Chapter 7 Ruger
Ruger
I pull into the driveway and shift the truck into park. Wrenley’s slouched in the passenger seat, one socked foot propped on the dash, the other tucked under her thigh. At some point in the less-than-five-minute drive, she kicked her shoes off, mumbling something about them being too grippy.
Whatever that means.
I come around to her side, open the door, force her to put her shoes back on, and offer a hand. She waves me off like a stubborn toddler insisting she can do it herself.
Suit yourself.
She manages getting out of the truck and the first step up the porch just fine.
The second? Not so much. She doesn’t just stumble into the house; she crashes into it like a wrecking ball, pine needles skittering across the laminate.
Her body hits the entryway rug, and she lets out a bark of laughter, followed by a hiccup, and then another giggle because her hiccup was, in her words, so fucking funny.
I try to help her up, but she mumbles, My shoes.
Don’t worry about them, I say. Your shoes are fine.
That’s such a weird thing, she slurs. I thought that was for ease on TV shows. No one wants to watch someone take off their shoes. Except Mr. Rogers. I guess there’s always an exception.
She snorts, and then she starts laughing again, this time louder. It rises and rolls out of her like a wave. I have no clue why she’s laughing, but I kind of like this unfiltered, raw version of her.
Earlier tonight at Remi’s, she kept that tight little smile whenever the wedding came up. Her answers were tight and noncommittal. I could see in her stiff body language how uncomfortable she was. Which also means I’m noticing far too much about her.
She stops suddenly and looks down.
I’m still wearing my shoes, she says again, like we didn’t just have a whole conversation about how it doesn’t matter.
Before I can repeat that I don’t care about her wearing her shoes in the house, she leans forward to untie them, and holy hell.
The curve of her ass in those pants ought to be illegal.
I’ve spent the entire evening trying not to notice how good she looks, but now, up close, with her bent over and those jeans hugging her like a second skin… I’m noticing.
Calm down, Ruger.
This is just the drought talking. A year and change without sex will scramble a man’s brain. You’re not interested, you’re just touch-starved. That’s all this is.
Water! I blurt, loud enough that Wrenley jumps and blinks at me. I point at her, desperate for distraction. You need water. Hydration. No one wants a hangover tomorrow.
I’d rather McDonald’s. God, I miss McDonald’s. That would be so good right now. But I also like water, she says, her voice dreamy and slow. It’s wet.
She pauses. I freeze.
Then—God help me—she steps closer.
You know, sometimes I’m wet, she says, tilting her head up and smiling softly.
I swallow hard. Oh?
She lifts her hand and traces a swerving line down my arm. Like a slip and slide.
Jesus. Christ.
She’s talking about exactly what I’m trying not to think about. I drag a hand over my mouth and turn for the kitchen like it might save me.
Yeah, okay, I mutter, already halfway there. Definitely getting that water now.
I grab the bottle from the fridge, twist the cap for her, and press it to my temple like it might cool down the image now permanently scorched into my skull.
I shut the fridge door with more force than necessary and turn back toward the entry, where she’s now swaying slightly, a dreamy, blissed-out smile on her face like she hasn’t nearly detonated my willpower with a five-word sentence.
Look alive, Wren, I call, tossing her the bottle underhand.
It’s a soft toss, and I assume it’ll be an easy catch. Except it’s not. Because instead of catching it, she head-butts it. The thwack echoes through the house like a slap, and then—silence.
Shit! Wren! Are you okay?
She blinks, stunned, then clutches her nose because she’s just been punched in the face by her desperately needed hydration. And then she laughs. She literally doubles over, wheezing with laughter, tears forming in her eyes… or is that blood?
Oh my God, she gasps between shrieks. Did you just assault me, your perfect, amazing fiancée?
It was an accident, I mutter, marching down the hallway toward her. Also, you’re not bleeding, are you?
She pulls her hands away from her face. There’s blood. Not a lot, but enough to punch me with a wave of guilt.
Okay. Emergency protocol. I go back into the kitchen and grab a paper towel. Tilt your head forward and pinch the bridge. Don’t swallow any of it.
I know what to do with a nosebleed, she says nasally. This isn’t the first thing I’ve accidentally caught with my face.
She snorts at that, which unfortunately sends more blood down her lip and sets her off laughing all over again.
I can’t breathe! she wheezes. Your aim is so bad!
I groan. Please stop laughing. You’re going to shoot blood like a geyser.
I hand her the paper towel, and she presses it to her face.
We should probably take you to the health centre. Make sure nothing’s broken.
Wrenley stiffens. Absolutely not.
What if your nose is fractured?
Then I’ll have a quirky nose and start a side hustle as an actress. Barbra Streisand did alright.
I’m serious.
So am I. She points a very bloody paper towel at me. Unless you plan to toss me over the Canadian border and let me crawl into a walk-in clinic like a wounded raccoon, I don’t want to see a pair of scrubs.
I blink. You’d rather smuggle yourself into your own country like a feral animal than get your nose looked at?
Do not tempt me, Ruger, she says, eyes wide. I have my passport in my sock drawer and no shame about my love of the Canadian healthcare system. Of course, if this turns into a brain bleed, you might have to drive me to Whitehorse.
If it’s a brain bleed, you’ll die on the way there.
She shrugs. If I’m lucky, I’ll die on my side of the border.
I realize there is likely no arguing with a drunk Wrenley, so I opt to grab the tissue box to replace the paper towel.
