I release it, not even aware I’d been doing it.
“You do that when you’re thinking about something you shouldn’t.” Her lips hover near my ear, voice soft and rough at once. “Ten o’clock tomorrow, angel. Corner booth at Mike’s.”
“Still a maybe.”
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the heat there makes me forget how to breathe. “No, it’s not.”
The confidence in those three words should annoy me. Instead, I am about to giggle.
She backs toward her truck with that same effortless swagger. “Wear something you can ride a motorcycle in.”
“Who says I’m getting on your bike?”
She grins and opens her truck door. “Ten o’clock. Don’t be late.”
Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the fog-damp parking lot with weak knees.
This is such a bad idea. Meeting her tomorrow would be complicated and messy. Nick would be furious if he found out. The rational part of my brain is listing all the reasons to forget this happened.
But the rest of me is already planning what to wear tomorrow. Because Wren—Wren—looked at me like I was worth noticing. Worth remembering. Worth pursuing even though it goes against every bit of conventional wisdom.
I drive home carefully, the tree occasionally shifting on my roof. When I pull into my apartment complex, my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.
“Jake gave me your number. Hope that’s okay. Just wanted to make sure you made it home safe with the tree. – Wren”
I stare at the message for a full minute.“Made it fine. Tree is still attached.”
Three dots appear immediately.“Good. Sleep well, Edie. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Maybe you will.”
“I’ll take another maybe. Goodnight, angel.”
The endearment makes my heart flutter. Nick never called me anything but Edie—said pet names were juvenile and could be used against us by the media. (To which I always wanted to retort, “What media? Who do you think you are?”) But “angel” in Wren’s low, feminine rasp feels like trouble wrapped up in a neat Christmas bow.
I wrestle the tree off my car and into my apartment, setting it up in the corner for now. It’s perfect, exactly the right size and shape, as Wren predicted. As I practice stringing lights around its branches, I think about dark hair and tattoos, about thecareful way she secured the tree to my car, about the possibility of coffee tomorrow.
My phone buzzes again. A photo this time—the corner booth at Mike’s Diner, torn Elvis-shaped vinyl visible. The caption reads:“Reserved for 10 AM. Your maybe plus my hope equals...”
I laugh, typing back,“That’s not how math works.”
“Good thing I’m better with my hands than with numbers.”
The implication makes me warm all over.“Goodnight, Wren.”
“Sweet dreams, angel.”
I put my phone down and focus on decorating the tree, but my mind keeps wandering to tomorrow. To the possibility of coffee and terrible pie. To blue eyes that see too much. To a woman who is everything her brother wasn’t… rough where Nick was polished, honest where he was calculated, interested where he was indifferent.
By the time I place the star on top of the tree, I’ve made my decision. Tomorrow at ten, I’ll be at Mike’s Diner.
I fall asleep thinking about motorcycles and callused hands. Corner booths and second cups of coffee where all bets are off. A woman who notices things, who pays attention, who thinkstoo muchis exactly right.
…And my eyes snap open, becausehow the hell am I going to get that tree back on my car and into my classroom?
Cool. A problem for the Edie of tomorrow!
Chapter 2
