I pull Wren in there, flip on a light, close the door, and face her. “I thought you were in Paris.”
Weeks ago, one of her letters mentioned that she was spending the holidays in France. That’s not what I intended to say to her first, but … I’m shocked. She was supposed to be on the opposite side of the Atlantic.
Wren shrugs a slim shoulder, the strap of her dress sparkling under the fluorescent lights. She looks wildly out of place in front of the shelves lined with takeout containers and soda cans. “Plans changed. My cousin Kit is having a party here tonight, so Rory and I drove down earlier. You said you’d be at this, so …” Her head tilts, studying me—way too intently.
Because … fuck. She just showed up here. To see me, it seems, because Hanson Ellsworth is a member of the Atlantic Yacht Club, but no Kensington is.
Wren hasn’t been that far away. Same state. Manhattan is roughly a hundred miles from here. She’s been untouchable during the months we’ve been exchanging letters though.
She’s suddenly touchable. Talking and breathing and near and sogoddamn gorgeous that my chest burns.
I can’t summon a single reasonable reaction to her proximity, which unnerves me because nonchalance has never been hard for me to find before.
“Kind of a lame party out there,” she adds, nodding toward the door.
“Tell me about it. Gus wanted to come.”
Wren leans back against a shelf. My guess is those ridiculously high heels are hurting her feet.
“TheCaptainonly does what he wants. Right?”
I’m not sure we’re talking about my plans for tonight all of a sudden.
I battle the urge to unbutton my collar. “Right.”
“I came to invite you to Kit’s, if you’re free after this rager wraps up. Your friends can come too. There will be tons of food and free booze, and they’re setting off fireworks at midnight …”
Part of me wants to go. The rest knows it’s a terrible idea. Our worlds don’t overlap. Pretending they do, even for one night, is foolish.
We were a summer fling. Summer is over.
“Yeah, okay.” She shoves away from the shelf and steps closer, a familiar scent surrounding me.
I know nothing about perfume, but I could pick this particular smell out of thousands. The floral scent lingered in my truck for weeks after the night we went swimming together. If I could think of a casual way to, I’d ask what flower it is.
“That was the second, less important reason I came,” Wren continues. “I mostly came … because I wanted to come.”
She smirks, proud of the double entendre. My lips twitch as I fight smiling back.
Wren on paper is compelling. In person, she’s dangerously charismatic. I’m watching her walk closer, entirely aware that I shouldprobably stop this and utterly powerless to.
I want her. I’ve wanted her for months, replaying that night in my truck on repeat.
I’m not sure who moves first—probably me—but we’re kissing. She moans into my mouth as my tongue invades hers, hands already working my belt.
This shouldn’t feel so familiar—we haven’t hooked up since July.
This shouldn’t be so exciting—it’s already happened twice.
Somehow, it’s both.
Logically, I’m not sure this is a good idea. But I’m really lacking in logic right now. I fumble for a condom while she strokes my erection, both of us breathing heavily between kisses. I can hear the distant murmur of voices and holiday music, but the party might as well be happening on another planet.
“Bend over,” I say once I’m covered.
“Don’t mess up my dress,” Wren warns, spinning and gripping the nearest shelf. “It’s Oscar de la Renta.”
I don’t know—or care—what that means. But I do tell her, “That’s why I told you to bend over.”
