“That she is.”
We just sit there side by side, smiling at each other. Pulling the book from behind his back, he taps the page number like he's memorising it, before revealing he picked one of the limited edition covers that I’d had commissioned by a local illustrator in York.
“What inspired you to write it?” He asks.
“I do believe I asked you a question first.”
He playfully nudges my arm. “You tyrant, Wife. I think it’s great. Honestly, I nearly missed coming down for the party in time because I couldn’t stop reading earlier. Captivated from the moment Thistle side checked the detective in the post office. The woman did not want to miss out on her morning crossword. You should be so proud of yourself.”
His praise does something to my insides. “Thank you, Wren. I am proud, this is all I’ve ever wanted to do,” I splay my fingers in front of us. “It’s thedream.”
He lets out a low chuckle and stills. “I like that you know.”
“What?”
“You, saying my name.”
“You’re shameless.”
He winks. “Only for you, Love.”
Rolling my eyes I can’t help but smile, because I can imagine if that was true. I’ve been fighting the instant pull I have towards him all day, scared of how fast that sounds and not ready at all to lower any of my walls for him. Not for the music world's playboy. Tomorrow I’ll go back to questioning his flirting, reminding myself who he is and hopefully Lily can knock some sense into me like I know she’s dying to do. Right now though, I’m just so damn tired.
Taking the book from his hands, I run my fingers over the illustrated cover. Opening it, I flick through the first couple of pages till I reach what I’m looking for. This book was the second copy I ever had printed, before agreeing to the design and havingmore of the limited edition design published. I gave it to Phoenix as a gift, signing on the title page:You’re the Samwise to my Frodo.
I smile down at my scribbly handwriting, pride swelling inside me. “I always wanted to write a detective novel. Phin and I watched Poirot all the time at his Grandma’s house. She got me all the books too. I just loved all the intricacies of the characters and how you’d wind down one path, only to find another clue that would take you down another. Planning the murder and creating suspects is my favourite part of it.” I wrinkle my nose. “Is that lame? That my biggest hobby is making up stories in my head?”
Wren laughs, “It’s exactly the same as how I come up with lyrics. Words swim in my head all day. Bran mentioned writing a song about a blueberry muffin this morning and I’ve already written a chorus and a hook about it!” I lightly push him because surely he’s teasing me and he laughs harder. “No, seriously! I’ve not been able to stop thinking about fucking blueberry muffins.”
My own laughter trickles into his and the sound is glorious. It’s the most comfortable conversation I’ve had all day and I think he feels the same, because there’s a spark in his eyes that turns them into a dazzling emerald.
How am I ever going to find the strength to stay away from him this weekend? I should be so mad at the lies, but I'm losing the war inside me.
Shifting before my butt cheeks go dead, I place my novel back onto his knee and peer into his room. It’s a weird coincidence, but this is actually my favourite that I helped Merle furnish. It’s the Pan room, with a spring equinox theme that features in the woodland wallpaper, vines and leaves entwined steel bed frame, framed illustrations of dancing animals such as foxes, squirrels, birds and hares. The bed set is a cool shade of green, with scatters of burnt orange pillows and beiges. Those tones alsofollow around the room, where opposite the bed is a wooden bookshelf filled with novels and a desk, which all rooms come with. This desk is a deep, warm wood with leaves scribed along the legs and an intricate flute along the lid. I can’t help but notice his belongings dotted around; an open sketchbook and papers laid on the desk itself.
If written down, most of the facts I know about him are from the media. Phin often spoke about him growing up, but I always lost interest when he went into detail about their crazy antics at parties. After his second stint in rehab when we were only eighteen, I kind of blamed Wren for introducing him to that scene of people. I didn't know how he dealt with being famous, but my best friend sure did like the alcohol and drugs that accompanied it. Everything else was pieced together with online gossip about The Larks.
By the window are two sets of upholstered armchairs, it suddenly dawned on me that we’re sitting on the floor of his open room. “Wren, why are you sitting on the floor? You’ve got like, four places to sit in this room, including a really comfortable bed.”
