“I’m a writer. Anything you say or do may be used in a story.”
-Unknown
When we left the pub, we went back to his house and put on a movie, hunkering down on his leather couch with a glass of wine each.
“You can sit next to me,” Wren announced as he patted the space between us. “I promise I won’t bite, or try to seduce you.”
My mouth tightened. Poke. Poke. Poke. He couldn’t help himself.
Taking his hat off, he tossed it on the coffee table and combed his fingers through his hair, giving it a bed head/tousled look. It was unfair really…that a man could look that good by simply running fingers through his hair.
“How do I look?” He waggled his brows, lifting one side of his mouth in a goofy smirk.
“Handsome,” I admitted. Even I, the most cynical in all the land, was still susceptible to his good looks.
He grinned and patted the space next to him again.
Chuckling, I scooted closer, curling into his side, his arm over my shoulders, our feet resting on the coffee table. I was buzzed by the alcohol, but my wistful haze was from more than the drinks I’d had that evening. The charm of the town, the pub, the people, it all had me floating on an air of sentimentality. It felt good to know places and people like this did exist—not just in movies or books. Little things got to me. I’d always been this way.
“Your town is pretty amazing,” I told him. “I loved the pub. Like a lot. Thank you for taking me there tonight.”
“I know a lot of good people here.” He nodded in agreement before scratching at his beard.
I sipped my wine and stared ahead at the television, though I wasn’t really watching it. Being this close to Wren was unnerving. Mostly because I liked it. When he wasn’t getting on my nerves, I wanted to be this close to him. Only a few hours before I’d felt like fleeing on him, and now here I was cuddling with him. I was like a light switch, flipping back and forth. It was no wonder he thought I was crazy…hell, sometimes I couldn’t understand myself.
“Aww,” he cooed as his fingers grazed my shoulder softly. “You kinda do like me.”
And then, just like that, the switch flipped again. I’m not sure why his statement hit me the way it did, maybe because in some way it sounded patronizing, like he was teasing me.
Jumping up, I set my wine glass on the table and spun around to face him. “I know I’m a mess, but you have to admit any woman…” I paused to correct myself, “Any smart woman would look at you and all this, and think you had a pretty sweet setup for getting laid here.”
He snorted, remaining in the position he was when I’d jumped up, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “Setup?”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on, Wren,” I grumbled. “I’m not saying you’re a skeeze, I’m just saying any woman would probably be a little wary.”
“So you think I’m just trolling for ass here, huh?”
I cringed at how crass his question had sounded. Not that I was some delicate flower and couldn’t handle it, because I could drop f-bombs with the best of them. I was well versed in the world of cursing. Thinking he was the kind of guy that ‘trolled for ass’ was bad enough, hearing it out loud was worse.
Placing my hands on my hips, I decided to be honest. “I don’t think you have any problems getting laid.”
“And what makes you think that?”
Again, I rolled my eyes. “Your nice cars, the big house, the way you keep weapons and bullets everywhere to reiterate what a badass you are. I mean look at you.” I flung an arm in his direction. “You look like a freaking gladiator.”
He laughed.
“I wasn’t being funny,” I griped.
Now he moved, scooting forward and placing his glass on the table. “Look, Hannah. I think you’re a nice woman…but I’m at a loss here. Clearly, you’ve been through the ringer and it’s made you,” he motioned a hand at me, “like this.”
My head reared back slightly. “Like this?”
Tilting his head up, his eyes narrowed as he looked at me. He was angry, frustrated at the very least. “Bitter,” he clipped out. “Cynical.”
I winced internally. That was a low blow.
“I’m a goddamn man,” he stated bluntly, his stare burning into mine. “I work my ass off. I work too much, honestly. I pay my bills, I workout to keep in shape because it’s important to me, and if I want something, I go for it. I work hard to have nice things. I’m not setting up the ultimate pussy magnet pad. I live in the middle of nowhere. Do you really think it’s that easy for me to just get women out here?”
“Well, I’m here,” I argued, though I wasn’t sure that helped my plight any.
