“Hello? Anyone here?” a deep male voice called.
“That’s the band guy,” Grayson said.
“Shh,” I whispered so violently, I spat. Attractive.
“Wren, what’s—” He stopped when I put my finger up to his mouth. I let it linger, feeling the warmth of his lips, until I was sure he wouldn’t speak.
There was shuffling and movement and a few heavy thuds. The band guys must have been stowing their equipment. They did that occasionally, when they knew the main building wouldn’t be open before they needed their stuff again. My muscles began to ache from being still. How long would this take?
“Wren, why can’t we just go out there?” Gray whispered.
“No one knows we’re here.”
“But—”
“Grayson, please.”
“Did you hear that? I swear this place is haunted,” the band guy said. Grayson’s body rocked with laughter.
“Don’t,” I whispered, leaning into him to stop myself from cracking up too. The darkness cocooned us, heightening my senses. Gray’s breathing returned to normal, but his heart pounded. Or was it mine? A strong, insistent beat. He curled into me, his earthy-scented hair tickling my forehead. One tilt of my head and my lips would be on his neck. The thought made me swoon.
A door slammed.
“I think they’re gone,” Grayson whispered, a warm rush against my ear.
Just kiss him, Wren.
Grayson broke away, opening the pantry door and stepping into the kitchen. I emerged, squinting—even the dim light from the parking lot hurt after being in the dark for so long. I stood there, adjusting to the light and space.
“We’re not here for a corkscrew, are we?” Grayson asked.
“No, not really.”
“Then what?”
In the shabby light of the kitchen, all my thoughts in the dark seemed ridiculous. Wind rattled the window, and a draft seeped through the ancient sills. I hunched my shoulders up for warmth.
“Nothing, let’s go,” I said, walking out of the kitchen and smack into the band equipment. “Great,” I muttered, turning. Now Grayson stood in my way.
“Wren, talk to me. Please. Why are we here?”
“I wanted to . . .” I began, rocking back on my heels, avoiding Grayson’s eyes.
He leaned against the wall, waiting, his face half in shadow.
Soon this place would be leveled. St. Gwen, the Patron Saint of Clandestine Work Hookups would have no love shack to watch over. Grayson would no longer be my coworker. There would be no other casual way to see him. Unless I told him how I felt. But what if he . . . Why was I so afraid of things changing? I had nothing to lose.
“Gray, I wanted to be alone with you,” I said.
“Alone,” he echoed, trying on the word for size.
“I felt bad leaving the party last week, and when you didn’t text or call—”
“Wren, I’m sorry about that, I told you—”
“I know. I get it, really. It’s okay if you just want to be friends.”
He squinted and shook his head. “Where would you get that idea?”
“When you introduced me to Luke,” I said.
“That’s why you left, isn’t it? I introduced you to Luke as a friend because you’re none of his business. I didn’t mean . . .” He trailed off.
I waited for more of an explanation.
“Wren,” he said softly, shaking his head. I stepped toward him, putting my hands on his chest again. He wouldn’t look at me.
“Our timing sucks,” he said.
“Why?”
“It’s . . . I . . . hard to explain. I’d just rather be with you when my life is less . . . complicated.”
“Then you want to be friends,” I said, letting my hands fall. I knew I should be okay with it, but my heart felt like it was free-falling down to my feet. Complicated . . . Damn, what a cliché.
His fingers trembled as he swept loose strands of my hair away from my face, tucking them behind my ear with his index finger, tracing my earlobe. He breathed out hard.
“Oh, screw it.”
He pulled me against him. Our mouths touched, lips parted, my breath disappearing into his. My body sparked to life again, the disappointment from moments earlier replaced by a warm, liquid whoosh that filled me up. His hands were on my face, in my hair, snapping off the elastic that held my braid together.
I fumbled with the zipper of my coat. Grayson’s fingers covered mine and unzipped it fiercely, pushing the coat off my shoulders in one swift motion. Eyes on mine, he tugged at his pullover. His hair fell across his face as he brought it forward. I peeled the pullover from his arms and dropped it to the floor as he moved toward me. He shook his hair off his face, practically growling as he reached for me again.
Our lips couldn’t meet fast enough.
I closed my eyes, ran my fingertips across his jaw, into his hair. Firm hands caressed my back, untangled my braid. We swayed backward, mouths still touching, toward the sofa, where only hours before Bridezilla and her friends had toasted her marriage. I reached behind me to soften our downward plunge onto the cushions. We fell diagonally, feet hanging off the edge.
Part of me was aware that things were getting wildly out of hand. That the Wren and Grayson who existed before this moment—the harmless flirtation—was over. There would be no going back to friends or coworkers. This changed everything.
Grayson burst out laughing.
He rested his forehead on my shoulder, his body convulsing with each new round.
“What?”
He grinned. “Wren, help me look for a corkscrew? That’s the best you could come up with?”
I clapped my hand to my forehead, spreading my fingers to cover my eyes.
“Oh, God, I know . . . I know. It’s ridiculous.” He coaxed my fingers away from my face.
“Nah, I love it,” he said, pausing to kiss the tip of my nose. “You’re so adorable, it kills me.”
I maneuvered my body so we faced each other, side by side. He reached for my hand, entwining our fingers.
“So if I had said, I’ve got a key to the cottage; we can be alone, you would have said, Sure, let’s go?”
“Are you nuts? I would have said, No way, I’m out of here,” he answered, pretending to get up.
“Stop.”
His eyes got serious again, and he gently nudged me to my back so he was on top of me, the pressure of his body making me weak and warm at the same time. He kissed me lightly on the cheek, nuzzled my neck.
“I’d go anywhere for you, Wren,” he whispered.
And then he kissed me.
SIXTEEN
GRAYSON
WREN.
Wren. Wren. Wren. Wren.
I couldn’t stop thinking.
About.
Her.
But I had to. In order to do what I needed to do, I had to put her out of my thoughts, at least for the morning.
It was so hard. The night before had been so . . . sweet.
Yes, sweet. Me. Grayson Barrett, former male slut, kissing, just kissing. Well, and getting a preview of Wren’s curves with my hands. The King of Instant Gratification was dead. I was willing to wait for what I knew would be incredible.
“What’s up with you?” Pop asked. We sat around the breakfast table, him with a bowl of cereal that resembled something you might find in a horse’s feed bag, me with two well-done English muffins dripping with butter. Tiffany put three shots of her acai-berry wonder juice on the table and then sat down, cup of Greek yogurt in one hand, Ladies’ Home Journal in the other.
My father picked up his shot. “Salut,” he said, tossing it back and wincing.