of bed, searching for my clothes from last night. “Shit, I never gave her my new address above the bookstore. She wasn’t supposed to be here until next week!”
The pounding intensifies. “Wren! Open the door! We need to talk!”
Saint moves, pulling on sweatpants. “Stay here.”
“No, wait for me!”
But he’s already heading for the bedroom door.
I throw on his shirt from last night and race after him, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. Through the living room window, I catch a glimpse of Brenda’s rental car, a gleaming white BMW.
Saint doesn’t see me coming.
I leap onto his back, scrabbling against his neck as he chokes out a “What the fuck—” and stumbles away from the door with one hand still reaching for the doorknob.
“She can’t see you!” I hiss into his ear. “Not like this!”
“Why not?” Saint growls, but he stays in place and doesn’t try for the door again.
I cling tighter, wrapping my legs around his waist like a deranged koala. “Because she’ll make this into a PR nightmare.”
The front door rattles again. “I can hear you in there!” Brenda’s voice cuts through the wood. “Open up before I call the police!”
“She would,” I warn, keeping my spot as Saint’s new spider-monkey. “She’s the type to call the fire department, too. Report me missing. Make a scene.”
“Fucking hell,” Saint mutters, reaching behind to grab my thigh.
“Promise you’ll hide.”
“In my own fucking house?”
“Please,” I whisper, my lips brushing his ear. “She can’t know about us. ”
Something in my voice must get through to him because he stops trying to pry me off. “Fine.”
I slide down his back, my bare feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. Saint turns to face me, surveying my disheveled hair, his oversized shirt down to my knees, and the obvious fact that I’m wearing nothing underneath.
He cocks a brow. “I don’t think my presence or not will make a lick of difference.”
I’ve resorted to pushing against his pecs.
“Go. Bedroom. Now.” I shove at his chest, but it’s like trying to move an inked-up mountain.
Saint’s mouth quirks in what might be amusement if I weren’t having a complete breakdown. “You realize I’m six-four and covered in tattoos. I don’t exactly blend into furniture.”
The pounding stops abruptly, replaced by the unmistakable sound of a key turning in a lock.
We both freeze.
“She has a fucking key?” Saint’s voice drops to a deadly whisper.
“No.” My blood turns to ice. “She picked the lock. Oh god, she actually picked the lock.”
The front door swings open with a theatrical flourish, and Brenda Chu waltzes in. She’s perfectly put together despite the early hour in a designer blazer, red lipstick, and a blow-out that doesn’t move despite the autumn wind following her.
Brenda’s eyes land on me first, then slide to Saint’s bare chest with the pause of someone who did not expect to see a glorious rack of muscles under tanned skin and multicolor ink before 8 a.m.
“Well.” She blinks, tucking what looks suspiciously like a lock pick into her purse. “You must be the owner of the guesthouse Wrenley’s been staying in.”
Saint crosses his arms, forearm muscles flexing. “Yeah, I’m Saint.”
“Brenda Chu.” She extends a manicured hand that Saint takes. I am beyond thankful when her expression doesn’t give away her likely realization that this is the reclusive, hot chef she’d been pushing me toward from the beginning. “Pleasure.”
Thank god for professionalism.
“Brenda!” I jump in. “What are you doing here? You said next week.”
Brenda releases Saint’s hand and turns to me with a genuine smile. “That was before your last video went viral and Vita-Beauty wanted to move up the timeline of their offer.”
For reasons I can’t explain, heat spreads up my neck at her blunt explanation of my success in front of Saint.
I don’t know why. He’s never given any indication that he looks down on my profession, but I can’t shake the feeling of inadequacy in front of his sheer charisma and talent, even when he’s not in the kitchen.
“Did it? I haven’t checked the numbers lately.”
“I figured. That’s why I’m here.” Brenda wraps me in a fragrant hug, and as one of the only people I’ve truly connected with during the rise of my career, I relax in her embrace and return it fully.
She says over my shoulder, “Would you mind if I borrowed her for a bit? Girl talk.”
“Sure thing. I have to go pick up my kid, anyway.”
Brenda and I pull apart in time for Saint and me to exchange a quick, loaded look with each other before he disappears into the the hallway .
