Page 12 of The Wrong Guy

Seriously? Is this some sort of ploy to get my attention? Because if so, it damn well worked.

But in the next second, I know the truth. It has nothing to do with me. That woman has had me in knots for nearly a year, easily ignoring me even when we’re in the same room, and I’m a complete nonissue to her.

Like she’s forgotten the way I could make her body sing. Like I don’t know what she feels like wrapped around my cock. Like she didn’t mark me up with those red nails she always has.

I don’t make a conscious decision to get up, but suddenly, I’m striding across the room straight toward Wren’s table. People hop out of my way, creating a clear path, until I’m looming at the table’s edge. The Asshole glances up and mistakes me for a waiter despite my dirty T-shirt and rough appearance. “Hey, man, I could use some more water. Thanks.”

I scoff as he looks at Wren and asks, “Would you like anything?”

I drop down to my elbows on the table, stealing a chip from Wren’s plate. “Yeah, Birdie. You need anything?” Eye to eye with her, I crunch on the chip that, despite being covered in Tayvious’s delicious chili and homemade queso, tastes like sawdust.

“He’s not a waiter, Oliver. This is Jesse ... uh, my ... brother’s wife’s brother. Jesse, this is Oliver.” She’s glaring at me, her eyes sparkling with anger her congenial tone doesn’t express.

She meant to say I’m the man who’s made her come so hard she nearly passed out. Okay, I don’t say that aloud, but I think it as I look deep into Wren’s green eyes, withstanding every bit of her fire. Hell, enjoying it. It’s damn sure better than the indifference she’s been giving me.

“Brother’s wife’s ... what?” Oliver repeats, laughing at his own confusion.

“It’s not that complicated. My sister, her brother ... married.” I clasp my hands to show their connection, and not at all because I desperately want to touch Wren. Nope, that’s not it at all. “No worries about the waiter thing, though. This one”—I lift my chin toward Wren—“thought I was a caterer the first time we met.”

Flashing a grin her way, I know Wren is remembering too. It was the day of her brother’s wedding, and Wren was making sure everything was perfect for Winston and Avery. I was setting out cupcakes under the big tent in the back garden of the Ford home, and she came barreling in with a mental checklist and an iron will, determined to complete it to perfection in record time. She’d bossed me around a bit, and when I suggested she take a breath, it’d gone over like a fart in church. She’d reared up, popping her hands on her hips and reading me the riot act. I’d bravely challenged her, saying that I knew exactly who she was, but did she know who I was ... and we’d become friends. It was a while later that we became friendly.

And then ... nothing.

Everything went well for a while, both of us on the same page about what we did and didn’t want, and then I texted her and she claimed she was busy. A couple more times and I found myself basically ghosted. Even in a town the size of Cold Springs, she avoided me. When Hazel and Wyatt invited everyone over, I’d hoped to rekindle things and had watched her like a tiger, ready to pounce at the slightest opportunity, noting every detail that had changed in the months since we’d spoken, but Wren was civil, polite, and somehow totally unaffected by the fact that I’d been inside her mere months ago.

I can take a hint. I know who and what she is, and I’m all too aware that she’s about ten notches out of my league. She slummed it with me for a bit, but moved on. And judging by Oliver, she’s moving up.

But just because I understand doesn’t mean I have to like it. She might be over us, but I’m not, and the months since I’ve had her beneath me feel like years.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Wren rolls her eyes about the tease she’s heard before, and then she tells Oliver, “He’ll probably remind everyone about that at my funeral, even though I apologized profusely. It was a stressful day, and you were wearing an apron and holding a tray of cupcakes.” It’s the same go-round we always have. At this point, I’m just giving her shit. She knows I don’t hold a grudge for her entirely logical conclusion that day.

“Wh-what?” Oliver sputters, confused by the history in our conversation. History he’s not privy to.

“It was Winston’s wedding. My mom’s a baker. I was helping her out.” Short and to the point is all he deserves.

“Winston?”

Wren answers, “My brother.” At the same time, I register that he doesn’t know her family. I’d expect him to know the Ford family tree if he’s Chrissy’s lawyer, but maybe it hasn’t come up. “Not the one married to his sister, but the other one.”

“Right, the three Ford kids—Wyatt, Winston, and you,” Oliver answers as if he’s quoting a spreadsheet. “Children of Bill and Pamela Ford, nephews and niece of Jed and Chrissy.”

So he does know. Clearly the asshole just wanted Wren to explain. I don’t like the way he’s trying to play her like a puppet on strings. It smacks of one of those tricks insecure guys play to make themselves seem two steps ahead.

But I’m 100 percent sure that Wren is ahead of him in every way under the fucking sun, and doesn’t need any tricks to prove it. She’s smarter than one of those chess-playing computers.

Wren doesn’t move, but I can sense the sudden tension in her. She didn’t like what this guy said any more than I did. When she doesn’t immediately fire back, I draw Oliver’s attention, giving her time to calculate her next move. Feigning that I’m impressed, I smile ferally at Oliver. “A-plus for the Boy Scout. Chrissy prepped you well. Did she give you CliffsNotes on everyone in town and tell you to study up for the big visit?”

Oliver’s eyes narrow as he looks at me shrewdly. He didn’t like me making him sound like Chrissy’s lapdog. Score one for me, but that ties it up after his “who’s Winston” deal.

Oliver’s voice is steady, but tight, as he informs me, “My client and case are no concern of yours.”

Is he for real? Jed and Chrissy’s divorce is the talk of the town. There’s even an unofficial newsletter with updates and theories. Whoever’s running it has chosen to stay anonymous, but given the tone of the reports, I’m reasonably certain Tayvious is the author behind the keyboard because the latest discussion is about Jed’s teeny weenie not being enough to impregnate a rabbit, much less a woman.

But the overall consensus around town is that we all hate Jed, so though we don’t like Chrissy, we’re mostly on her side and hope she takes Jed to the cleaners. I’m not going to share that with this guy, though.

I grunt, not agreeing or disagreeing, as I casually steal another nacho from Wren’s plate, knowing that Oliver’s analyzing my familiarity with her. If I could, I’d claim her in a much more obvious way—throw my arm around her, take her hand, or kiss her. But I don’t have the right, as much as I wish I did. Crunching loudly in the growing silence, I keep my attention on Wren, effectively ignoring Oliver as though he doesn’t matter and is the interloper into our conversation instead of the other way around.

“Yeah, but we look out for each other around here, don’t we?” I ask Wren.

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