Page 103 of One Small Spark
“But I’m not sweet and kind and good like her. I don’t think I can be. Just so that’s out in the open.”
The pause that comes after that emotional vomit feels like the longest of my life. Seconds click audibly in my head like there’s nothing in there but a giant grandfather clock. I stare at his bag of flour as if my life depends on whatever’s written on it. Is this the part where Shepherd remembers he’s dating a jaded, bitter woman and decides to cut his losses?
“Do you want to know why I ended things with Rose?” he asks.
Not really, no. But I basically asked for this by throwing his ex in his face. “If you were looking for someone with a sweeter disposition or softer-looking hair, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“I ended things with her for two reasons. First, no matterwhat I asked her, she never had a preference for anything. ‘Do you want pizza or pasta?’ She’d say, ‘You choose.’ ‘Do you want to watch a romcom or an action movie?’ She’d say, ‘Oh, I don’t care.’ ‘Do you want to go on a bike ride with me?’ She’d say, ‘Anything you want.’”
I go on staring at the flour. I can imagine very limited scenarios where I would tell Shepherd, “Anything you want.”
“I don’t know if she was doing it because she thought I wanted her to or if she really didn’t have opinions on anything. More than just being generally annoying, I knew I could never truly be with her long-term. She had no strong opinions, no deep interests, no preferences. No challenge.”
He says the last word as if he’s talking about a whole lot more than just choosing what to eat for dinner. I finally look up, and his gaze is locked on mine. Blazing hot. Demanding I hear him.
“There was no spark between us.” He takes a slow step closer. “But you…you would never tell me you had no preference or opinion. You would never let me decide everything.”
I can’t help my eye roll because no, I would not. I would probably fight him even on things I wanted to do just for the principle of it.
A low rumble works through his chest as he reaches me. He lifts a hand to trace his fingertips along my jaw, making me shiver. He rests his thumb on my lower lip, and I might be internally combusting right now.
“I heard you, though.” Apparently, I’m not done with the big, embarrassing revelations. “You were talking about me in the shop, and you said I’m loud and obnoxious. Too much.”
I hate how repeating it even all this time later makes me want to run. Fight. Anything but face it.
He slides his thumb over my lip. “I don’t remember saying that, but I’m sure I did. After Rose, who felt like she wasintentionally trying to be too little, Iwantedyour ‘too much.’ I like that you take up space when you walk into a room. That you voice your opinions even when people disagree. That you’re unapologetically yourself. I’m sorry you heard what I said and thought I was insulting you. It was never a slight, Wren. It was admiration.”
My understanding of us tilts on its axis, sharpening this new perspective like I’m sitting in an optometrist’s chair.“Wren Krause is too much in every category that matters.”And helikesthat?
His thumb keeps making its slow arc over my lower lip, making it difficult to fully process this confession.
“What—” I have to swallow because the words are stuck in my throat. “What’s the other reason you ended things with her?”
He tilts his head closer to mine, and I lift my chin automatically. “The feelings I was having for the firecracker blonde who worked next door.”
When his mouth meets mine, every touch is a soft reassurance. A silent promise backing up the words he spoke out loud. As unlikely as it sounds, Shepherd sees me, even at my worst, and still wants me. Still values me and likes me and cares for me. His tender kiss is a reminder that I don’t have to be somebody else. I just have to be me.
In the most mortifying betrayal by my own body, a tear leaks out of one eye. Then the other. I hold him tighter, begging him not to notice my ridiculous tear duct malfunction. But my tears must reach his hand where he still holds my face because he pulls back.
He swipes his thumbs over my cheekbones.
“Wren.” So soft, it’s like a heartfelt vow.
Ugh. What a mess am I? I run my hands over his arms, searching the images tattooed there.
He must see right through me because he chuckles. “You won’t find it.”
“You don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“There’s no rose there. Only Wren.”
How did we get here? I used to think this man was my nemesis, whose only goal in life was to make me miserable. Now, I’m crying in his arms, and he’s telling me I’m the only one for him. It should have been impossible.
I run my thumb over the cute, fat little bird on the inside of his arm. “Why did you get this? I wasn’t very nice to you by then.”
The idea of someone getting a tattoo in my honor is crazy enough when I’m at my best. But at my worst? I don’t get it.
“You know why.”
