Chapter 24
Jett
Hey, I’m wrapping up early today. Have you eaten?
Wren
I was going to start dinner in about twenty.
Want some company?
Wren
Got any suggestions?
Me…care if I join you for dinner.
Wren
I’d like that.
Texting Wren has become the best part of my day.
With each vibration of a new text, I feel like the giddy teenage boy who couldn’t get enough of her.
We’ve stayed in the flirty and friendly direction in our conversations, but I’ve enjoyed getting to know her again.
She still loves Fleetwood Mac, but she’s traded in her tomboy-ish ways for skirts and dresses.
Her sass remains the same, but now she’s unabashedly candid.
I’ve smiled more than I have in God knows how long, and I’d like to imagine she’s on the other side of her phone smiling too.
Maybe even kicking her feet giddily the way she used to when we were kids.
When I ran into her at the salon the other day, we smiled, flirted, and it felt promising. It’s why I was digging in my phone to ask her to dinner, even though I’m showing up at her house.
But tonight’s different. Tonight is the first time we’ve been alone together since everything came out. Since the letters. Since the baby. Since the truth we both spent ten years not knowing.
So yeah, I’m nervous.
I rap my knuckles against the door a few times before popping it open, even though she told me to just come in.
“Wren?” I call as I step inside. “Don’t throw anything, it’s just me.”
“I don’t throw things,” she shouts from the kitchen.
“I have a scar on my lip that proves otherwise,” I say, shutting the door behind me and adjusting the flowers in my hand.
“It’s not my fault you couldn’t catch a softball.”
I scoff, rolling my eyes. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“Whose fault was that?”
Yours, I think to myself, remembering the day she busted my lip open and I should’ve gotten stitches.
It was a miserably hot mid-August day. The dog days of summer were in full swing, with temperatures in the one-hundreds and high humidity.
We had gone outside at her parents’ farm to toss the softball around so she could work on pitching.
We were nearing the end, but she couldn’t take the heat anymore, and without thinking, she stripped out of her tank top and down to her tiny bikini, which had only grown smaller with the changes to her body that summer…
mainly her boobs. I was stuck staring—drooling—over the bounce as she pitched and took my eyes off the ball.
It was a perfect strike straight to my face.
I’m damn lucky she didn’t knock out any teeth.
I walk into the kitchen and take in Wren standing at the stove, hair pulled back in some clip, wearing a big t-shirt that falls off one shoulder and hits mid-thigh, exposing her long, tan legs. My kryptonite.
It smells like home. A life I almost had.
Without thinking, I walk deeper into the kitchen until her back hits my front as I peer over her shoulder.
Wren’s busy flipping the steak, and I lean down, pressing a kiss to her cheek as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She tenses, and I freeze, lips hovering over her cheek.
Clearing my throat, I step back, rubbing the back of my neck with the hand not holding flowers.
“I brought you flowers.”
She glances over her shoulder, and a soft smile tugs at her lips as she bites the corner of her mouth. “You shouldn’t have.”
I shrug, my gaze never leaving hers. I could drown in her pretty whiskey irises. “They’re your favorite.”
“Thank you.” Her cheeks heat, neither of us breaking eye contact. Not until the grease pops in the pan, her attention snapping back to the meat.
I place the bouquet next to the sink as I lean against the counter, watching her flip the steak. It sizzles loud and hot, and she moves like she’s done this a thousand times.
“Those smell amazing.”
She smirks. “Only the best meat from the best farm.”
I huff a laugh. “You’re cute.”
She turns, leaning against the opposite counter and looking up at me. “This feels like deja vu.”
“That so? I don’t remember you cooking me dinner growing up.”
Wren’s eyes roll. “I just had the girls over for dinner the other night.”
“Any good gossip?”
She taps her finger on her chin. “Only that word of us hate-fucking has spread amongst the masses.”
“Weird,” I say sarcastically. “I have no idea how that could've happened.”
“I swear, Jett Riggsby, you are worse than a woman when it comes to gossip.” She laughs, and for a second, everything feels normal. Easy. Like we’re two people having dinner and not two people trying to figure out how to rebuild our relationship.
We eat at the table overlooking the back field, talking about nothing important while we enjoy the steak, mashed potatoes, and asparagus Wren prepared.
Even though our meal is fueled by small talk, mostly her sharing about the upcoming athletic booster’s casino night she’s been helping coordinate, it feels big at the moment.
