Wren doesn’t move from her spot on the front steps, a brown bag of groceries on either side of her.
I sigh, stopping a few feet away, spinning my keys around one finger. “I don’t want to argue, Wren.”
“Good.” She uncrosses her ankles. “Because I came to cook.”
I snort. “What?”
“You heard me, based on that rude sound.” She yawns. “It took me, like, ten seconds to find your spare key, but I figured I’d wait out here to be polite.”
“Before youcook,” I drawl doubtfully. “You can’t even brew coffee.”
Wren smirks, reclining on the stairs. The hem of her dress inches higher, and my gaze snaps to the exposed thigh.
Attraction is a rush. It’s fleeting, something your system processes until there’s nothing left. Wren should be out of my system by now.
“I learned how to cook in England,” she informs me.
I suppress another snort. “I doubt your British beau and I have the same taste in food.”
Wren arches a brow. “You sound jealous.”
“I’m not.”
Not of the guy who gave her that gaudy ring at least. I knew the second she showed up last night that she didn’t love him. I pity the poor guy, assuming he proposed because he loves her. Loving and losing Wren Kensington isn’t an easy ordeal to endure. Whenever she goes back, ifshe ever starts wearing that huge diamond, she’s already tipped her hand. She did when she took her clothes off for me again.
“Grab that, will you?” Wren stands, picking up one grocery bag and then continuing toward the front door. She reaches under the mailbox for the affixed key, unlocking the door and strolling inside without waiting for me.
I shove my keys in my pocket since, apparently, I will not be needing them and lift the second bag. By the time I arrive in the kitchen, Wren already has the first one unpacked on the counter. I scan the array of ingredients, reluctantly impressed by the variety. If she’s lying about her cooking abilities, she’s being convincing about it.
“I’m going to change,” I mutter, heading down the hallway to my bedroom.
As I swap my polo and khaki shorts for a T-shirt and basketball shorts, I attempt to come up with a plan for tonight. I know Wren. She’ll resume our earlier conversation at some point tonight, and I really need her to let it go. The first few months after she left were hard, and I’m haunted by the prospect of reliving any part of them. It’s for the best she never received the letters, and it says a lot that she never bothered to tell me she was going to school in another country instead of California.
When I return to the kitchen, I linger in the doorway for a few seconds. Wren is chopping cilantro with an intense look of concentration on her face, the falls of her knife crisp and even. I guess she really wasn’t lying about the cooking.
Before I can say a word, she glances up and catches me staring.
I clear my throat, taking a step closer. “Can I help with anything?”
Wren shakes her head. “I made the slaw, and the tortillas and fish are in the oven. Everything is almost ready. I meant to ask, are you allergic to anything?”
“Just cilantro.”
Her face blanches. “Fuck. Really? I already added it to …” Her voice trails when she glimpses my grin, picking up a dish towel and flinging it my way. “Asshole,” she mutters, resuming her chopping.
My smile fades as I walk over to the kitchen and pull out a soda. I offer one to Wren, and she shakes her head, leaving me to stand around, sipping, while she finishes dinner.
“This looks decent,” I say as we sit down.
Wren settles a napkin on her lap. “Gee, thanks. High praise.”
“I haven’t tried it yet.” I pick up a taco and take a large bite, making an exaggeratedmmmsound.
I’m not even exaggerating that much. It’s really good. The fish is salty and zested with lime. The tortillas are warm, and she drizzled some green sauce over the slaw. Depending on how the rest of the evening goes, I might ask her for the recipe.
Wren rolls her eyes, but she looks pleased too.
And because I like seeing that pride, I add, “Really, I’m impressed.”
