Page 40 of There's Pumpkin About You
Feeling useless, I clip my forearm back into the sling. “Fine. What do you suppose we do?”
“I’ll carry her, Auggie, it’s fine. You grab her car keys and we can take her up in her car. God knows it has to be cleaner than the truck.”
She’s on her side now, her face nestled against her loose fist. She looks at peace for the first time since I’ve met her. She can try and fool everyone, but I see the wave of fear that passes over those honey-colored eyes each time she’s here. She doesn’t believe in herself. Or maybe she doesn’t believe in me. Either way, she’s scared of the unknown and what will happen if anything were to go wrong with this party.
The party isn’t even for her and yet, she’s treating it as if it were her own, and when it comes to how she handles her business, you can tell that she really cares. She works with precision, with passion. She listens to what the customer wants and does everything she can to deliver as close to their vision as possible.
How all of this is clear in a glint of fear, I’m not sure. Ever since I met Wren, I’ve found her easier to read than anyone I’ve ever met before. Sometimes it feels like I understand her more than I do Bash and Sam.
“Fine,” I relent. “But if you drop her…”
“I won’t drop her, Auggie.” Bash rolls his eyes. “This isn’t the first woman I’m carrying and I can promise you that she won’t be the last.” He sends me a wink.
Unfortunately for the world, Bash is statistically considered to be someone desirable. His charming smile and pale green eyes make it hard for women to realize that what he has in looks, he lacks in decorum. And yet, somehow, when it comes to me it is incredibly easy to see that what I make up for in muscle I lack in social skills.
Bash squats down so that he can pick up Wren’s boots before slipping his hands under her knees and at the top of her back. As he picks her up, she lets out a little moan that has me itching to adjust my pants. Who knew that when coming from someone you find attractive, a seemingly innocent sound could have such a devilish reaction?
Even though she remains asleep, she instinctually wraps her arm around Bash’s neck and nuzzles into it, making my cheeks heat up in envy. Bash awkwardly looks over at me, but says nothing. When he starts to head towards the door, I stop him.
“Wait.”
I pick up the blanket that was over her moments before and gently cover her with it again, making sure to cover her face in a way that won’t suffocate her. The rain outside is pouring.
Bash bites his lip to hide a smile.
“Don’t you dare,” I whisper.
He chuckles quietly before once again moving towards the door.
ChapterEighteen
WREN
Light streams in through the open window, showering my closed eyelids in a golden glow. The smell of freshly brewed coffee reaches my nose, and I inhale it happily. Soft, warm sheets envelop me in a hug, and I snuggle in further. Soft, warm, yellow sheets.
Wait.
I don’t have yellow sheets.
I fly up into a sitting position and watch the space around me cautiously. The unrecognizable bedroom is a naturally dark, yet cozy room. The large bed I find myself on is against a wall opposite the door, another door to the right stands ajar leading to the adjoining bathroom. A white dressing table sits by the door, photos that I’m too far away to see, on top. The window to my left lets in a lot of light, but the dark blue and the dark green that decorates the room almost absorbs it. Onone bedside table sits a book and a pair of glasses. Glasses that I recognize instantly.
When I stand and cautiously make my way over to the dresser, it confirms what I already know.
Somehow, I’ve woken up in August Finch’s bedroom.
My mind flashes back to last night, the memories flooding in like a tank filling with water. We were looking at paint colors for the barn, Gus stormed off and I waited for him. I waited and waited and waited, but I must have fallen asleep.
I look down and sigh in relief when I see that my clothes from yesterday are still on. He must have left my boots off when he brought me here. Do I even want to know how he did that? The man has a broken arm. Knowing him, he was probably feeling spiteful enough to dump me into a worm-infested barrel and wheel me into his truck. And yet, my clothes are clean, my hair—despite being the usual rats’ nest that it is in the morning—is clean and there’s no smell resembling worms or anything that is creepy-crawly related.
And if I have woken up in what is clearly his bed, judging by the glasses and the photos on the dresser, and the plaid shirt peeking out of his laundry hamper, then where did he sleep?
Quietly, I open the door which leads out into a long hallway. The sound of sizzling comes from one of the open doors and I follow it along with the smell of the coffee.
All the air in the room evades my lungs when I’m met with the incredibly unfair picture in front of me. August Finch stands with his back to me, a kitchen cloth hanging over his shoulder as he cooks bacon over the fire.
His bare shoulder.
Which leads to his bare back.
