Page 55 of Wild Then Wed
I’m polite and always have been. But I keep it short. Short answers, short smiles, short exits. You’d think she’d take the hint. Maybe she has and she just doesn’t care.
She flashes a smile that’s a little too much for this early in the morning.
“Morning, Sawyer,” she says, her voice already doing that thing where it drops half a register.
I nod. “Hey, Anna.”
She lingers, shifting her weight from one boot to the other, playing with the strap of her bag.
“You’re up early,” she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
“I’m always up early.”
Simple. Straight.
She laughs a little, like that was a joke. It wasn’t.
“You headed somewhere?” she asks, tilting her head, the way girls do when they want you to look at them longer.
“Nope. It’s my day off.” I adjust the thermoses in my hand, making it clear I’m not about to stand here and chat.
But Anna doesn’t budge.
“Well, if you find yourself wanting some company on your off day,” she says, “I’m around.”
Jesus.
I scratch the back of my neck, keeping my voice even. “Not looking for company. But thanks.”
Her smile flickers for half a second before she pastes it back on. Her eyes dart toward Wren, like maybe trying to figure out if she’s the reason I’m not biting.
Anna hitches her bag higher up on her shoulder, giving me one last shot.
“Maybe some other time, then?” she says, tossing it out casually, even though the pout in her voice says otherwise.
“Take care, Anna,” I say, already shifting my body toward Wren.
She hesitates, like she might try one more time, but finally turns and walks toward the parking lot, kicking up dust as she goes.
I shake my head, mostly at myself, and glance back at Wren. She’s pretending she didn’t hear a damn thing, busy tugging her gloves on, eyes down, scarf pulled so high I can barely see her mouth.
But I know better. Wren doesn’t miss much.
I walk toward her, the thermoses heavy in my hands, boots crunching over the packed sand.
Wren looks up when she hears me, tugging her gloves tighter, eyes cutting toward mine. They look even bluer today—sharp and grey, like ice pulling tight across a lake in early winter. She smirks, just barely, the edge of her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to.
“Poor girl,” she says under her breath, nodding toward where Anna disappeared.
I huff out a laugh. “Not sure who I feel worse for.”
The smirk grows, warming into something closer to a smile, and before I can lose the nerve, I hold out one of the thermoses toward her.
She glances down at it, then back up at me, brow pulling tight. “What’s that? Poison?”
“Hot chocolate,” I say.
She straightens a little, already shaking her head. “I can’t—”
