“Oh, yeah?” My tone isn’t super casual, but Macie’s distracted, looking left.
“Wren! Over here.”
My stomach swoops. I’m—fuck. Why am I nervous? This is my town. My job. She thinks she can just show up here and?—
“Cap, this is Wren. One of the new waitresses.”
Wren’s smile is polite, but her blue eyes are glinting with amusement. I owe Gus (and Wade, I guess) big-time. Ifthiswere how I found out Wren was working here, I don’t think I’d be able to act this nonchalant. I’ve seen waitresses wear the same uniform—white polo, navy skirt—for the past four years, and it’s never really struck me as a sexy outfit. Wren manages to make it one.
“What’s Cap short for?” she asks innocently.
I roll my eyes, uninterested in playing this game. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh.” Macie is glancing between us, forehead wrinkled withconfusion. “You guys know each other?”
“Not really,” Wren replies.
I say, “Sort of,” simultaneously.
Then we stare at each other.
“Did your trust fund run out?”
“Still an asshole, I see.”
“Wren!” Wade enters the kitchen. “So good to see you.”
“You too, Wade,” Wren replies.
So, she finally remembered his name. I scoff under my breath, then turn back toward the food, attempting to tune out the chatter as Gus and then the new hires join in the conversation with the waitresses.
Forgetting Wren exists was a challenge when I wasn’t seeing her every day. I doubt constant exposure is going to improve my attempts.
Wren doesn’t appear surprised to find me leaning against the bumper of her convertible. She’s changed out of her waitressing uniform into a light-blue dress and pulled her hair out of its bun.
She hasn’t cut it.
“Need a ride?” she asks, spinning her key ring around one finger. “I owe you one.”
I straighten. “What are you doing?”
“Right now? Leaving work.”
“What are you doing, workinghere?”
She holds my gaze. “I stopped by last week and saw the restaurant was hiring. I thought it’d be fun to waitress.”
“Fun,” I repeat flatly.
“I’m here for the summer, so …”
“You’re here for the summer.”
“Stop repeating everything I say.”
“Start telling me the truth, Wren. This car”—I gesture toward her convertible—“cost more than the membership fee here. We both know you don’t need the money. Why aren’t you flying around on a private jet or doing whatever else you’ve done every other summer?”
She crosses her arms. “That’s what you think of me? That I’m a spoiled princess who doesn’t deign to fly commercial? Myparentsare rich, so I should never get a job?”