Brenda immediately grabs my arm, yanking my attention away from his perfect ass and back to her.
“Jesus, Wren,” she whispers, eyes wide. “When you said you were staying in someone’s guesthouse, you didn’t mention it was attached to six feet of walking tattoo art with the face of a dark fae lord.”
“Yeah, I might’ve left that out…”
Brenda pushes her lips to the side and squints at me. “You’ve been hiding shit from me, and that’s okay, but now you need to confess , girl.”
“At least let me do it with pants on.”
“Fine. I’ll let you collect yourself. I noticed a cute café on the way to this gorgeous place. Lucy something?”
“Libby Jude’s.”
“Yes, that! I’ll meet you there in…” She looks me up and down. “An hour? I think you need an hour.”
“An hour would be great,” I say, relieved. “I should probably shower.”
“And remove the evidence of fucking that man senseless?” Brenda’s perfect eyebrow arches at the same time my mouth opens in horror. “Honey, your neck looks like that man turns into a sexy vampire at night.”
My hand flies to my throat.
“Save it for brunch.” She spins, hips swaying toward the door. “I want all the dirty details over mimosas. And you’re paying since you’ve been holding out on me. Oh, and bring that the raw footage of your chef’s hands. I want to see what’s got our engagement rates through the roof.”
After she leaves, I sink against the wall, exhaling slowly. Saint emerges from the hallway, now fully dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that hugs his chest in ways that should be illegal before noon.
“So that’s your agent,” he says, voice carefully neutral .
“That’s Brenda.” I run a hand through my tangled hair. “Professional bulldozer, expert manipulator, lover of spicy fantasy novels, and apparently an amateur locksmith.”
“You two seem close.”
“She’s been with me since the beginning. Stuck around when a lot of others bailed.” I glance at the front door. “Though I might reconsider our relationship now that I know she can break into houses.”
Saint’s mouth curves. “Your friend’s got skills.”
“Oh please. You’re just impressed because she didn’t flinch when faced with your morning scowl.”
Saint offers me a wry look.
“It’s because she doesn’t have a soul,” I add. “She once made a venture capitalist cry during a contract negotiation. With just her eyebrows.”
Saint’s mouth curls into a genuine smile. “I like her already.”
I push off the wall. “I should get ready.”
Saint crosses to me, his hand resting possessively on the small of my back. “Want me to come with you?”
“Absolutely not. Brenda would eat you alive and then use your bones to pick her teeth while negotiating a cookbook deal.”
He laughs, a rare sound that still sends warmth cascading through me. “I’ve faced worse critics.”
“No, you haven’t.” I stretch up on tiptoes and kiss him quickly. “Trust me on this.”
Forty-seven minutes later, I’m dressed in yesterday’s clothes, smelling like Saint’s soap, and sliding into a booth across from Brenda at Libby Jude’s. She’s already ordered mimosas and is typing furiously on her phone, pausing only to take a sip of her drink.
“This place is very cottagecore, don’t you think? Too bad their socials are abysmal. Missed opportunity, in my opinion.”
I give Brenda an indulgent smile before taking a sip of my drink. “This town isn’t too interested in leveraging social media.”
Brenda’s eyes widen as she sets down her phone, giving me her full attention, an honor usually reserved for seven-figure deals. “Good lord, it’s like I’ve entered a time warp. Next you’ll tell me people here still use landlines and write letters.”
“Some do, actually.”
“That’s the problem with these adorable ‘burgs. All charm, zero hustle. Do you know the owner hasn’t even claimed her Google Business listing? It’s criminal.”
“Not everyone wants to be found, Bren.”
“Like you?” She gives me a pointed look over her mimosa. “Speaking of which, I’d like to discuss that mountain of sex appeal you’ve been climbing. The one with the hands.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “Can we not?”
“Oh, we absolutely can and will.” She leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Wrenley Morgan, you little minx. You’ve been holding out on me. That video of him making the pasta dish? Because it has to be him, right? Pure genius. The engagement metrics are insane.”
“It was just one video,” I mutter, a curious sinking feeling forming in my gut. “And I promised him it would be anonymous.”
