“I didn’t know, Sawyer. I didn’t get them.”
“There was more than one Wren Kensington at UCLA?” I ask dubiously.
Realizing, too late, that question confirmed something I never planned to share. I figured she was preserving my pride, not mentioning my phase of being a lovesick fool, but I should have known better. Wren and I have never tiptoed around the other’s feelings.
“I never went to UCLA,” she informs me. “I wound up at Cambridge. I’ve spent the past two years in England.” She barely allows me a second to register that information before adding, “What did you write?”
“Fuck you mostly,” I say evenly.
“Sounds like a waste of paper.” Wren relaxes back into the chair, surveying me. “What did you write, Sawyer?”
This time, I say nothing.
She seems unbothered by my secrecy. She tries again. “Why did you write?”
Still, I stay silent.
“You’re starting college in the fall?”
Where is she getting all this information? I know it’s not from Gus—he’s too honest to be a convincing actor, and just now was obviously the first time he’d seen Wren recently. My mom’s deployed.
They’re the only two people I can think of who would interfere, who ever believed Wren and I would do anything except wreak havoc together.
“I have work to do.” I nod to the stack of papers on my desk.
She tilts her head. “Did you miss me?”
“No. Did you miss me?”
Wren smiles. “Coward.”
“Liar,” I retort.
“Hypocrite.”
I sigh, running a hand through my hair roughly. “What the fuck does it matter, Wren? None of it matters.”
“It mattered enough for you to mail them,” she replies, undeterred. “How many letters did you send?”
“I shouldn’t have sentany.”
“So, more than one?”
I scowl. She’s infuriating. And my dick—which should be satiated—is getting hard. For some fucked-up reason, arguing with Wren turns me on. I like her stubbornness, her strength, even though it rarely benefits me.
“I. Am. Working.”
“Isn’t part of your job listening to member complaints?”
“Yes. But you’re not a member, so …”
“I’ll join now.” She reaches into her fancy leather purse. “What’s the initiation fee?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “There’s a yearslong waiting list to join, as you know.”
“Not for Kensingtons.” She practically sings her last name. A checkbook appears, which Wren rests on her knee while looking at me expectantly. “Hanson Ellsworth will sponsor me.”
I stare at her, jaw working, trying to gauge how serious she is. She’s right; the board will make space for a Kensington. We both know it, and she knows I hate that’s how this world works. Pushing this point—flaunting her wealth—makes me think she’s more serious than I want her to be.
