A light mist falls from the sky, the air swirling as heat and cool battle. Wren buries her head deeper into the crook of my neck. My heart races as I ease her into the passenger seat, watching her head and making sure she's steady. I don’t want her tumbling out of my truck. She blinks up at me as I tuck the seatbelt over her chest. I refuse to look at the way her breasts peek out from the low-cut neckline of her dress. It’s as if time stands still, our eyes locked on each other, but the clicking of the buckle snaps us back to reality. Wren tears her gaze from mine as I close the door.
The drive is short as I white-knuckled the steering wheel for the few blocks home. She asked me to take her home, but she didn’t specify which home. There’s no way in hell I’m driving her to the cottage, not in the shape she’s in. Not after the bomb she dropped.
Her words from the bar echo.
“Today was her birthday.”
“Who’s birthday, baby?”
“My daughter’s.”
My stomach hollows, and I swallow down bile.
A daughter.
I shake my head, trying to shove the thought away, but it sticks like taffy. I want to press her, demand answers to questions I have no right asking, but not tonight. Not until she sobers up.
I glance at her—her head against the window, passed out. She looks beautiful, but that’s always been Wren. I see the worry lines haunting her, though.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I can barely breathe. I park quickly, the truck jerking to a stop before settling as I slam the gear into park.
I place a gentle hand on her thigh, and she jerks with a gasp. “We’re here.”
She starts for the buckle, but I land a firm hand on her soft one. “Stay.”
“I’m not a fucking dog.”
“Glad to see you didn’t drink the stubbornness away.”
I’m out of the truck before she has a chance to snap back.
Opening the door, she shifts as I reach across her, unbuckling the seatbelt. She makes a sound of protest as I slide my arms under her again, lifting her like she weighs nothing—which she does. Do they not have food in LA? Jesus, she’s thin.
Her head falls against my shoulder, whiskey breath warm on my neck as I carry her up the porch steps, wood creaking beneath my boots. Storm whines from the other side of the door. The poor dog was asleep on the couch when I left. The house is dark, except for the porch light illuminating us in a warm glow. I glance down at Wren as I move up the stairs. I expect to find her eyes closed, but they’re staring right at me. Her dark brown eyes shine from the alcohol haze, but something else lingers there.
Her lips part, and I brace myself.
“She would’ve had your eyes. All the Riggsbys are blessed with the most beautiful eyes.”
Time stops. The world spins, and I nearly trip up the last step. It would’ve been less painful to be run over by a combine than to hear her truth.
“What?” I rasp.
Her eyes start to droop. “Our baby would’ve had your eyes.”
Eyes falling closed, she slips back into whatever drunken haze holds her.
Meanwhile, I’m glued to the front porch as life as I knew it shatters at my feet.
Chapter 18
Wren
Thepoundinginmyhead is the first thing I notice. It feels like the Energizer Bunny decided to bang the cymbals on repeat. The ache is blinding behind my eyes as I try to blink them open. A groan passes my lips as I bury my face deeper into the pillow, trying to escape the sunlight pouring in through the cracked blinds. Leather, vanilla, and mint flood my senses. My pulse flutters at the delicious concoction. I wiggle my body deeper into the soft sheets as my fingers grip the mattress beneath the pillow, bringing that distinct smell even closer.
Wait…what’s this smell doing here?
Memories of last night hit me all at once. Stepping foot inside The Spillway, sliding Russ a handful of bills with the promise of no questions, controlling the jukebox and dancing like a queen on the dance floor before passing out in a booth.
