“Maybe that’s exactly what I need.” Nick goes to the coat rack and pulls down his jacket. “You want real coffee? There’s a decent café open by the bridge.”
“Sure,” I say, giving up on the scorched coffee this pot has produced once again. “You’re not sick of me yet?”
“Not today.” He grins like a kid. “It’s Christmas, right? New traditions.”
We step outside together. The air is cool and wet, but the rain has stopped for now. The river flows beside the road, carrying debris that it’s picked up farther upstream. Those two branches kinda remind me of my brother and me. You know, flowing side by side, but doing our own things.
As we walk toward my truck, Nick glances sideways at me. “You know,” he says, “when we were kids, I used to think you were born first for the longest time. And it annoyed me.”
“It’s my job to annoy you.”
“Maybe. But I let things get to me too much. Ugh. Is this maturation, or whatever?”
I don’t answer. I just start the truck and let the heater fill the cabin between us before shifting into reverse gear.
When we reach the coffee shop, Nick says, “Tell Edie I’m sorry.”
“You can tell her yourself.”
“Maybe I will.” Another sigh. “Yeah. Next time I see her. It would be weird to call.”
We sit there a moment longer, rain starting up again in fine tinkles that bead against the windshield. The heat dissipates in the cabin, and I’m about to open my door and take off my seatbelt when my brother speaks.
“Hey, Wren.” He looks out the window.
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you.”
I can’t answer for a beat. “You should say that more often.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
When I drive away after dropping him off at his rental an hour later, I watch his reflection in the rearview mirror until itdisappears. The rain has never left, but it’s the softest it’s been since it let up at the beach.
I wonder if Edie likes rainy night walks on the beach.
Well… only one way to find out!
I change gears and whip a U-turn at the next light. Mingus Park… here comes Santa Claus.
Chapter 11
Edie
The week between Christmas and New Year’s passes in a blur of tangled sheets, lazy mornings, and neither of us thinking about work. Wren’s barely let me out of bed except for food or showers—both of which usually end with her hands on me, pressing me against the steamed glass or the kitchen counter until I forget what day it is.
“Insatiable,” I gasp as she pulls me onto her lap one afternoon.
“Can you blame me?” Her hands slide under my sweater—her sweater, really. I've barely worn my own clothes all week. “Been waiting years for this. Got a lot of time to make up for.”
“At this rate, I’ll forget what fresh air feels like.”
“Good.” She nips at my throat. “Gonna keep you here forever. Naked and ready for me.”
“Wren...” But my protest dies as her fingers find me.
“See? Already ready for me.”
