Page 59 of Strike Zone

Wren is sprawled out on the floor highlighting index cards and making additional notes on notebook paper. I’ve spent more time watching her than I have been studying. The thing is, I know agriculture. It’s been my entire life. It’s in my blood.

What I don’t know enough about is her. Wren is something I could study for the rest of my life and never reach the bottom of her depths. There is too much to learn and too many layers to uncover.

I like knowing what she’s afraid of and what motivates her. Or that I can bring her a fresh pack of sticky notes and make her smile. And that she keeps Starbursts in her nightstand so Charlie doesn’t eat them.

There’s a knock on her door. She barely notices, completely lost in her own little world.

“I’ll get it.” It’s probably our pizza. I don’t need her answering the door in the tiny bike shorts she changed into.

“There’s cash in my purse.”

“I’ve got money.”

She stands, grabs her wallet off the counter, and hands me enough cash for the pizza and a tip. “I know, but you paid last time. It’s my turn.”

“I bought you a hot dog from the cafeteria on my meal plan. Hardly the same thing.”

“It’s the same to me.” She snatches the cash out of my hand. “I’ll pay him then.”

Her thighs flex as she strides toward the door. The bottom of her sweatshirt sits perfectly on the curve of her ass. “Give me that.” I grab the money and maneuver her to where she is standing behind me when I open the door.

I don’t want the guy to have an opportunity to look at her. It shouldn’t matter. She is completely covered, but no other man sees her like this. They see her in linen pants, silk blouses, and slicked back hair. I get her in bike shorts and T-shirts, her hair a mess on the top of her head, and old sweatshirts from her high school mathlete team.

That’s my Wren and I want to keep her to myself.

Fuck, do I want to keep her.

Behind the door is a pimple-faced teen. He looks over my shoulder as he pulls our pizzas out of the warmer. For fucks sake. Wren is setting the table and bent over the damn thing. The kid probably just jizzed his pants. The little shit.

“If you want to keep your balls where they are, I suggest you stop staring at my girl,” I say low enough only he can hear.

“Yeah, man. Uh, sorry. Here.” He passes me the two large pizzas we ordered.

“Keep the change.” I slam the door in his face.

“That was rude.”

I ignore her and walk into the living room and set the pizzas down on the empty side of the coffee table. I stack up my textbooks and laptop and put them under the table. “Come in here and eat with me.”

Wren’s eyes dart between the dining table and the living room before she grabs some napkins and sits beside me on the floor. I slide the pizza boxes over until they are side by side and flip the tops open.

We inhale at the same time, both wanting to breathe in that cheesy, greasy, aroma. She giggles and I bump her shoulder with mine.

“When I was a kid my mama would do pizza picnics on the floor every week in the summer. Dad worked late in the field back then.” I serve Wren a piece of pepperoni and the basil mozzarella she likes. “I guess it was her way of giving herself a break and making it fun for us at the same time.”

“I used to love eating at my dad’s office when I was little. We would order sandwiches from the deli in his building and eat in the boardroom.” She takes a bite of her food and chews slowly. “There was a giant white board,” she adds once she swallows.

“I bet you loved that.”

“I did.” She smiles and I have to look away before I make it awkward by staring at her. I’ve always thought Wren was pretty since the first time I saw her eating lunch with the girls.

I didn’t give her a second look because of her indifference to me. She made it clear she was not my biggest fan. But when she smiles at me, the sight hits me like a hammer to the head. I forget where I am and struggle to find the right words to say.

“What about your mom? You don’t talk about her much.”

“She’s around but she tends to enjoy society life more now that I’m grown and away at school. Her social calendar is busy with lunches and charity work. I don’t think I was the daughter she was hoping for.”

“What do you mean? It sounds like you’ve been the perfect daughter growing up.” It’s obvious she would do anything for her parents. Her whole life has been spent trying to make them proud of her. I would be surprised if making them happy isn't her biggest motivation for getting married.

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