Page 70 of Crave Me

CHAPTER 16

Wren

I’m not sure what to expect when I arrive at Evan’s house. In Villanova, you can find anything from classic homes straight out of black and white 50s sitcoms to sprawling mansions with horse farms. Everything about Evan screams modern and high-tech, but the British-like accent and his personality are more Old World charm.

He’s a blend of both, and his home reflects as much. Alfred allows me through the high metal gates, shutting them as soon as I pass. A blanket of snow from the late March blizzard covers what’s probably a pretty garden, but the driveway is meticulously clean. It’s not a long drive up compared to some of the homes I passed, but thick line of pines and bushes swallow me whole, shielding me and the house from the rest of the world.

The house alternates between light and dark gray stone and siding. Outdoor landscaping lights illuminate the path leading to the front door and the three car garage.

I start to park in front of the far left garage door, thinking Alfred will somehow magically let me in through the front entrance, but the center bay opens when I near.

Like the gates, it shuts when I pull in and cut the engine. My F-150 barely fits in my detached garage. But in Evan’s house, there’s plenty of space on both sides.

I slip out, catching sight of his Jag as I wonder how the hell he keeps it so clean. Metal shelving lines the perimeter, appearing empty, and surprisingly dust and streak free. The clicking sound of the door unlocking at the top of the stairs lures me toward it. I walk in through a laundry room and into a very chic black and white kitchen.

Dark hardwood floors extend out and into a great room roughly the size of Delaware. Floor to ceiling windows lead to a terrace, the exterior lights extending to reveal a privacy fence barely visible through the stand of trees.

“Wren is secure,” Alfred’s voice echoes around me.

I pause near the black marble-encased gas fireplace as the door to the garage clicks shut. “Thanks there, Alfred,” I say. “That wasn’t creepy or anything.”

He doesn’t respond this time, which is good, I’m already feeling out of place. My crimson coat is the only color in the very sterile field of black, white, and gray. Don’t get me wrong, the house is gorgeous, spacious without being over the top. But it’s as if Evan’s playful side is absent, replaced solely by the serious and reserved side the world only sees.

“Well, I guess I’ll have to change that.”

“Change temperature of room, Wren?” Alfred offers.

“No, Alfred. I’ll do that all on my own. And no offense, buddy, but can you tone it down some, you’re freaking me out.”

“Silence mode initiated per Wren’s request,” he answers.

Everything goes abruptly still. When Alfred doesn’t appear with some high-tech sword to sever my head, I send a quick text to Curran and Evan, assuring them I’m safe. After another quick survey of my surroundings, I place my purse and coat on the white leather couch and strip completely out of my clothes. I leave on my knee-length boots because I’m a classy gal and find the closest bathroom to freshen up.

The garage door opens as I finish running a brush through my hair. Alfred announces, “Welcome home, Evan,” as I hurry out and reach for my coat.

I manage to fasten the last button when Evan appears at the doorway to the kitchen. He lets the heavy briefcase in his hand fall as he steps in, releasing a breath when he sees me.

“You’re safe,” he says, my presence appearing to settle him.

I shove my hands into the deep pockets as I leave the great room, shortening the space separating us. “I’m fine,” I assure him, my cheeks warming as he pulls me against him.

I’m expecting a hot and heavy night. He is too, given the way he’s clutching me. But the emotion written on his features isn’t passion. It’s relief. He’s happy I’m okay.

He cups the nape of my neck, pressing a gentle kiss on my lips. “You were scared,” he says.

I tense. It’s not that what he says isn’t true. But “scared” isn’t a word I use when it comes to me. “Nervous” and “freaked out”, sure, they’re easier to say. They tone down the meaning and mask the vulnerability “scared” exposes.

Vulnerable . . . that’s another word the freaks me out and something I can never be again.

“I didn’t like it,” he says, the gruffness to his tone revealing the anger that lingers.

“I didn’t like it either.” It’s not something I’d tell anyone else. But just like Evan exposes himself to me, I know I can do the same.

I smooth my palms along the soft cashmere of his dark coat. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

“All right, if that’s what you wish.” He cocks his head when it occurs to him I’m still wearing my coat. “My darling, are you cold?”

“No,” I answer, tripping over the word. He called me his “darling”. In that accent. No. That wasn’t hot or anything. Nope not at all.

---