Page 21 of The Wrong Guy

I definitely hadn’t expected to see her cozied up with that slimeball. I hadn’t believed my eyes at first, and then I didn’t want to. My instinct was to rip him away from Wren and stand between them to protect her. Not that she needs protection.

Or wants it.

I must growl in frustration, or make some sort of noise, because Bea suddenly jumps in surprise. “I’m almost done, Jesse. Just need ya to gimme one more jiffy and I’ll have these all filed for you.”

She adds a well-practiced, soft smile. Bea has worked for the Cold Springs permit office since the day after she graduated high school, which was only a few years ago, but she’ll likely be in the same desk chair till the day she retires. She deals with grumpy, dirty construction guys just about every day, and somehow does it without bitching us out for coming into her office smelling like sweat and sawdust. She’s sweet as can be and doesn’t deserve to feel any of my frustrations and anger, especially when they have nothing to do with the permits she’s rubber-stamping for me. They’re the same as the previous ones, but she’s gotta be careful that every detail is correct so we don’t have any issues.

I force an answering smile to my lips. “Ah, sorry, Bea. I’m not pissed at you, just having a rough day. Take all the time you need.”

“I heard,” she answers with a sly look in her eyes. “You be patient. Wren will figure out that she doesn’t belong with some city slicker, even if he is hotter’n an egg on the sidewalk in August. Women have wild oats to sow, too, ya know?”

I don’t answer, not wanting to consider Wren’s wild oats ... with Oliver, but also that maybe she already sowed some with me, and that’s all it was.

When I’m silent, Bea adds, “At least I did. I dated a bit before I found my Prince Charming.”

“Prince Charming” is a stretch. Bea’s boyfriend, Sawyer, works for the city, too, doing road repairs. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without a cigarette in one hand and a Coke in the other, and he probably weighs a buck twenty-five soaking wet. But if Bea’s happy with him, I’m happy for her. Besides, it’s not like I have any room to talk given my current situation.

“Sure. Uh ... you done with those?” I lift my chin to indicate the last of the permits in the stack. She glances down, scans it quickly, and stamps it.

Putting it in her inbox tray, she smiles. “Yep, good to go. Get those places built right and fast. I think me and Sawyer might see if we can move out there.”

“Will do,” I tell her, tipping an invisible hat in a gentlemanly manner that I hope makes up for my grumpiness the rest of the time I was in her office.

Turnabout is fair play. Or that’s what I tell myself as I knock on Wren’s door.

If she can show up on my doorstep unannounced and read me for filth, then I’m damn sure entitled to do the same to her. That’s why I’m here—to get her to see reason. She can’t go out with that Oliver guy.

Wren opens the door with a huff, holding on to the doorknob as she bends down to pull one stiletto on. “Sorry, I thought you said you were going to call first. Give me two minutes.” Only then does she glance up through the veil of her curled blonde hair. “Jesse?”

I swear she looks behind me like I might be hiding someone.

“I don’t have time to fight with you, and I don’t wanna hear it anyway,” she says bluntly. Considering me dealt with and dismissed, she yanks her other heel on and swings the door, expecting it to close in my face.

I stop it with a hand and walk in like I belong here, closing the door behind me. My focus stays locked on Wren, but I notice the changes since I was here last.

The living room walls are painted a peachy-pink now. Her couch pillows are different and so is the rug. And there’s a huge gold-framed mirror propped against the far wall of the foyer.

It’s in that mirror that I meet Wren’s eyes as she fusses with her clothes and hair, getting ready to go out with another man. Stepping behind her, I smooth her hair back from her shoulders and place heavy hands on the bare skin there. Fingering the strap of her silk top, my voice turns to gravel.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” I murmur.

Her eyes close as she takes a slow, deep breath. By increments, she sinks back into me until her shoulders are pressed to my chest. I walk my arms around her, holding above her breasts, and she rests her chin on my forearm.

“What do you want?” she whispers.

Does she really not know? How can that be?

I step around to face her, cupping her cheeks. Her soft skin feels like silk against my rough hands, and I can’t help but gently run my thumb over her full bottom lip. She parts her lips, letting me feel her breath, and that small give tells me everything I need to know. I bend down, and just before I kiss her, I answer, “You.”

The kiss is gentle as I taste her, memories flooding back to my mind and my body. I remember our very first kiss—full of sparks and hunger as our hands explored each other. But oddly, I don’t remember our last kiss. It’s one of those things you don’t recognize the importance of at the time because it’s one of many. It’s not until later that you realize you’ve forgotten to file that memory away.

I won’t make that mistake again.

I make note of her every nuance—the slickness of the gloss on her lips, the minty breath she’s breathing into me, the tiny noise she makes in the back of her throat.

God, I’ve missed her.

I’ve dreamed of this hundreds of times over the past year, but now, it’s real. This is my chance to remind her why we’re so good together.

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