He gives me a sheepish look and doesn’t reply straight away. I actually think he’s not going to at all, when he sighs and meets my eyes. “I’m sitting here so I can make sure Corbin doesn’t come out of his room. I didn’t see him go in, but I’m assuming that after—yeah,” he looks down to his swollen knuckles, pressing a damp cloth to it. “I’m making sure he stays the fuck away from you.” He looks back up at me with such an earnest expression. No, it’s determination. He isn’t going to let him touch me again and I can see that drive. I still want to demand answers about Phin, morbidly wanting to know the finer details, but I'm already exhausted considering that conversation.
“I don’t know if I said it earlier, but thank you. No one’s done anything like that for me, before.”
“I mean, no one should have to punch someone’s ex because they’re an absolute dickweed, but here we are.” He knocks me lightly with his shoulder, but I can’t find it in me to be comforted. Not over this. A heavy sigh escapes my lungs and I look down, fiddling with my nails. “I’m so embarrassed that I let myself be with someone like him. I wasn’t in love with him, but I really wanted to believe we could have been, one day.” I don't owe him anything, but looking down at his swollen knuckles makes me want to give him something. A piece of me. "I don't know if anyone told you things about me, but this was meant to be mine. Nightingale house–he bought it as a last attempt to make me stay. Wanted me to make it a home and I hoped that meant I'd finally have all of his attention." I don't think Wren is breathing. “Obviously I was stupid to think that, because I caught him banging the estate agent when I came over unexpectedly to look at marble counter samples. I was so mad.” I pause to swallow the thick lump that's formed in my throat. “But I was so fucking relieved. He couldn't talk himself out of that one. I’d always excused his shitty behaviour because I didn't want to be alone, but this time he couldn't gaslight me or lie. I caught him and it meant there was no way he'd worm his way back into my life. I was finally done.” The air seems to still between us, a vice clutching at my insides seems to loosen its painful grip.
His tongue wets his bottle lip and without breaking out gaze, I feel strong fingers take both of my hands and lace them together. “You’re far from stupid, pretty girl. I need you to really believe me when I say, even after only knowing you a day, you’re so strong and caring. You’re unbelievably smart, quick witted, which is a total fucking turn on, if you don’t mind me saying. You trusted someone to give you love and respect, and he was completely undeserving. That’s not your fault, it’s his for misusing everything good in you.” I can barely breathe as heleans closer, a loose curl of his tickles my forehead as our noses nearly touch. I’m just so lost in those moss green eyes. “You’re utterly captivating,” Wren’s voice is so low and husky. “You’ve had all of my attention since the moment I saw you.”
His lips are so soft as they crash into mine, lighting my entire body up with a fire so deep that I’ve never experienced before. My eyelashes flutter closed as all of my senses burn to ash. His lips might be soft, but this kiss is anything but. He draws utter longing out of me, like I've been touch starved my entire life. I might as well have been, because I've never felt likethisjust kissing someone. Fingertips stroke my cheeks, one hand finding its way under my jaw as he slowly tilts my face up to deepen the kiss. I place both my palms against his firm chest, twisting them into his t-shirt. He might touch me like I’m precious, yet his lips are a testimony to how much he wants this. His tongue dances along my bottom lip, gently asking permission and I open for him, finally melting into each other. An eager moan fills the air.
My fucking moan.
His body stiffens under my hands and he pulls away. I already miss the ghost of his lips.
Resting his forehead against mine, his voice is strained. “You’re going to be the death of me with noises like that, my love.”
A sharp shattering from the corridor behind us bursts the bubble we’ve cast; both on high alert as we spring apart. My heart pulses like a hummingbird, not only from the kiss but how close the noise was from the open door. My body seems to react before my brain and I’ve abruptly stood up on shaky legs.
“Good night.” I pant, turning without looking back, making a break for it, back to my room.
