Page 11 of Party Favors
Wren said, “Shut up, Willie.”
He laughed again.
None of that made sense to Amanda, but she was too giddy and also maybe a bit too tipsy to care.
* * *
After dinner, William and Benji had decided to take a snowy evening stroll through the grounds to the apple orchard, which was the source of the Father Time Cider the resort and farm was famous for. The orchard was decorated with Christmas lights for a few more days, and it was a big draw for guests. Amanda’s coat was still wet, so outdoor winter strolls were a hugenofor her. She and Wren headed back to their cottage.
As they got ready for bed, Amanda wondered what a person’s choice of sleepwear said about them. She wore silky stuff because it felt like cool water on her skin, but revealing her pajamas to Wren, who designed lingerie and had a whole page of sexy nighties on her website, was intimidating. What would Wren think about her silk shorts and shirt? That she was a prude who wore pricey matching sets? That she was boring and predictable?
Amanda had run her mind ragged before she’d saidfuck it, put on her pajamas, and trudged upstairs to their bedroom.
Wren was sitting cross-legged in the center of the bed in plaid boxers and a baggy old T-shirt. The sight practically melted the silk off Amanda’s body. She was in big, big trouble.
Wren grinned and lifted a large Father Time Cider bottle in the air when she spotted Amanda. Amanda could make out the swell of Wren’s small breasts through the thin material of the T-shirt, which was advertising a 2009 5k Fun Run. There was a hole in the shoulder seam. The boxers and shirt hung loose on Wren’s waifish frame
Wren wore old clothes to bed, and Amanda found that insanely hot.
Frankly, she just found Wren hot. It was an issue.
They sat opposite each other with the bottle of cider between them. Wren took a slug and passed it over. She had started a fire in the stone fireplace in the corner, so it was cozy and comfortable in the loft.
“Okay, girl talk time, right?” Wren asked.
Some of the tipsiness from dinner had worn off, and Amanda simply felt soft and hot inside.
“Sure.”
“Me first.”
“You first what?” Amanda said. She placed her lips on the bottle. It was warm from Wren’s mouth.
“To ask questions.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“What is it that you want most in the new year?”
“In what way?” Amanda wanted so many things. A fulfilling job or hobby. Good sex. More friends.
“Hmmm. Excellent question. Let’s start with romance. How about in a relationship? You dated that boring Brad guy for two years, but you haven’t seemed serious about anyone since. Your parents throw dates at you all the time, but what areyouhoping for? What doyouwant the most?”
If Amanda were braver or drunker, she would lean in and kiss Wren. Crack a cheesy line like, “I want you the most.”
But she wasn’t brave. At all.
She’d dated Brad because he’d been “the right type of man for someone of her status” according to her mother. If lackluster kissing and one-sided pleasure was what she got dating the Brads of the world, then she wanted nothing to do with that anymore. She didn’t want Brad. She didn’t want Thatcher Aldridge or Ned Applebaum III. She was sick and fucking tired of the same old bullshit.
She was sick of not being brave.
Honesty was difficult, though. Especially when she had to say it out loud, when she wasn’t given the veil of text messages and distance.
“I would like to be with someone who sees me as more than a trophy for their arm.”
“Yes.” Wren flopped onto her side and pointed at Amanda. “You’re more than your frankly fantastic looks, A.”
“Frankly fantastic, huh?” When men complimented her, she always felt a bit irritated and distrustful. So often compliments were couched with desiring something from her—connections to the Ellis family business or nude pictures or money. It didn’t feel that way with Wren, and she really liked it.