Not because of the topics being discussed, but because we’re sitting across from each other again.
Once we’re both finished, Wren stands from her seat and starts collecting plates, but I grab them from her hands.
“You cooked, I’ll clean,” I answer her unasked question.
“Who are you and what have you done with the boy who used to cheat at rock, paper, scissors to get out of washing dishes after Sunday dinners?”
I chuckle at the memory. “I’m a changed man.”
“The military really worked its magic on you.”
“Or maybe I’ve matured.”
She snorts a laugh. “I bet if I dared you right now, you’d accept the challenge.”
“Well, I’m still a Riggsby.”
We work side by side at the sink, bumping into each other and laughing. Every time her arm brushes mine, I feel the zap across my chest.
It’s not long before we move into the living room, both of us sitting on opposite sides of the couch. I watch as Wren tucks her legs under her, the cotton shirt rising even higher. She pulls her hair free from her clip and that’s when I notice it.
“Your hair.”
Her eyebrows crease.
“It’s back to your natural color. I thought it looked different, but I wasn’t sure if it was my mind playing tricks on me.”
“Oh, yeah, Saylor dyed it on Saturday when I ran into you.”
“It looks good. It looks like you.”
She blushes, and I smile. “I’m really glad you're back, Wren.”
“Me too.” Her voice comes out soft. “I didn’t realize how much I missed this place until I came back.”
“It wasn’t the same without you.”
She nods, glancing away. And before I can stop myself, the words tumble out.
“I wish my dad could see the farm now.”
Wren shifts closer, not touching me, but the space between us is gone.
“He’d be proud of you.”
I release a breath and let the thoughts pour from me.
That’s the thing between me and Wren; I could never keep my thoughts inside my head.
Being in her presence, it’s comforting. She never judged me for sharing whatever was bothering me.
Instead, she’d listen and only chime in with advice when she could tell I needed it.
Otherwise, she’d let me vent while being a listening ear.
“I used to be so pissed at him. For making the deal with the judge and sending me away. For not letting me say goodbye to you properly. And”— I clear my throat, swallowing the lump forming — “for dying before I could come home and tell him how much I loved him and how much I appreciated everything he did for me, even when I didn’t understand it at the time. ”
I rub my hands together, trying to rid the feeling in my chest.
“I’ve got a lot of stuff I never said to him, and now I never will.”
Reaching over, she grabs my hand, pulling it away from my chest. She intertwines our fingers.
“I think we always assume we have more time.” I hate how quiet her voice is and how she knows exactly what I mean. Both of us have lost a parent unexpectedly when we weren’t ready to face them.
“I wasn’t very nice to my mom the last few years I lived in LA,” she admits, staring at our joined hands.
“I didn’t call enough, never visited, and always said I was too busy.
I built a whole life out there, and I kept telling myself I’d come home more, I’d call more, I’d fly them out more.
But more never happened. She’s gone, and all I have left are her journals. ”
“Journals?”
“She used to write everything down. Ideas, plans, holiday menus, dreams, everything. She wrote a lot about wanting to turn the old barn into an event venue for weddings, parties, reunions, stuff like that.”
I sit up a little straighter and take in the slight curve to her lips.
“She had sketches and plans drawn up, but she never pulled the trigger.” She takes a breath. “So I’m going to do it. I’m going to renovate the barn and build the business. I’m going to finish what she started.”
Before I can think, I’m wrapping her into a hug. “That’s great, Wren.”
She squeezes me back before we shift to our seats, but she never pulls her hand from mine.
“If you need help with anything, I’m pretty handy. I could help build stuff, or whatever.”
She hesitates before giving me a soft smile. “Thank you, I really appreciate the offer, but”—she takes a breath—“I think this needs to be mine.”
I don’t say anything, hoping she’ll elaborate.
“In case things don’t work out between us... I don’t want the venue tied to anything…anyone.”
Her admission stings, but I get it.
“That’s fair.”
Her shoulders relax, as if she’s relieved I didn’t push back. I’m just hanging on to the hope there could be an us someday.
“Sounds like you’ve got it figured out,” I tell her. “Life’s too damn short not to chase what makes you feel alive. You and I both know how fleeting it can be.”
She studies me for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes.
“And you?” she asks. “Running the farm—do you still want that?”
I think about it for a long minute.