Page 12 of Nothing Less Than Everything

WREN

An involuntary squeak escaped me when the waiter returned with Tatum’s card and the receipt. Immediately, I stuck my hand out and demanded the piece of paper. “Let me see that. I need to turn it in and have billing take it off your project expenses.”

Tatum looked up from where he was scribbling down a generous tip. His midnight eyes twinkled with amusement. My God, he was pretty.

He was tall with stacks-on-stacks of hard muscles. His raven hair was clipped close to his brown skin in a skilled fade. It was embarrassing to admit, but I’d had to keep my eyes locked on my tablet to avoid staring at each flex of his jaw and temple while he ate. He had the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need to be the center of attention. Objectively, he was the total package. Tatum was ridiculously rugged and masculine but still had a pretty boy flair. He was intense, and I was drawn closer to him with each passing moment.

“So,” Tatum said as he laid the waiter’s pen on the receipt. “Since this is now a date, and I’m about to take you back to my place to show you my bedroom—” he paused and offered a wink that let me know he was being just a little facetious “—let’s get back to the good stuff. Why are you named after a bird?”

A caustic laugh slipped past my lips. “Trust me, you can’t come up with any jab I haven’t heard before.”

He tilted his head, lending me his ear.

“No story. My parents just liked the name, and middle schoolers are cruel. Instead of ‘Wren,’ they used to call me ‘Chicken Little.’ But, I grew to like it,” I offered. “And we really should be getting around to that tour.”

We made our way out to the sidewalk. The sun had set, but the July air was balmy. Tatum looked down at the high heels on my feet. “You okay to walk a block in those?”

My feet were. My knee, not so much. “Absolutely.”

He slid a wide hand onto the small of my back and swapped sides so he was closest to the road—the picture-perfect gentleman as we made our way down the block. Goodness, his hands were enormous. I recognized his building as we neared the front. The doorman tipped his hat toward Tatum and me and opened the door ahead as we jogged up the steps. A twinge of pain reverberated up my thigh. My physical therapist had protested my return to the Reds, but football season waited for no one. It especially didn’t wait for an ACL tear.

My knee buckled when we hit the top step.

“Whoa—” Tatum’s hands engulfed my waist, saving me from eating the concrete. It all happened so fast. One moment I was trotting beside him. The next, I was careening toward the ground. And then his hands were on me, pulling me up and into his chest. He steadied me as we lingered in the light of the lobby door. Concerned eyes raked over my body. “You alright, Little Bird?”

The moniker made me blush, and the way his deep voice rasped as it slipped from his lips had heat pooling low in my belly. The nickname didn’t sound glib or flippant. It was intense for a man I met two hours ago.

Maybe I was a glutton for punishment, but I wanted more of him.

“I’m good.” I forced a smile despite the sharp pain that lanced through my limb. “Sorry about that. Clumsy me!” I tried to laugh it off, but he clearly didn’t buy it.

I expected him to back away and lead me to the elevators, but he didn’t. Instead, Tatum reached forward and sifted his hand through my hair. When he pulled away, there was sawdust pinched between the pads of his fingers. “I thought I knew who you were going to be, and now I realize that I don’t know you at all.”

It seemed open-ended. Like there were lines that I was supposed to read between. I just wasn’t seeing them.

“But?”

A blinding white smile lit up his dark features. “There’s grout on your shoe, paint on your dress, a rip in your tights, and sawdust in your hair.” As if to state the obvious, he said, “You’re a mess.”

“A little paint is an occupational hazard.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Do you usually paint and lay tile in a dress?”

I bit my lip, lowering my gaze to his mouth. His lips looked like they were made for kissing. So soft. Watching him talk was foreplay in itself. “What if I do?”

Tatum slid his hand up the curve of my hip and rested it on the dip of my waist. “What are the odds I’ll catch you tearing my house apart in a dress?”

“I’m hands-on with my assignments.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Am I your assignment?”

“Do you want to be?” The words slipped out before I could stop them. I panicked and did a little conversational pivoting. “I think I’m entitled to a date question,” I said, changing the subject.

“So, you’re admitting this is a date?”

“A hijacked date,” I conceded. “I’m still on the clock.”

He moved closer, both hands sliding onto my hips now. His tongue darted out as he licked his lips. “Does hijacking a date make it any less of a date?”

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