Page 39 of Wild Then Wed
Anna scribbles furiously, like I’ve just handed her the gospel. She seems genuinely fascinated, which is a surprise. I still don’t think we’re destined to be besties, but hey, I’ll take enthusiasm over apathy.
She glances toward Sawyer again, then leans in conspiratorially. “Okay, butwhois that man? Because—respectfully—he’s fucking hot.”
I adjust my gloves. “He’s okay.”
She whips her head toward me. “Okay?” Her brows shoot up. “Do you have eyes? Do they work?”
I don’t answer. Just flex my fingers inside the leather.
She gasps. “Oh my God. Are you guys exes? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
I hold up a hand before she can say more. “We’re not exes. We’re not anything.”
Anna exhales in relief, pressing a hand to her chest. “Thank God. Because that would’ve been, like, painfully awkward.”
She’s still watching him. I’m not. I don’t need to. Even without looking, I can feel it—his eyes on me. It’s annoying as hell.
Anna grabs her own bag. “Thanks again, Wren. That was…seriously cool. I’m excited to keep watching you work.”
I give her a short nod and a half-smile. “Yeah. It should be…fun.”
She beams like I just handed her a gold star and turns back to her notebook. She’s nice. Bubbly. She probably had a bunch of best friends growing up and has never once sent a text that says “sorry I’m weird.” Maybe I could take a note or two from her.
I shoulder my bag and head for the exit.
Sawyer’s still standing there, arms crossed, snow dusting the tops of his boots. I don’t look at him, but he turns toward me the second I pass.
The scent of whatever cologne he’s wearing hits me first. It’s subtle. Clean. Like cedar and something expensive and unfairly hot. Of course it is. Probably some limited-edition bullshit you can only get in Italy.
“You did well out there,” he says.
I glance at him. “I didn’t know I’d have an audience today.”
His mouth lifts—just barely. “Didn’t know it bothered you.”
“It doesn’t,” I say, shifting the strap on my shoulder. “What bothers me is the girl who’s supposed to be shadowingmecan’t stop eye-fucking you.”
He barks out a laugh, his eyes slightly crinkling at the corners. “Why does that bother you?”
I lift a brow. “Because how the hell is she supposed to learn anything that way?”
He shrugs, entirely too smug. “Not my fault I’m eye-fuckable.”
I snort as I flick a piece of straw off my sleeve. “You reek of arrogance. Now, move.”
His grin widens, undeterred. “Funny. You’re the only one who complains about how I smell.”
“That’s because everyone else is too busy eye-fucking you.”
That gets another laugh, louder this time, and I have the sudden, inexplicable urge to kick snow at him.
“And you?” His boot nudges mine. “What’re you busy doing?”
“Counting the seconds until you move out of my way.”
He smirks like he knows I’m full of shit. “Liar.”
I turn to walk past him when my stomach makes the world’s loudest protest. A full, traitorous gurgle that echoes against the steel siding of the pen.
