Wren pauses at the bedroom door, her hand on the knob. For a second, I think she might say something. But then she’s gone, the front door slamming shut behind her.
I flop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The sheets still smell like her, like us.
43
Wren
The bell over Joe’s Diner jangles as I burst through the door, forty minutes late and not giving a single fuck. My skin’s still tingling from last night’s… activities. Christ, I can smell his sweat, the musk of him, like a fucking aphrodisiac. It’s hitting me right in the core, my cunt clenching around him, begging for more.
I give myself a mental slap in the face.
Come on, Wren. Get it together.
It’s just a good, hard fuck. Not like I’ve ever let myself get attached before. It’s not like I’m that weak.
I sidestep around Joe, giving him a quick glance as I make my way toward the staff room.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Joe growls from behind the counter, his permanent scowl etched deeper than usual. “Nice of you to join us, princess.”
I flash him a grin, all teeth. “Missed you too, sunshine.”
He snorts, clearly not buying my bullshit. “Dock your pay for this one. Get to work.”
I shrug, tying on my apron. The threat barely registers. After last night’s gig at the Ritz, I’m flush with cash. More importantly, I’m riding a high that has nothing to do with money and everything to do with a certain Russian asshole with magic hands.
“Yo, Wren!” Rosie’s voice snaps me back. She’s eyeing me suspiciously, a pot of coffee in one hand. “You’re smiling. It’s freaking me out.”
I school my features. “What? I smile.”
“Yeah, when you’re plotting murder, maybe,” she snorts. “Spill it. What’s got you so chipper?”
I busy myself wiping down the counter, avoiding her gaze. “Nothing. Just… had a good night.”
Rosie’s eyebrows shoot up. “A ‘good night,’ huh? That wouldn’t have anything to do with your fancy new job, would it?”
I bite my lip, memories of D’s hands, his mouth, flashing through my mind. “Maybe.”
“Order up!” Joe bellows from the kitchen, saving me from Rosie’s interrogation.
I grab the plates piled high with greasy eggs and hash browns that smell like heaven after last night’s… workout. As I set them down in front of an elderly couple, I catch the old man’s eye. He winks at me, a knowing smile on his weathered face.
“You’re glowing today, dear,” he says, his voice gravelly but kind. “Must be love.”
I nearly drop the coffee pot. “What? NO, I—”
His wife chuckles, patting his hand. “Don’t tease the poor girl, Harold. But he’s right, you know. You’ve got that look.”
I force a laugh, my heart pounding. “Trust me, it’s not love. Just… a really good night’s sleep.”
Harold winks again. “If you say so, dear.”
I retreat, my cheeks burning. Love? Jesus. It was just sex. Incredible, mind-blowing sex, but still. I don’t do love. Can’t afford to, in this business.
“So,” Rosie sidles up to me as I’m refilling salt shakers, “this ‘good night.’ Does it have a name?”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. It’s called ‘mind your own business.’”
She pouts. “Come on, Wren. I got you that gig at the Ritz. I deserve details.”