“Sure, for anyone who’s never met him, but I am no longer that woman.
It was food porn of the highest caliber.
The way he handled that knife? The tension in his forearms when he kneaded the dough?
And don’t get me started on how he handled those fresh-made noodles.
” She fans herself dramatically. “I nearly combusted when he burst the egg yolk between his fingers. It was indecent.”
“Brenda!”
“What? I’m just saying what two million women are thinking.” She takes a delicate sip of her mimosa. “The algorithm doesn’t lie, darling. People are thirsting for your mystery chef. And that means they’re going to start sleuthing.”
My pulse quickens. “It was just his hands. And he doesn’t have unique tattoos on his fingers.”
“Oh, honey.” Brenda leans back, crossing her arms with the confidence of someone who’s seen the internet unmask anonymous celebrities based on a single nostril in a blurry photo.
“Those aren’t just any hands. Those are the hands of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing with them.
Trust me, your followers are already freeze-framing that video looking for identifying marks.
Some are playing detective in the comments. ”
My stomach drops.
Brenda slides her phone across the table. “See for yourself.”
I scroll through the comments section, my heart racing faster with each one:
@thighnoodles: if you don’t tell us who he is i’m gonna start knocking on restaurant back doors like a divorced wife in a Hallmark movie
@egirlscancooktoo: i showed this to my mom and she just sighed and said “that’s a provider.” what does that MEAN
@user000deadinside: you think we won’t recognize those hands when you try to soft launch him in the background again??? girl we’re IN THE WALL S
@moth4hire: wrenley i am two frames away from losing my job over this. give us a single clue. even just the damn state.
@mosswife: this is not a cooking video this is a relationship reveal and we’re all pretending it’s not
@rejectedpesto: i’m not saying i screenshotted the cutting board to reverse search the wood grain but i did and i’m ashamed
@babygirlofgrief: the comment section is fighting for its life rn. WHO IS HE
@griefpizza: girl if you don’t tell us who he is we’re gonna start calling him “chef daddy” and you’re gonna hate it
@gothwheatthin: his wrists say “therapy,” his knuckles say “i never went”
@kneadtoknow: ho is you letting him season you like that
@beepboopoven: anyone recognize the ink? I reverse image searched and got NOTHING
“Okay, so they’re not in not full dox-mode.
They’re buzzing, but not feral yet.” My voice rises the more I try to reason with myself.
“I didn’t think it would blow up this much , though.
I mean, yeah, his sexiness can be spotted literally in his fingertips, but it’s not like I showed his face.
Or said his name. The finger tattoos are basic enough.
One little flame, some Roman numerals, and that half-faded X on his ring finger that lots of people do instead of wedding rings now.
I’ve seen at least four baristas with the same one! ”
“Okay, Wren, calm down. Would it be so bad if he’s identified? I told you that bringing this reclusive, hot chef into your world would work wonders for improving your rep online. And look, it’s working! ”
I spin the stem of my mimosa, the drink souring in my stomach. “I should take it down.”
“Seventy-two thousand saves. Two hundred brands flagged it as high engagement. You didn’t even tag a product, and your click-throughs tripled. If you take this down, I will throw myself into your ring light and haunt you forever.”
“It wasn’t…” I pause because I can hear how defensive I sound. “He didn’t want to be part of my online persona. I promised.”
Brenda raises a perfectly groomed brow. “You really want to pretend you didn’t launch a whole man last week?”
I half-laugh, half-die. “It wasn’t supposed to be anything. It was just nice to do with him. Quiet. Safe.”
“Baby,” Brenda says, gently now, “quiet doesn’t trend.”
“This doesn’t work for him,” I say firmly.
Brenda blinks.
“Returning to social media was my choice because I love the community I built and that I’m a part of. This is my comeback. My second chance. Saint didn’t ask for any of it.”
Brenda softens, just a little. “You can’t fault yourself for being so damn good at making content.”
I stare at the screen again, taking in all the comments, the freeze-frames, and the zoom-ins. They love him. And they don’t even know who he is.
Which means the second they find out … they’ll eat him alive.
And he’ll know it was me who fed them.