Chapter 1 #2
Wren dropped her arm out of the car, trying to drum the memory out of her head, but Kyro’s livestream played on repeat behind her eyes.
He’d been her first guy after the Alex fiasco; she’d met him when she’d decided that, when it came to romance and men, the beginning was the safest space for her to play—where she could just enjoy the spark, the buzz, the delicious promise of something new.
No history, no risk, no chance of getting hurt.
They’d met while she was choreographing a number for his latest single, and she’d thought they were on the same page: friends with benefits, no drama, just fun.
Two months in, and Kyro, a world-famous pop idol, decided to turn their private arrangement into a public proposal complete with him down on one knee holding a ten-carat diamond, and millions of fans tuned in.
“Maybe I should’ve played along with Kyro, Pops. Just said yes and called it quits later.”
Everyone else had thought he was being romantic, judging from the raining heart emojis, but Wren had felt like she’d walked onto a stage with zero warning and even less preparation.
“Bullshit, Bird,” Poppy told her, sounding brisk. “You told me that you were both on the same only-here-for-the-fun page.”
Because keeping it light, fun, and shallow was now who she was, what she did. Wren adored the high of beginnings—the adrenaline, the spark, the feeling of being extraordinary in someone’s eyes. But when the gloss of infatuation faded and more work was required, she bolted.
“I’m not built for the long haul, Pops. Love, to me, is a dazzling dance routine, designed to end when the music changes and the spotlight dims.”
“And who can we blame for that?” Poppy demanded.
“My dad.”
Chester Dunlop. Charismatic, larger than life, and an unreliable dreamer.
He swept people off their feet—including Wren—when he was around.
He’d also drifted in and out of her childhood, leaving without warning when something, or someone, shinier caught his attention.
As a child, Wren had often wondered if she was important to him, and had had her answer when Chester jumped at Luna’s suggestion that Wren should go and live with her.
No wonder she could only cope with the beginnings, when things were fun and shiny …
because when reality hit, the promises, or hints of promises, evaporated like mist on a hot stove.
Wren sighed. “I’m the problem, Pops, I can’t stick the landing, so it’s better not to risk the crash.”
“None of which negates Kyro’s asshole-ish behavior.
He knew you two were bed buddies, that you’d never say yes, and he used you to garner attention, hoping that music fans would feel sorry for him and would pre-order his upcoming album and buy tickets to his concerts.
All in all, a pretty shitty thing to do,” Poppy muttered.
It had been. As she’d told Kyro herself.
Movement flickered beside the bandstand, catching her attention.
Exercise Guy, tall and muscled, was now shaking hands with a short, broad man, but Wren got the impression that he was reluctant to engage.
Strangely, when he offered his hand to the lanky red-headed teenager beside the man with more garish highlights than Wren would ever dare to attempt, the action seemed smoother, more natural.
The kid hesitated, obviously surprised. Oh, honey. She recognized his awkwardness, his please-don’t-look-at-me expression. The short guy—his dad?—puffed himself up even more, said something, and the kid took a step back. Exercise Guy narrowed his eyes…
Color her curious.
His impatience wasn’t aimed at the poor kid.
Nope. Wren knew his annoyance was directed at the peacock dad, who seemed to be running his mouth.
Exercise Guy darted a quick look at the kid and his face softened—barely, but she caught it.
He shifted closer to the teenager, angling his body to shield him, the gesture so subtle, so natural, she nearly missed it.
“Wren, are you still there?”
“Mmm-hmm, just watching a guy in the park talking to someone, and something about their conversation caught my attention,” Wren explained.
“Is he hot? Is he single?” Poppy demanded, sounding for the first time like her usual happy-go-lucky self.
“Did you hear anything I said about their conversation?”
“Heard it, ignored it. So … is he? Hot? Single?”
“Hot, yes. As for single, I’m in my car, waiting for the traffic to move, and he’s across the road, Pops. How would I know? And why would I care?”
“If he is, you might be able to have some fun, use him for distraction.”
Wren shook her head violently. “Uh, let me think about that … that would be a hard no. Actually, that would be a fuck no with bells on. I’m spending the summer in H-Town to rest, to reset, to avoid men and drama. I would rather stab myself in the eye with a rusty fork than have a summer fling.”
She’d run away from drama in New York; she didn’t need any here. No, she was going to drink cocktails, hang out by the lake, read, and try to avoid being roped into working at the Summerween festival by Luna.
“Why are you yelling?” Poppy asked, amused.
“I’m not… I’m just frustrated because Reggie is sitting in the road, and I want to find a parking space and grab a coffee from Spirited Grounds.”
“Well, I know you want coffee, you always hit SG as soon as you get to town, but that’s not the reason for your bitchy tone,” Poppy responded, with all the conviction of a friend who knew her far too well.
Wren saw the swish of tail feathers, heard Reggie’s squawk, and the traffic started to move. “Got to go, Pops, Reggie has finally shifted his feathery butt.”
“H-Town,” Poppy murmured. “I swear it just keeps getting weirder.”
Wren started her car, inched forward, and slammed on the brakes when old Mrs. Donalds, the basket of her vintage bike decorated in tinsel, cut across her.
Her gray hair was streaked purple, and she wore rapper-style sunglasses on her old-as-time wrinkled face.
Today’s bikini was a lemon and purple concoction, a bright orange boa covering, thankfully, the bulk of her saggy chest.
Weird was a kind way to describe H-Town. Batshit bizarre was far more accurate.