I’m a dick for liking that she approached me and not him.
“Still an asshole, huh?” she asks.
Her blue eyes are exploring the ink on my left arm, specifically the script on the inside of my wrist. I resist the urge to rub at the spot. Whenever people stare there, I’m tempted to cover it. Which leads to guilt, then grief, followed by self-loathing.
“What do you want, Wren?”
A small smile plays across her lips, like she finds my short fuse amusing rather than the warning most people take it as. “Want? Nothing. Just being friendly.” She glances at Wade, who’s doing a shitty job pretending he’s not eavesdropping on our conversation. Takes a step to the left, holding out a palm toward him. “Hi. I’m Wren.”
Her elbow brushes against my forearm as they shake hands. I fight the impulse to scrub at that spot too.
“Wade,” he says eagerly. “We sort of met last night.”
“I remember,” Wren replies sweetly. She plays with the end of her ponytail, twirling the mixed strands around one finger as she aims a pleasant, practiced smile Wade’s way.
If Wade wasn’t a buddy, I’d blurt out the,Bullshit, I’m dying to say. But Wade is lapping up the attention, the lie, adjusting his polo so he has an excuse to flex.
She’s flirting with him to irritate me, I think, and I’m pissed it’s working.
I jerk my chin toward the idling yacht. “They might leave without you.”
Wren smiles ruefully. “Tried that already. They waited while I got ready. This”—she waves toward the water—“was not my idea. So far, summer here has sucked.”
I’m certain Wren Kensington and I have two very different definitions of life sucking. It’s tough to summon any sympathy for someone who seesspending the day sunning on a three-million-dollar yacht as a hardship.
“If you’re free tomorrow night, you should come by our party,” Wade suggests. “We all have to work the Fourth, so we’re celebrating early. Address is 53 Maple.”
I scowl, then quickly school my expression. My guess is, if she thinks I don’t want her to show up, Wren will be much more likely to.
“Tomorrow, 53 Maple,” Wren repeats. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Wren!” A blonde woman is leaning over the railing of the yacht, waving. “Let’s go!”
Based on the close resemblance between them, I’m certain it’s her mother.
Wren steps back, meeting my gaze as she executes a crisp salute. “See ya, Cap.”
Despite my best effort to remain expressionless, one corner of my mouth curves up. “Wear a life jacket.”
“Because I beat you to shore?” She spins and skips away before I can reply that it was a tie.
“Think she’ll show?” Wade wonders, staring after Wren with goddamn hearts reflected in his eyes.
I sigh heavily, shaking my head. “Doubt it. You good here? I gotta go finish the dock repair.”
“Yeah, I’m good.”
I nod, then head for the ramp.
I don’t think Wren will show.
But I do think there’s a small part of me that wants her to.
3
The narrow house located at 53 Maple isn’t much. Three levels tall, it’s painted a faded yellow, with a raised deck that wraps around the entire exterior of the second floor. An empty boat trailer sits in the yard, next to three older cars, one of which is propped on wooden blocks instead of having tires.
Close proximity to the ocean appears to be the only obvious selling point. There’s an access point to the beach directly across the street.
