Page 17 of Wren's Winter

A flash of something—shock, maybe—flashed in her eyes before she sat back. “You mean the check?”

Swallowing, I thought back to my words. Did I mean the check? I should have said it, not you. But I couldn’t bring myself to take back the sentiment. I wanted to take care of this woman. I never had that urge before. “Of course, the check.”

Pursing her lips, she studied me. “Can I at least buy you a drink? There had to be a bar around here, right? For those thirsty tourists you seem to love.”

I frowned at her comment. Was it spot on? Obviously. But coming from her, I didn’t like it. “There are a few wine bars and beer halls.”

“No real bar?”

“There’s The Horse and Trails, but it’s a dive. Astroturf carpet and windows that steam up when more than ten people are inside.”

“Perfect. I love dive bars. The grimier, the better.”

I glanced down at her perfect red polished nails that matched her red lipstick. “Really?”

“You think I can’t slum it? I can.”

Wren

Icouldn’t stop staring at his lips. The entire time we were at the diner, I watched as he ate his food, the way his lips touched the glass of his soda—the form and shape of his mouth as he spoke. I was watching his lips so much I missed half of what he said. Until he brought up the terrible last name I escaped from. After graduation, quite a few of our friends got engaged. One by one, I saw the pattern. While twenty-four was too young for me to marry, enough of our friends joked about “our turn.” Worst of all, it didn’t escape my notice that, if they did, what my name would be.

Buck and I talked about marriage exactly one time. It was more him ranting for twenty minutes after his cousin’s wedding. He would never allow his fiancée to do anything as gauche as giving herself away. I held my tongue.

But Adrian was right: Buck was a traditionalist. That he would marry someone and allow them to keep their last name was as preposterous as owning a car over five years old.

On the walk to the bar, I took my place on the roadside of the sidewalk. Adrian set his hand on my shoulder and gently steered me to the side until he was between me and the road. Even through my long-sleeved shirt and oversized jacket, I could feel the warmth of his touch going straight into the center of me. I wrapped my arms around my chest, trying to keep the sensation in. I pulled my gloves out of my coat pocket and pulled them on. They were still damp from when I slipped the day before.

Adrian frowned at my hands. “Are those wet?”

I shrugged. “Not too bad. Better than nothing.”

He shook his head, grabbing one of my hands with his bare fingers. The warmth of his skin leeched through my wet gloves. A tingle traveled up my arm at the contact. “You can’t wear these gloves. They’re soaked through. You’re going to lose a finger like that.”

He grasped the finger of my glove, pulling it off each finger one by one. There was something deeply erotic about the way his hands moved over mine, exposing my skin. Every brush of his fingers sent waves up my arm and straight down my body to my center. There was no way he could know what this action was doing to me. He was taking off my gloves, not my bra. Why was it so hot?

With the damp gloves shoved into his coat pocket, he took both my hands between his and rubbed them. “Is that better? Are you cold?” he asked, his ocean eyes scanning me. “Do you want me to get my flannel out of the car?”

With a smile, I pulled my hands away, shoving them in my pocket. I didn’t need to swoon over his sense of chivalry. “No, I’m fine. It’s only a few blocks, right?”

He stopped in front of a wooden door with chipped paint that read, T e Hor e and T ails. “It’s here, but I can still run back to the truck if you’re too cold.”

“Absolutely not. I’m fine.” I reached forward to grab the door handle, and he got there first, opening the door for me. In the doorway, I stopped under him. His arm flexed above me. The tendons on the back of his hand tensed. I could make out the smattering of light freckles in the low light. Strong hands, capable. The memory of my palm against his as I climbed down from his truck, the brush of his fingers on my forehead the night before. I blinked up at him, trying to get my musings in check.

The bar smelled slightly of old beer, dust, and grease. A wood-burning stove was in the corner, and small heaters were arranged around the green carpet floor. A young woman was behind the bar, wearing a sweatshirt that said, The Horse and Trails Pub, worst service in twenty miles.

“Hey, Jordan.” Adrian waved at her before motioning to me to order.

I glanced over at the drink specials on the neon dry-erase board, ordering the beer on special. The heat from the stove made the air feel stuffy, but the cold air from the opening door mingled together.

The bartender set two beers down in front of us, and Adrian held out his card.

“Absolutely not.” I pushed his hand away, savoring the tingles that shot up my arm at the contact. “I said I would pay. It’s a cheap beer. I can cover it.”

Adrian made a face but shoved his card back in his wallet with a frown. “You’re impossible—you know that?” he asked.

“Me? How about you?” I shot back.

“How am I impossible, Birdie?”

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