I hold it out to her and watch as she pulls out two tissues and proceeds to shove them up her nose. I seriously don’t understand how one person can be so chaotic and charming at the same time.
Wrenley’s face shifts.
Are you okay? I ask.
I’m fine.
She is not fine. She’s swaying and blinking slowly.
Okay, I say decisively. Time to lie down.
No, she says, raising a finger like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk. What I need is another—
Her knees buckle.
Shit.
I catch her just in time, wrapping my arms around her as she slumps forward. She’s all soft limbs, wine breath, and bloody tissue.
I’ve got you, I murmur, adjusting her weight. She’s heavier than she looks but still fits perfectly in my arms.
I shift her into a bridal carry, and her head tips against my shoulder. She moans a little as her hand curls into the front of my shirt.
You still smell like sawdust and sweat, she whispers.
Thank you?
Compliments, she slurs, blinking up at me. It’s my love language.
Jesus.
I carry her up the stairs, nudging her bedroom door open with my foot.
The room is barely unpacked. It makes my chest ache a little to think that she hasn’t turned this into something more homey for herself.
Like this house is just that—a house, not a place that she can call home for a little while.
I lay her down as gently as I can. She flops on her side with a groan, mutters something about the ceiling spinning, and then, mercifully, goes still.
I breathe out a sigh of relief as I grab a blanket folded at the end of her bed and make my way to the too-small tub chair in the corner. It’s not going to be comfortable, but I’m not going far. Not tonight.
Ruger? Her voice is soft, half-mumbled, half-sincere.
Yeah? I glance back at her.
Thanks for taking care of me, she whispers. Even though I’m just the fake fiancée, I hope my face isn’t too mangled. Wouldn’t want you to be embarrassed to marry me.
I huff a quiet laugh and shake my head, settling into the chair.
Wren, I murmur, tugging the blanket over myself, you could have two black eyes and a broken nose, and I’d still say I got the better end of the deal.
She smiles, barely there, but enough.
Then, without thinking, I add, Get some sleep, baby.
You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows that sentence.
Shit.
I hear the faint rustle of blankets as she shifts, and for one agonizing second, I think she’s going to say something. But she doesn’t. She just exhales, and the room goes still.
I close my eyes, my ears still burning from what I said. I remind myself that she has dreams bigger than Alpine Harbor, and this town is all I can give her. Yet here, in this small space where it’s just the two of us, it’s so damn easy to imagine this is all she needs.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but judging by the sharp, radiating pain in my neck and lower back, I definitely did. Apparently, the world’s smallest accent chair wasn’t designed to hold a full-grown man.
The second thing I feel is panic. Wrenley’s bed is empty. I jolt upright so fast that the blanket I’d draped over myself tumbles to the floor. I press a hand to her side of the mattress. It’s cold.
Shit.
I make it to the door in four strides, scanning the hallway like I’m on a search-and-rescue mission.
Every room up here is empty. By the time I’m taking the stairs down two at a time, my brain is spiralling.
Visions of her passed out on the porch or hiking barefoot toward the Canadian border with a slow brain bleed play through my mind like a silent film from hell.
Then I hit the kitchen, and that’s where I find her.
Messy curls. Bare face. One sock. My hoodie hangs off her like it was made for her.
And most importantly, she’s upright. She’s hunched over the table like she just lost a bar fight to the bottle of Merlot from last night and a Kodiak bear this morning.
Her hands are wrapped around a coffee mug like it’s the only thing tethering her to this earthly realm.
I breathe out a long breath. Morning, I say casually, as if I hadn’t just searched the house like a bloodhound looking for a perp.
She groans into her mug like existing is physically painful.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit across from her. Feeling that good, huh?
If you don’t stop yelling, she rasps, I’m going to throw this mug at your face.
I lean in, voice low. I’m not yelling.
She squints one bloodshot eye open and waves a hand at me. Your morning breath is worse than the pitch of your voice.
I laugh, totally unoffended.
She tries to glare, but it’s barely threatening. Mostly adorable.
I take a sip of my coffee. This is nice.
She blinks at me like I’ve grown antlers. You’re insane.
Maybe. But still, it’s nice. Hot coffee made by someone else. You.
She exhales and looks at me, eyes practically drained of life. I didn’t make it for you, if that’s what you’re thinking.
I smirk. I’m more upset you didn’t bring me a cup since I slept in an uncomfortable chair to make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit in the middle of the night.
She glares. It’s far too cute.
It took everything I had just to make the coffee, she mumbles. You were on your own.
Fair enough. I shrug.
She pauses, then says, Thank you. For last night.
You were a mess, I tease gently. But I won’t hold it against you.
Good. Because if you ever get blackout drunk and face-plant in a bush, I’ll return the favour.
No judgment. She pauses, face crumpling.
Wait. No. Scratch that. That offer is only valid if you don’t puke.
I cannot—cannot—handle vomit. You can cry, ramble, quote Lord of the Rings, hell, I’ll quote along with you, but bodily fluids?
I will ghost you from inside this house.
Is this what you do when you’re drunk?
I plead the fifth, she says, lifting her mug like it’s a gavel.
She lifts her mug to her lips, takes a sip, then immediately grimaces. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. She drops the mug. I can’t even enjoy coffee. This is officially the darkest timeline.
With a groan, she flops her head onto the table. Unlike two nights ago, when she cried on my couch and I didn’t know what to do, I reach out with more confidence and pat her shoulder.
There, there.
She doesn’t lift her head, just rolls it enough to fix one tired eye on me.
I grin into my coffee.