Chapter 6 Wrenley
Wrenley
My arms wrap around him again, and I pretend it’s for safety like he said earlier.
In truth, I kind of want to hold him. Not only is he warm, something that is hard to come by in an Alaskan fall, it seems, but it just feels good.
I’ve forgotten how nice it is to hold a man, and a good-smelling one at that.
Cutting wood with Ruger shouldn’t have felt intimate, but it did.
And I can’t stop thinking about the way our hands touched when he handed me the chainsaw.
The way he didn’t hover, just watched with this quiet, feral protectiveness like he’d rip the tree in half if I so much as flinched wrong.
When the saw jumped and my heart literally stopped beating in my chest, he didn’t panic or belittle me. He encouraged me to try again.
Now, I’m pressed up against his back, my face practically tucked into the hood of the hoodie I borrowed.
It smells so good. My new favourite scent mixture is pine, firewood, and clean soap.
I feel everything. His strength, the heat of him through the cotton, the way my body reacts like it’s been waiting for this exact kind of contact.
We hit a bump, and my arms tighten. So does everything else.
God. What is happening to me?
A week ago, I was getting dropped off on his porch like an orphaned stray, nervous of what my new home would be like.
And now, I’m whatever this is. When he turns slightly, shifting his weight to steer, and his hand briefly brushes my thigh to stabilize us, I don’t move.
I press my cheek to his shoulder and let my eyes fall shut for half a second and allow myself to forget this is a very elaborate lie.
We roll to a stop in front of the house, and for a few seconds, neither of us moves. The engine ticks as it cools, and the smell of pine and exhaust lingers in the air.
I loosen my arms around Ruger slowly, half expecting him to say something. He doesn’t. Instead, he hops off first and offers me a hand, which I take and force myself to ignore the electric sensation that shoots up my arm and through my core.
But the second my boots hit the ground, it’s like a switch flips. The spell of the woods is gone, and suddenly, I don’t know where to look or what to say.
Ruger clears his throat and gestures toward the trailer. I’ll unload. You probably want to change before Remi’s.
I’d almost forgotten she had invited us to dinner again.
I nod. Right. Good idea.
I half run into the house and up the stairs, and I don’t stop moving until I’m in my room with the door shut behind me. I press my back to the door and blow out a breath.
My chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with chopping wood and everything to do with Ruger Seale being incredibly patient and unbearably attractive in his element.
This arrangement is supposed to help me rebuild my life, not complicate it further.
I’m starting to worry that my heart is starting to get bad ideas.
Ideas that will make everything harder for everyone. And that’s the last thing I need.
I pull off the hoodie, hesitating only a second before I press my face into the material and breathe in his scent one last time.
It’s starting to fade and be replaced with the floral-nutty mixture of my body wash, and I wonder how I could get another sweater or T-shirt from him. God, I need to get it together.
I toss the hoodie onto the bed and rummage through my things.
Not owning a lot of clothes makes it easy to get dressed.
It’s just about taking what I own and pairing it in a way that fits whatever event I’m going to.
I find a fitted black turtleneck that hugs my waist and brings warmth to my brown skin.
It makes my eyes look deeper and richer somehow.
I slip on a pair of dark grey cotton slacks and twist in front of the mirror, making sure I’m satisfied with the fit.
Gold hoops go in next, small but bold, and I fix the ponytail I made earlier to try and contain my curls.
When I step back into the hallway, I hear Ruger downstairs. There’s a sudden thud that I assume is firewood dropping into the bin beside the woodstove. I wait a second longer than necessary before heading down, hoping the weird tension that’s been hanging between us has lifted. It hasn’t.
He looks up when I enter, eyes landing on my face, flicking to my mouth, then drifting lower before snapping back up like he hadn’t meant to. His throat bobs when he swallows, and heat blooms low in my stomach.
He’s changed… sort of. Still camo, obviously, because God forbid he wear a different pattern.
But it’s a fitted long-sleeve thermal this time, stretched across broad shoulders and tucked neatly into dark cargo pants.
There’s a dark smear on the hem and a streak of dirt on his forearm, and somehow, it only makes him look more rough, more rugged, and just more hot.
Exactly the kind of man who could throw me over one shoulder while battling a bear with his free hand.
Ready? he asks, already grabbing his keys.
