Chapter 10 WREN
WREN
There’s a man leaning against a black SUV outside my apartment when I walk out at six-fifteen in the morning.
I know who it is before my eyes adjust to the light.
Jace.
Arms crossed. Dark jeans, charcoal henley with the sleeves pushed to his forearms. Watching my door like he knew exactly when I’d come out.
I don’t know what to do with that, and I definitely don’t know what to do with the way my pulse responds to the sight of him before my brain has a chance to weigh in.
“Morning,” he says.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. Whatever this is—no.” I come down the steps and stop on the sidewalk in front of him. “How do you know where I live?”
“Dawson.”
I don’t fully believe that, but I also don’t have the energy to fight about it at six in the morning.
“I’m walking you to the shop,” he says.
“I’ve been walking myself to the shop for years.”
“I know.” He nods toward the SUV. “I can drive you if you’d prefer.”
“I’m not getting in your car, Jace.”
“Then I’ll walk with you.”
“I don’t need you to walk with me.”
He doesn’t answer. Just puts his hands in his pockets and starts walking.
I stand there for about three seconds before I follow him, which is about three seconds less than my pride would have liked.
We don’t talk for the first two blocks. The city is still waking up around us—a delivery truck rumbling past, someone dragging metal shutters up a few storefronts down, the smell of coffee from the deli on the corner mixing with something warm from the bakery next door.
It’s the kind of morning I usually love, when the streets are quiet enough to feel like mine and the light is soft and the whole day hasn’t started pressing in yet.
It feels different with him next to me. His shoulder is close enough to mine that I’m aware of every step, and he matches my pace without adjusting, like he figured out how fast I walk within the first three steps and locked it in. I don’t know why that does something to me but it does.
Somewhere along the walk, my eyes drift to his forearms without permission and that’s when I see it—ink, dark and detailed, running along his right arm. I look away before he catches me.
“Jace.”
“Hm?”
“This is starting to feel like a lot.”
He glances at me briefly. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you’ve shown up at my shop three times in two weeks. You installed a lock on my door without asking. You text me at night to make sure I’m home.” I look over at him. “And now you’re outside my apartment before sunrise.”
His expression doesn’t change.
“Tyler sent back my necklace. I get that. And yeah, following me to the farmers market was weird, but I don’t think he’s actually going to hurt me.” I glance over at him. “I think he’s just having a hard time letting go.”
His jaw shifts once.
“You don’t know men like him the way I do.”
I stop walking.
He takes another step before realizing I’m no longer beside him, and when he turns around I can see the full length of his forearms, more ink disappearing beneath the sleeves of his shirt.
“I still don’t need a bodyguard,” I tell him.
He holds my gaze.
Then he walks back toward me.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Because that’s not what this is.”
My stomach tightens.
He starts walking again, like he didn’t just say something that lodged itself directly under my ribs.
I fall into step beside him.
We don’t say anything after that, but the silence settles easily between us. His stride is longer than mine, though he slows without thinking so I can keep pace. Every few steps his arm brushes mine, and neither of us adjusts.
We pass the bodega where I buy coffee when I’m running late. The woman behind the counter sees us through the window and raises her eyebrows at me. I pretend not to notice.
“She’s going to tell everyone on the block,” I say.
“Tell them what?”
“That I was walking with a man at six-thirty in the morning.”
“Is that a problem?”
I glance at him. He’s looking straight ahead but the corner of his mouth has lifted, and I realize this might be the closest thing to teasing I’ve ever seen from him.
“It’s going to be a whole thing,” I say. “Mrs. Delgado will have us married by Thursday.”
“Could be worse.”
I almost trip over my own feet. He reaches out—just a hand at my elbow, quick, steadying—and lets go before I can decide how I feel about it. But I felt the calluses again, and the warmth, and the way his fingers wrapped around my arm. Certain. Steady.
By the time we reach the shop I’m blaming the pace for my pulse, my breath, everything. I punch in the code, and I’m suddenly too aware of how close he is, how easy it would be to turn my head just enough to —
I don’t.
The lock clicks. He follows me inside. I hand him the first bucket of sunflowers and point toward the sidewalk.
He just takes it and goes.
I stand at the window and watch him—this man who runs a security empire, hauling sunflowers at seven in the morning because I told him to.
I don’t look at his forearm.