He stood, his body inches from mine, his height towering over me. “And why are you here?” he asked. “Obviously, you cannot be seduced by my house and my stuff. You’re too smart and enlightened of a woman for that.” I glared at him. He was being a condescending ass. “Or is it,” he paused, before continuing, “is it that you see an attractive, successful man and you think the only thing he could want from you is sex because you can’t see why else he’d want you?”
Looking down at my hands, I took a slow breath. He was good at tearing down a person and shredding their argument. I’d give him that. I didn’t know what to say. A part of me didn’t feel I was wrong. I knew overanalyzing and worrying to death about everything was a problem for me. I knew I had been burned and my experiences had, in fact, made me cynical. But I didn’t like them pointed out. Wren had a point, too. My self-esteem was pretty much at rock bottom. Was I projecting my image of myself on Wren? There was nothing worse than being a vulnerable, insecure mess, and then being called out on it. Being weak wasn’t fun or sexy. I started to think, well, shit, why does he want me here?
Turning my head, still unable to look at him, I murmured, “I’m sorry.” And I was. It was another moment where I wanted to run, hide from him. I felt exposed, like cracked skin that had been in the sun too long. It burned. I was broken.
Taking my chin, he tilted my face up and forced me to meet his gaze. “Nothing has to happen here tonight. The guest room is made up for you. I didn’t bring you here to impress you and trick you into bed. I asked you here, honestly, because I wanted to see you, and I’m busy because my work schedule is nuts, and I thought I could somehow make it work where I got to spend time with you.” Oh…
A sad guilt washed over me as I stared into his eyes realizing I believed him. I was ruining this.
Pulling my gaze away, I shook my head, feeling silly. “Just be real with me. Okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed. “It’s a deal.”
Reaching his hand out as if he wanted to shake mine, he said, “Friends again?”
If I didn’t feel so shitty, I’d laugh. Placing my hand in his, we shook. “Friends.”
Gripping my hand, he quirked one brow before he asked, “Is this really how you shake hands with people?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Weak,” he barked.
I noted our joined hands, the firmness in my grip versus his. “Well, I’m not a dude. My handshake shouldn’t be as strong as yours.”
“I agree. But it should be stronger than this,” he said as he held my hand and whipped my arm up and down like a limp spaghetti noodle, pointing out how weak my hold actually was.
“What should I do? Try and rub your knuckles together?” I jested.
“It depends on what you’re trying to say.” He released my hand and went on. “I can tell you right now, a woman trying to out strengthen a man in a handshake will not do her any favors. Men hate that shit. But your shake shouldn’t be dainty either.”
“So somewhere between rubbing knuckles and kiss my ring finger?” I laughed.
“Shake mine again,” he ordered softly. I did, this time making sure to add more strength in my hold. “More,” he said. I squeezed harder. “Come on,” he groaned, “you can do better than that.”
Again, I squeezed harder. “There she is,” he chuckled. I noticed his forefinger was out, pressed against my wrist.
“What’s the deal with your finger?”
“That’s how a man establishes dominance.”
Glancing up at him, I swallowed, committing it to memory. That was going in a book somewhere someday. Sticking my finger out so it rested on his wrist, I said, “What if I like to be in charge?”
He quickly eradicated that idea when he jerked me to him, slamming my body against his. “I think you could be…it’s just going to take some time.”
All cylinders fired in my head, winding and cranking, warming up to dissect the living hell out of that last statement. But before I could get the conveyor belt of overthinking going, he kissed me. Before I knew it, he was sitting on the couch and I was straddling him, kissing him like my life depended on it. I was nothing more than the thread of a yo-yo. And he was a yo-yo master. When I unraveled, he brought me back, wrapping me neatly around my spool. Why was I this way? I couldn’t understand it. And in that moment, I didn’t want to. I wanted to forget the walking, open wound I had become; overly sensitive and unhealed, scathed by even the thought of a touch. I didn’t want to be me.
The magic of the town, the highs and lows of my thoughts, his charm, my fears, and his words had joined together and created some kind of force that pressed upon me, urging me to do something…anything. To live. To breathe. To want. To feel. So…I did. Instead of running from what I wanted, I met it head-on.