Page 76 of You Had Me At Thirteen

‘Because I don’t want you to.’

Right.

It seems our moment last night has faded into the ether, but he doesn’t know his mum has told me everything. At least I don’t think. I cross my arms over my chest, defying him with my eyes.

He squeezes his own shut when he groans. ‘Fuck. Fine. Get in the damn car,’ he says, before climbing back in.

Really? That was easier than I imagined it would be.

I race to the passenger side and jump in, his scent engulfing me in its woodiness, making my mouth water. Before I can even put my seatbelt on, Wren is pressing his foot to the accelerator and slamming the car into gear.

My body tingles with nervous energy as I watch Wren change gears with ease. Something about the way he holds the steering wheel and the gear stick has me squeezing my thighs together. Pretty much everything Wren does sets me up to fail at controlling my hormones.

‘So, your dad’s home?’ I say as I tap my fingers over my thighs, trying to ease some of the silence.

‘Yep.’

‘Is that why you were upset last night?’ I know it’s not, but I want him to give me something, let me in, even just a little.

‘No.’

‘What was it, then?’

He sighs. ‘Nothing.’

‘It didn’t seem like nothing.’

‘Jesus Christ. Are you always so fucking nosey?’ He shakes his head. ‘You know what? Don’t answer that, I know you are.’

‘So, will you tell me?’

‘No.’

Great, not going as I had planned, but I still have time.

Wren drives us through town, and out past the farmlands on the outskirts and towards the forest that surrounds it. With my window down, I rest my chin on my arm, letting the warm breeze brush over my face.

We pass the farm paddocks, some still green with a little yellowing, while others look like straw. I guess the animals don’t care so much what colour the grass is, as long as they’re fed.

There’s a freshness in the air once you leave town, although right now it’s mixed with the scent of manure, or something dying.

When we get further away from home, I glance over at Wren, who looks more relaxed than earlier, his arm draped over the door as he handles the steering wheel with one hand. The wind pushes his hair back from his face, keeping it from falling onto his forehead.

‘Where are we going?’ I say.

‘You’ll see.’

‘Are you always so forthcoming?’ I say, mimicking his earlier comment about me being nosey.

He side-eyes me for a second, one side of his mouth kicking up in a smirk. The same one that sets my inner thighs up in a heated mess.

I cover my mouth with my hands in mock horror. ‘Is Wren Stevenson smiling?’

‘Shut up,’ he says, but there’s a playfulness in his tone.

Wren steers the car down a dirt road about half an hour out of town, gravel crunching under the tyres as he slows to a reasonable speed. The road winds through the forest, the trees seeming to reach the sky, blocking out the sun and sending the temperature down a couple of degrees.

When we come to a large clearing, Wren puts the car into park, then motions for me to follow him. ‘Come on.’

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