When we pull up, the scene is exactly what I pictured—only better.
The maple’s branches cut wide across the yard behind Norah’s flower shop, leaves whispering in the wind.
Pancake’s crate sits abandoned on the grass, and halfway up the tree, clutching a branch with white knuckles, is Wren.
Her sundress has hitched high on her thighs, sandals dangling from her toes, hair loose around her shoulders like a halo.
“Don’t you dare laugh,” she calls down the second she spots me.
I grin anyway. Can’t help it. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Jamila mutters, “Oh, this is priceless,” under her breath, but I ignore her, grabbing the ladder and setting it against the trunk.
“Stay put,” I call up. “I’m coming to you.”
Norah looks relieved, arms crossed tight, while Pancake meows pitifully from just above Wren’s perch.
I climb steadily, the rungs creaking under my boots, until I reach her branch. She’s hugging it like her life depends on it, knuckles scraped raw.
“Hey,” I murmur, bracing one hand near her shoulder.
“Hey,” she says back, voice thin, cheeks pink.
“You good?”
Her eyes flash. “Do I look good?”
I bite back a laugh. “You look better than most people stuck in a tree.”
That earns me a glare, but it’s soft at the edges. Carefully, I shift, coaxing her hands free one at a time, guiding her down rung by rung until her sandals hit the ground.
Pancake leaps down after, trotting straight for Norah, who scoops him up with a relieved sigh. I turn back to Wren.
She’s flushed, scraped along her calves and forearms, but otherwise fine.
“We should call the paramedics so they can have a look at you,” I tell her, brushing dirt from her arm.
“I’m okay,” she’s quick to stop me. “Just a few scratches.”
“Wren?”
“Beau!” She rolls her eyes before offering me a soft smile. “I’m okay, I promise. Additionally, you’re aware of how many people are already aware of this. There is no way I’m adding more gossip to the rotation. You have Band-Aids, right? I can clean the scrapes, and then I’ll be good as new.”
“You’re stubborn.” I smirk. “She’s stubborn,” I tell Jamila.
“She does have a point. We can clean her up. The scratches look superficial,” Jamila contributes.
“I still want her looked at,” I tell Jamila, giving her a look that I hope she interprets as displeasure. Then I turn to my stubborn girl. “How about this, Wren? How about we drop you off on our way back to the station?”
Wren thinks about it for a couple of seconds and then nods, too out of breath to argue.
Jamila swings the truck door open. “I’ll drive. You sit with the patient.”
Norah steps forward, hesitant. “I’ll stay behind, wait for her to come home. Make sure the shop’s okay.”
“Good idea,” I say, though I catch the way Norah studies me like she’s evaluating whether to trust me.
In the back of the rig, Wren sits on the bench while I dig through the first-aid kit. Her sundress is rumpled, patterned with little flowers, the neckline low enough that I have to focus hard on the antiseptic wipes in my hand instead of what’s beneath them.