Yep, I lie because I am not ready. I’m not ready to spend an evening with Remi, trying to avoid thinking about how good he looks in that shirt and how hard it is to hide it.
The cool evening air hits me as we step outside, and I cross my arms against the sudden chill. Ruger opens the passenger door for me without a word, and I climb in. The way his hand brushes the small of my back as I pass sends a shiver up my spine.
The truck smells like sawdust and leather and simply him. I buckle my seat belt, staring out the windshield, overly aware of the way he moves around to the driver’s side and climbs in next to me. We sit in silence for a second before he starts the engine.
It’s barely a five-minute drive to Remi’s, but somehow, the cab of the truck feels too small.
We don’t talk on the drive, and I’m okay with that.
I take the time to take in the views of my new town.
I try to remember the little stores I might visit when I have time.
I can only imagine that having someone move in with him has been a difficult adjustment.
I immediately recognize Remi’s house when we turn onto a street. It’s hard not to see a little yellow square with a bright red roof. The flower boxes, which usually feature beautiful arrangements in the summer, are wilted and colourless.
Ruger kills the engine, and it takes him a full second before he pushes open his door, and I follow. I meet him at the front of the truck, where the light over the garage glows warm and inviting.
He takes my hand as we walk up to the door. I look at him quizzically.
In case anyone is watching, he murmurs.
Ruger doesn’t knock on the door; he just walks in.
I pause to take my shoes off, and my abrupt stop causes Ruger and me to overextend our arms because we’re still linked, and we crash into each other.
Chest to chest, I stare up into Ruger’s dark eyes.
His beard brushes my chin as he presses his lips together.
Sorry, I whisper, still pressed to his chest.
Remi rounds the corner with two wineglasses in hand. She stops when she sees us, her gaze flicking from Ruger to me, to our still-linked hands, then back up. It all happens in a split second, but it feels like slow motion.
Oh, she says. You guys are really committing to the honeymoon phase bit, huh?
Ruger lets go of my hand, and I take a half step back, suddenly overly aware of everything. My flushed face. His beard still brushing my skin. The faint smell of pine coming from him.
Remi walks toward us and holds out a glass of wine to me.
I mean, it’s adorable, she adds as I take the wine. But you don’t have to lay it on thick in front of me. I know it’s fake.
Ruger sighs. Got any beer instead of this crap? He gestures at the wine.
In the fridge.
Ruger makes his way down the hall, saying over his shoulder, Smells decent in here.
Remi narrows her eyes at the space he occupied. Lasagna Florentine, which you’ve eaten and enjoyed before. She looks at me. Come on, you can help me with dinner.
I follow Remi into the kitchen, where Ruger is leaning against the counter, his fingers curled around the neck of a dark glass bottle, the cap already discarded. He takes a sip, and I try not to watch the slow tilt of his throat as he swallows. It’s just beer. Just a man drinking a beer.
Why does it look like a thirst trap?
Remi opens the oven and adjusts the pan inside. The scent of cheese, herbs, and toasted breadcrumbs rushes out, making my stomach growl.
She closes the oven. Not quite done, she announces. Can you make the salad? She tosses a bag of greens and a wooden bowl on the counter.
Salad when we’re already having spinach? Ruger asks.
If you complain, I’m going to make my lentil loaf again. Remi points a cucumber at him.
That sounds delicious, I say at the same time Ruger mutters, I’d rather eat my boot than try and force that down again.
Then his phone starts to vibrate. He pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the screen.
It’s Brandt calling from camp. He pushes off the counter and wanders into Remi’s living room, where he plants himself on her bright orange corduroy sofa.
Ooh, Brandt. I nudge Remi.
Shh, she says, peering over her shoulder. Ruger doesn’t know he and I—
Are fucking?
She nudges me again, trying not to laugh.
Do you really think he’d be upset about it?
She shrugs. Not upset as much as temporarily weirded out. Her nose wrinkles slightly. I mean, your best friend sleeping with your sibling is objectively a strange concept. I just feel like it’s best not to tell him since there is nothing to tell.
Her words instantly make me hyperaware of the fact that just hours ago, I was enjoying having my arms wrapped around her brother. Even right now, as I’m thinking about him, my stomach keeps doing weird little somersaults.
Wrenley? Remi says slowly. Why are you making that face?
What face? I ask too quickly. There’s no face.