Chapter 22 Wrenley #2
I smile back, but I know the smile doesn’t reach my eyes. Is it really the three of us when I’m hiding that our arrangement may very well change?
Yeah, I say. Me too.
She swipes at her eyes, even though no tears have fallen. Okay. Well, I came to see if you had time to grab some lunch.
I nod. With you? Always. Let me go tell Audrey.
Remi’s smile brightens immediately, and for a moment, everything feels normal again. Like we’re just two best friends making plans instead of navigating a more and more complex situation.
As I walk back into the shop, guilt twists in my chest. I don’t know if the dreams that brought me to Alaska are the only version of my future that makes sense.
And while maybe I don’t need answers today, I know I need them soon.
My visa is expiring in just over a month, and it’s not fair of me to go into this wedding without knowing my ultimate plan.
Everything rests on me. And it’s a heavy burden to shoulder.
Walking to Ruger’s house, I take two wrong turns before I even realize it.
My feet keep moving, but my brain is still stuck on Beryl’s dress, the secret I’m keeping from Remi, and hundreds of other little things that are piling up in my chest. By the time I look up, nothing around me looks familiar, and I have no idea how I ended up here.
I pull in a slow breath, trying to shake the fog, and turn toward the street I think will lead me back.
One corner becomes another, and then I see the narrow lane with a fence I recognize.
Relief hits me like warmth on frozen fingers.
I let my feet follow the path to his place because I know that even if the whole day’s been upside down, I’ll feel better once I’m with him.
I open the door and walk straight into the smell of Ruger’s cooking. My shoulders drop instantly, the day’s chaos easing without my permission. It gets even better when he appears in the kitchen archway, a big grin lighting up his face.
Hey, you’re home, he says, eyes scanning my face. You okay? You look… flustered.
Yeah, I say, brushing it off. Just second-guessing the ribbon I picked for Mrs. Crachit’s corset top.
There’s more than one kind of ribbon?
Different colours, fabrics. I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. I’ll fix it.
He smiles, and my heart flutters under his gaze.
Beer? he asks as I hang up my coat and purse.
Sure.
He opens the fridge and grabs two bottles. Holding them over the counter, he uses his thumbs to flick the lids off before holding one out to me.
Thanks.
I take a sip, then look out the kitchen window at nothing in particular. My mind is still caught up in everything that happened today.
Is everything okay? Ruger’s voice cuts through my thoughts. There’s a worried crease between his brow, and I’m torn between wanting to ease it for him and enjoying that someone cares enough to be worried about how I’m feeling.
I’m just thinking about everything, I say.
Everything including… He gestures between us with his bottle.
Yes, I say honestly. And no.
His expression softens as he takes a step closer. Do you want to talk about it?
I bite my lower lip as I study him. The concern is now laced with patience.
He’s giving me an opening, a chance to unpack every fear swirling in my head.
I’m sure if I wanted, he would sit on the couch with me for hours, dissecting my career, my future, my guilt, and how every day I spend in Alaska seems to make the idea of leaving a little harder.
But I’m sick of thinking and talking. I’m tired of weighing every possible future against every other possible future.
For once, I don’t want to think. I want to feel.
Wrenley? The way he says my name sends a shiver through me.
I think I’ve done enough talking lately, I say.
The corners of his mouth twitch before curving upward. His eyes travel from mine down the length of my body, then back to my eyes. The worried crease disappears, replaced with something that makes my pulse jump.
Yeah?
I nod. Yeah.
His smile blooms again, slow and wicked. Me too.
His hand settles against my waist, and instead of immediately pulling me closer, he leaves it there.
His thumb brushes absent-mindedly against my side, and the tiny movement makes my entire body aware of him—of his proximity.
And like I wanted, my brain starts to let go of my worries and just exist in this moment with him.
I reach for him, my fingers finding the front of his shirt and curling into the fabric.
The touch draws his eyes downward briefly before they return to mine, and the look that passes between us is enough to steal the air from my lungs.
He takes a step closer, just enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him. The anticipation is almost unbearable.
His other hand finds the small of my back and draws me a fraction closer. The space between us disappears, and I feel overwhelmed by the strange mix of comfort and anticipation swirling inside me.
What about dinner? I ask, my voice breathy.
Fuck dinner, he says as his hand comes and cups my cheek.
Aren’t you hungry?
He shakes his head. I have all I need to eat right here.
Heat shoots through me as the words hang between us, reckless and flirtatious and loaded with enough meaning to make my pulse race.
Ruger, I murmur, though I’m not entirely sure what I intend to say.
My fingers slide into the hair at his nape, and the second I do, something shifts in his expression. His eyes darken. His jaw tightens. It’s like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will, waiting for me to tell him what happens next.
The knowledge that I affect him the same way he affects me is intoxicating.
I rise onto my toes and close the remaining distance between us.
His breath catches against my lips before I kiss him, and the sound he makes in response is enough to make my knees feel unsteady.
The kiss starts soft, but there is an urgency beneath it now, over a month of anticipation finally finding somewhere to go.
His hands settle more firmly at my waist, and when I press closer, he lets out a low groan that vibrates through me.
By the time he begins backing me toward the hallway, we’ve given up pretending we don’t know where this is going. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he lifts me effortlessly, my legs locking around his waist. He presses me into the wall, groaning when we align just right.
Tell me you’re wet, baby, he murmurs against my neck, voice rough with restraint.
Dripping, I breathe.
His hips grind into mine, and I gasp, my head falling back.
I haven’t stopped thinking about your tits since Anchorage, he admits, his voice rough as he palms my breast through my shirt.
Our lips find each other again in a heated kiss. For a moment, we seem capable of thinking beyond the fact that we’re finally here. After weeks of dancing around it and days spent trying to decide what any of this means, we’re standing on the edge of a line we’ve yet to cross.
I break the kiss, cupping his face in my hands and look at him. Are you going to carry me upstairs or not?