Page 13 of The Wrong Guy

“Maybe we should continue this tomorrow, Wren?” Oliver offers, dropping his napkin to the table in irritation.

She plasters on the fake smile I hate. “Of course. I’m heading out too.” She pulls two twenties from her purse and lays them beside her half-eaten plate of nachos.

I start to follow her toward the door, but Wren stops, putting her hand out, and I walk right into it. “What are you doing?” she demands.

“Walking you to your car,” I answer.

She shakes her head. “No, thanks. I’m okay.”

I inhale sharply, my chest pressing against her palm, and even that small contact makes my heart pound. I can’t let her leave with this guy, but I know that look in Wren’s eyes. If I push her, she won’t just push back. No, she’ll annihilate me.

“Wren,” I try again, covering her hand with mine to hold it to my chest a little longer. Surely she can feel what she does to me. That has to count for something, right?

“Jesse,” she warns.

She turns, heading for the door where Oliver is waiting for her. He holds the door open, making a big show of looking at her ass as she walks through. Damn well aware that it’ll piss me off, he meets my eyes with a victorious smirk that I want to swipe off his face with my fist.

Motherfucking asshole.

I stand there until the door closes and Hazel comes up beside me. “Smooth moves, dipshit.”

I glare at Hazel and head for the door myself. All I wanted was a quick dinner, and now my brain’s completely fucked up and my dick’s rock-hard. I’m never gonna get to sleep.

Chapter 5

WREN

Stomping up to the door of the little cottage, I almost trip over the crack in the driveway that I’ve stepped over dozens of times. Probably should’ve put on something other than UGGs with my pajamas, but it’s too late for that now.

I yank open the screen door and sharply bang on the door three times. Arms crossed and foot tapping, the anger I’ve been working up for the last hour at home is still raging hot and ready to unleash on the person who screwed over my meeting.

The door opens, and I blink in the light that comes blaring out, startling me momentarily.

“Hey, Birdie, what’s up?” Jesse drawls out, using his nickname for me. He’s completely unbothered by my unexpected appearance, casually leaning against the door with one arm lifted over his head and a stupid smile on his stupid face.

“What’s. Up?” I repeat. “Are you serious right now, Jesse Sullivan? You interrupt my work meeting, where I was trying to finagle some information out of Oliver, and then you’re all ‘what’s up?’ like you didn’t fuck me over?”

His grin falters for a second but then returns with cocky arrogance. “Fuck you over? Is that what you’re here for?”

The question is loaded with dirty promises I know he can keep. Once upon a time, I would’ve said yes. Hell, I would’ve shrieked it as I was halfway down the hall to his bedroom, dropping clothes along the way like bread crumbs so he could find his way right to me.

That was then, and this is now. That hasn’t been our arrangement in a long time, and it’s definitely not what I’m here for tonight.

“No, and don’t try to distract me with all ...” I wave my hand around at him in general, suddenly realizing that while I’m in a semirespectable shorts and T-shirt pajama set, Jesse is half-naked, wearing only gray athletic shorts and a sheen of sweat across his bare, muscular chest.

Jesse shifts, his stance matching mine with his feet spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, and a scowl on his face. “All what?”

I blurt, “Were you working out?”

That is not what I meant to say. But now that I’ve asked, I’m curious if he was pumping iron or pumping something else. Memories assail me of that image, and I’m reminded that I’m not wearing a bra beneath my shirt when it brushes over my hard nipples.

Jesse snorts, turning around and walking toward his kitchen. “Yeah, should’ve been in bed hours ago, but had some shit to work out. Throwing around some weight seemed preferable to throwing fists.”

I hear the fridge open and close, and debate whether I should go inside. Are we at the point where I need an invitation now, like a vampire? Or can I barge in uninvited like a regular visitor? I don’t know.

While I’m still deciding, Jesse reappears, slamming back a bottle of water. I watch as his throat works with each swallow and a single drip runs down his chin to his chest, making a trail I’d like to trace with my tongue. He finishes the bottle in one go and sighs as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You coming in or not?” he asks.

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