Page 9 of Rebel Hawke

Or maybe a nightmare.

“Well, well, well…”—the door clicks closed and slow footsteps advance toward me as Atlas’ words rumble through my bones, raising goosebumps on my skin—“the prodigal wife returns.”

2

WREN

He doesn’t sound the same as he did when we were kids, evenifmy body still reacts to him identically to how it always did back then. Gone is that youthful sweetness in his tone that comes from living a sheltered life with things handed to him on a silver platter, never experiencing the darker sides of life. Deep and gravelly now, there’s an edge in his voice that wasn’t there before. Something that says, “I’ve seen things and been places that have changed me.”

We both have.

Over twenty years have passed since we last saw each other…

Two long decades that have included some of the worst experiences of my life—and given what I know, some of the worst of his, too.

I thought I had primed myself for coming home and seeing the Hawkes—and specifically Atlas—again, but I was wrong. Absolutelynothingcould have prepared me to hear him call me hiswife.

Every nerve ending in my body seems to flare to life, warming me from the inside out until it feels like my skin is on fire.

But they aren’t the same flames that have burned me before.

This heat is different.

Pleasant and familiar.

Comforting almost, in spite of my anxiety about seeing him again.

Like being wrapped in strong arms and held protectively.

All with that single word.

I swallow through my dry throat, images of the wedding ceremony flashing through my head as if it were yesterday instead of what feels like a lifetime ago. And as much as I’d love to read into what he said, I know better. “Atlas, I see you haven’t lost your sense of humor…”

Atlas chuckles, the sound low and sultry, carrying across the studio and settling right between my legs with a dull ache I haven’t felt in a long time.

Damn, this is harder than I anticipated it would be.

I press my thighs together, trying not to give away how my body has reacted to his arrival.

His footsteps echo slightly as he crosses the floor toward me. My back stiffens, every muscle tensing in anticipation of the moment I’ve known has been coming since Gramps first suggested I return home.

I keep my back to him, adjusting the straps on the Cadillac machine, ensuring my hair falls over the left side of my face so he doesn’t catch my reflection in the mirror if he looks in that direction. But if he comes around to stand at the side of the reformer, there won’t be any more hiding.

He stops somewhere behind me, allowing me to release a tiny breath of relief. “Did you ever think I’dstopbeing a smartass, Wren?”

I grin, even though he can’t see it, and shake my head. “I think that would be impossible.”

He wasborna smartass.

Even as children, he was constantly making jokes and wisecracks, starting games of tag or hide-and-seek, keeping things fun and lighthearted. And somehow, he always managed to get me to smile, even if I was having a bad day.

There were a lot of those once Mom started using again. Far too many, though Gramps tried to shelter me from it the best he could. There are some things you can’t protect a child from, and that was one of them.

Which meant I needed the Hawkes—and Atlas—even more. And he wasalwaysthere, doing exactly what a best friendshoulddo. What he’s trying to do now…

“You know, when Jimmy told me this place was finally going to get some use, I had no idea it was going to be byyou.” The sliver of hurt in his voice makes me wince. “Was that intentional?”

I chew on my lip.

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