“Wren Kensington.” I drawl her full name, partly to cover for the fact that I looked too long before talking.
Her beauty is blinding. Something you stare at, even knowing you shouldn’t. Also, I had no clue she’d seen me. I certainly hadn’t expected her to stride over here.
“Captain.” She mimics my tone, extending each syllable. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to you.”
“I’m busy.”
“I’ll wait.”
She raises one eyebrow, but she doesn’t look surprised. More scheming. “Have fun,” she says cheerfully, then sashays away.
A group of four guys call her over as soon as she enters the tent. All four are wearing suits, signifying they’re invited guests. Another commonality: they’re all staring at her with obvious interest.
I turn, joining the line for the open bar.
My guess is, Wren is going to be “busy” for a while. Might as well enjoy a free drink in the meantime.
Three hours later, a lone figure strolls my way, swinging a pair of heels in one hand.
I’ve been reclined in the same spot on the dunes for the past hour, since the fireworks ended, nursing a beer that’s now warm. Watching the party lights reflect off the waves’ choppy surface. Occasionally surveying the festivities. I’ll say this much for rich people: they’re entertaining. One girl was bragging about buying a new mattress for her rental this weekend—to ensure she wasn’t sleeping on a bed someone else had used. Another guy was loudly discussing getting a new Porsche because he didn’t like the color of his current one anymore. I’ve heard similar stories from Cammie, but firsthand, they sound even more outrageous.
Wren sinks on the sand to my left. She leans back on her palms, then glances at me. Tucks a shorter strand of hair behind one ear, revealing a twinkling diamond earring. She smells the same as last night, mixed with salty air and smoke. “You stayed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask abruptly. I’ve been sitting here forever, so my interest in small talk is nonexistent.
Her nose scrunches. “Tell you what?”
“That it was your first time.”
Wren stares at me, and I can’t gain the slightest sense of what she’s thinking.
“There was … blood on the condom,” I add awkwardly, wishing for the thousandth time that Wade had tissues handy and I’d never turned that light on. She hadn’t wanted me to know, obviously, and I spent all day trying to forget. Ended up here anyway.
“So?” she finally says. “I thought my period had ended. Guess it hadn’t. Did you want a calendar of my menstrual cycle, or does thatcover it?”
Now it’s my turn to assess and stay quiet. It’s a reasonable explanation, so why don’t I believe her?
“You’re … okay, then? I didn’t, uh, hurt you?”
I’m so uncomfortable; it feels like ants are crawling all over my skin. Sex is a physical act. It’s never involved talking after—at least for me—and I’m very aware of why I’ve always avoided this. It’s weird as hell.
But I can’t stand and walk away. Not yet. I need to know she’s okay first.
And there’s some part of me that simply wanted to see her one final time.
“You didn’t hurt me,” Wren answers. She’s turned her face toward the water, so all I can see is her profile.
“Okay.” For some fucking idiotic reason, I don’t leave it there. I ask, “Did you come?”
“No.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I thought you had.”
“It’s fine. Doesn’t usually happen for me.”
My jaw tightens. Maybe she wasn’t a virgin. That thought should relieve me, not piss me off more. Some part of me liked that she’d trusted me with something special. I should be glad I was just a rich-girl rebellion she’ll go home and laugh with her friends about. That’s not messy or meaningful.
