Page 67 of When We Were Us
It was bad enough that I had basically mauled her the other night, and I didn’t even know what her situation was, or who this Derek guy was to her. Something in my gut told me he was someone who had at one time been important to her, but I couldn’t get her to talk to me about it. Both times I’d brought him up, she’d shut me down.
Finn’s laugh cuts through my thoughts. “I told you not to wear those shoes! You can’t hike in Chuck Taylors, no matter how tough you think you are.”
“Ironic coming from the girl who literally ran around barefoot for the entirety of our childhood,” Wren answers back with a snort.
I quickly wonder how much Finn knows about what happened at Roxy’s; if she asked where we’d gone when I pulled Wren off the dance floor.
It isn’t a big bar, and I have no doubt everyone in the place saw me interrupt her dance with Archie and then kiss her. Either way, I feel like a creeper, skulking in the shadows of the stable. So, I bite the proverbial bullet and stride from the barn, heading in their direction.
“Morning Finn, Wren,” I say.
Both women turn in my direction. Wren looks fucking edible in black leggings and a red and yellow flannel over a cropped white tank top. On her feet? Signature red shoes.
I bite down on a smirk, because those shoes are one of the things I love about her. She’s so comfortable just being herself that she doesn’t care if her shoes might not be appropriate for the occasion, if they’ll match what she’s wearing, or even whether they’ll give her blisters while hiking. She just wears them because she loves them. And I love that she is so unapologetically herself.
“Oh… Hey, Hank,” Finn says. A silent glance passes between them, and I notice a faint blush is staining Wren’s cheeks before she smiles, clears her throat, and glances away. “We were just going to find Emily. We have some donations for the auction and the shelter.”
“Moms around here someplace. Do you want some help?” I gesture toward the back of Wren’s jeep, packed with boxes.
“Sure. That’d be great,” Finn says, grabbing a box and then moving so I can lean in and grab one.
Wren steps forward just as I do, and I step on her toes. She winces and lets out a little squeak of pain.
“Sorry,” I say. Reaching out, my hand touches her elbow. “You ok?” I ask, my eyes following the long line of legging-clad legs down to her feet.
Her eyes drop to where my hand is resting and then meet my eyes. She gives a small nod and a smile that just about stops my heart. “Yeah, of course. I’m fine. Thanks.”
I don’t want to let go, but I can’t stand here just gaping at her. So, I turn and grab a box, motioning with my head for them to follow when Wren has a box of her own. From the corner of my eye, I can see her limping slightly.
Shit.
When we’re halfway to the garage, Mom pops her head out of the screen door on the porch. “Thank you so much for the donations! Don’t you girls leave without saying hello!” she calls out with a wave.
After two trips—and multiple chances to check out Wren’s incredible ass in those skintight leggings—we walk back to the main house, and I hold the screen door open for Finn and Wren to proceed me inside. I catch Wren’s eye as she passes. The smile she gives me is shy and she quickly looks away with a flutter of her long lashes. It makes me want to find every opportunity to make her smile for the rest of her life.
I honestly don’t know what I’m doing with her, but I haven’t felt this light in years. Ever since that night in the bar, I’ve had this feeling in my gut, like that swooping sensation you get on the steep descent of a rollercoaster.
Once we’re in the kitchen, Mom kisses my cheek hello, hands me a cup of coffee, and then turns to Finn and Wren, pulling them both into a group hug.
“Would you girls like coffee?” She smiles up at them.
I roll my eyes at my mother calling two thirty-five-year-old women “girls” and take a sip from my mug.
Finn defers to Wren, who says, “Oh, it's ok.” She waves a hand in front of her as if to decline. “We really should get going—” She seems nervous and it's cute as hell. But my mother is having none of that and waves her off.
“Oh, sit for a minute and let’s catch up. Have you thought anymore about volunteering for the festival, Wrenley?” She doesn’t miss a beat and adds, “Hank, there’s a loaf of that cinnamon bread in the pantry. Grab it for me and slice it up, will you?”
“I never turn down coffee,” Finn says and takes a seat at the counter. Wrenley reluctantly follows.
Mom slides two mugs with sugar and half-and-half across the counter.
Finn and Wren set about making their coffee—cream for Finn and cream and two sugars for Wren. When I sit the plate of cinnamon bread in front of them, they both groan. Finn grabs a slice, breaks it down the middle, and hands one half to Wren.
Wren takes a sip of her coffee and our eyes meet over the rim of her mug. It’s hard not to think about my tongue in her mouth and my hands on her ass as I watch her. I remember the way she dug her hands into my hair. The way she traced her fingers down my chest and under my shirt, her fingers easily finding my nipple. How good her tits felt pressed against my chest. Just thinking about it has my cock hardening against my zipper.
I turn to set my mug down and open the fridge, using its full-length door to hide the fact that I’m adjusting myself. It's getting harder and harder to deny the effect she has on me, and the last thing I need is to have a full-on boner with my mom standing three feet away.
My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket. Not recognizing the number, I flip it open.
