Page 67 of Rebel Hawke

She nods. “It would be.”

The old man was always working behind the scenes. He always played the long game. Everything he does to prepare me for fights has ulterior motives.

Getting Wren back to ensure I’m ready for Gordon isn’t out of the question by any stretch of the imagination.

“I’ll figure out a way to deal with your grandfather, Little Bird. I won’t put any sort of strain on your relationship.”

Those dark brows of hers rise again, and she places her hands over my heart. “Don’t you think moving me in with you only a week after I arrived is going to cause issues between you two?”

I grin at her. “I’ve been avoiding that conversation with him for the last few days and keep telling him it’s because of my concern about Satriano—”

She fights a smile. “Isn’t it?”

Tightening my grip on her, I grind my cock up against her core. “You know that isn’t the only reason. Even if Satriano hadn’t shown up, I would have had you here eventually.”

“You’re very confident in that.”

I don’t bother fighting my smirk. “Are you saying you wouldn’t have come home with me if a dangerous mobster hadn’t shown up in your studio?”

Wren twists her lips, considering my question coyly. “You might have been able to convince me…”

Feathering my lips over hers, I chuckle. “With what? My incredible charm and charisma?”

She rests her forehead against mine, gripping my T-shirt in her fingers tightly. “No, by showing me that you kept that photograph.”

I pull back from her. “One Polaroid is all it would have taken to get you in my bed?”

Somehow, I doubt that.

She had a wall up the moment I stepped into her studio. Wren had every intention of keeping me at arm’s length as much and as long as possible. This woman came back to New Orleans trying to ignore our shared past and friendship and thought she could somehow do it with me right next door every day.

Her cheeks pinken, and she ducks out of my hold, glancing away. “It’s embarrassing to admit this, Atlas. Probably easier to just show you.”

“Show me what?”

Wren slides back off my lap and climbs the stairs toward our bedroom with a quick glance over her shoulder at me.

What the hell is she up to?

She disappears into the room for a moment, and when she reappears at the landing, she has her hands clasped suspiciously in front of her.

“What do you have there, Little Bird?”

Whatever she is holding so close to her chest must be important. The look in her eyes tells me she cherishes it the same I did that photo.

When she reaches me again, she slides back onto my lap and lifts her left hand.

My heart stalls for a moment before it starts beating rapidly against my ribs. “Is that…”

The tiny lime-green piece of plastic wrapped around her pinky finger came straight out of a quarter machine in the hostess area of one of the Hawke restaurants. Though, over the years, I’ve forgotten which one.

But I never forgot sliding it on Wren’s ring finger that day.

Or saying, “I do.”

“You kept it.”

She grins. “Of course, I did. It’s my wedding ring.” Wren plays with it, spinning it around. “It was one of the only things that survived the fire because I kept it in a little metal keepsake box.”

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