Wren heard him chuckle. “I asked you first.”
“So?” she defended. “What are you? Twelve?”
Another silence.
“In some ways.” His chuckle dried up. “Marcelle certainly thought so.”
Wren’s ears perked. She wanted to see the look on his face, but, in the kayak, she’d have to glance back over her shoulder without stealth. Instead, she put away her phone and picked up the paddle again.
“Why did she think that?” she asked finally, her own voice cautious around the question.
Lee sighed. “We didn’t like the same things. She thought the things I liked were childish.” He sounded as though his thoughts had carried him away. Wren wanted to bring him back.
“What kinds of things do you like?”
Lee laughed, and the sound tickled her middle. “What kinds of things do you think I like? Guess.”
A smile overtook her, and she blushed, glad now that he couldn’t see her face. “Well… you like kayaking.”
“Yep.”
She took a hand off the paddle and stroked Victor’s head. The golden puppy looked up at her with a sleepy gaze and nestled down against her thigh. “And dogs.”
“Yes.” His voice had warmed. Wren had no doubt that he not only liked dogs, but he loved Victor.
“And you like Joss Whedon, which is as awesome as it is unbelievable.”
Lee’s laughter broke over the water, startling the two closest egrets from a nearby tree.
“Does that mean I’m awesome?” he fished, still laughing.
“Oh… let’s see. You like Pitbull, which definitely does not make you awesome—“
Three more birds fled at the sound of his laughter. Wren pressed on.
“You like dancing,” she said, beginning to realize that her list of the things he liked wasn’t at all short. “And you like peach pies.”
Lee’s paddle came out of the water and was suddenly wedged to her left between her seat and the kayak’s hull. The small vessel pitched a little to the left and right, and Wren realized that Lee was shifting behind her.
“What are you doing?” she asked, bracing.
“I want to grab you and kiss you,” he said, sounding determined.
“What?! No!” She went rigid, half afraid he’d tip them before he could reach her and half afraid he’d succeed.
“Yes.”
The heat in his voice went right between her legs. If he could find a way to start kissing her in this impossibly tiny kayak, she’d be in trouble. “No. Feed me instead. I’m hungry,” she lied.
The kayak stilled. “You’re hungry?”
“Yes. It’s lunchtime.” That part was true, anyway. It had to be past noon.
“Okay. I’ll fix that.” His voice had softened, and it touched her just as if he’d put his hands on her. “You keep us from bumping into a tree. That’s a great way to get a water moccasin in the boat.”
“Seriously?” Wren paddled on the right side to move them away from the tree they approached.
She could hear the rustling of a paper bag and the squeak of Lee’s cooler. “Yep. They like to rest on the cypress knees. Sometimes you can’t spot them coiled up until you’re practically on top of them.”
They were gliding through a kind of watery forest, trees on all sides, and Wren concentrated on keeping them a paddle’s length away from each trunk. They hadn’t gone very far when she felt Lee tap her on the shoulder.
“Here, reach back.”
She twisted in her seat, and her eyes took him in again. He looked perfectly at home against the backdrop of the cypress grove. From the dark wayward curl that swooped over his forehead to the cut of his biceps that seemed to stretch his shirtsleeves, Lee belonged to the outdoors. What had happened to the guy with the silk tie and the white coat? Had this wild man always waited underneath?
Smiling at her, he held out a bundle wrapped in a napkin, and Wren took it. When she turned back and peeled back the paper, she found a chicken breast, a few strawberries, and a small bunch of grapes.
“White meat okay?” he asked. “You can have dark if you’d rather.”
Wren smiled even as memories tugged at her. “Nah, I like white meat better. Mamaw Gigi fries chicken all the time. There’s a lot leftover these days, but we used to finish it in one night.” The words were out before she even knew she’d said them aloud. “Laurie and I would eat the white meat, and Mamaw and Papaw would take the dark.”
“Who’s Laurie? Your sister?” He talked with his mouth full. It was one more thing at odds with the persona she’d built for Dr. Leland Hawthorne. And the novelty of it kept the usual pain at bay.
“She was my mother,” she said simply.
Lee was silent for a moment.
“Was,” he said, finally, no trace of question in the word. “That sucks.”
Wren loved how he recognized the truth and wasn’t afraid to say it.
The wind blew through the branches overhead. She looked up at the swaying moss and filled her lungs. A lot of things sucked, but at least out here, she could breathe.
“Yeah, it does suck,” she managed.
“I know all about that.” Lee’s voice was gentle, and she appreciated the sentiment, but he was wrong. She peeled off a piece of chicken, but she couldn’t make herself eat it.
“How old were you when she died?” he asked.
Wren drew in another breath and sighed. If she told him anything, she’d have to tell him everything. Well, not everything, she reminded herself. She’d never tell him everything. Wren didn’t like talking about Laurie, even with Mamaw. But she could give the rough details and leave it at that. Besides, if he didn’t like what he heard — if he decided that she’d come from trash — he didn’t have to see her again.
And that’s fine with me, she told herself. The lie wasn’t at home in her heart, so she spoke to push it aside.
“I was seven.” She heard Lee blow out a breath behind her.
“Shit,” he hissed. “I thought I was young. My mom died when I was ten.”
“You were young.”
“Yeah, but… by ten, you already understand death. You know it’s forever…”
Wren could tell by the motion of the boat that he’d started paddling again. The easy glide along the water soothed her. She closed her eyes.
“…but at seven, you’re still a baby. Your mom is still your whole world. I mean, she’s the one who fixes you breakfast and tucks you in at night and takes care of you when you’re sick—”
The bitter laugh nearly choked her. “Laurie was never that kind of mom.” And because Wren wasn’t looking at him — and she couldn’t see him looking back — it was easier to say the next part. “She was more like the mom who shoots up on your birthday and spends all afternoon staring at the ceiling. Or the mom who would ask you to stand in the doorway of your grandparents’ kitchen as a lookout while she swiped a piece or two from their silver service.”
“Wren… good God.”
She was ready for him to turn the kayak around and paddle them back to shore, but his rowing ceased.
“She OD’ed?” he asked, sparing her from explaining. She knew he was watching her, so she let her chin tilt to her right shoulder, but not far enough to take in the look on his face, and she nodded.
“And your grandparents raised you?”
This was easier to say. This she had no problem owning. Mamaw and Papaw had done the best they could, even when their world had come to an end.
“Yeah… anyway, they did until Papaw Dale died when I was sixteen. Then it was just me and Mamaw Gigi. She’s my rock.”
“Is she your only family?”
His tone was still gentle, but it was far from casual. Lee was listening. Carefully. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time someone other than Mamaw, or Cherise, or Shelby and Rocky had listened so closely. Certainly, none of the guys she’d ever dated had asked her so much about Laurie and her childhood.
“Pretty much. Laurie had an older brot
her named Lyle, but he was killed in Desert Storm when I was a baby.”
“Oh, Jesus. Your poor grandparents,” Lee said, sounding sick.
Wren closed her eyes and could see the pictures of her Uncle Lyle on Mamaw Gigi’s mantle: Lyle pole-vaulting at a track tournament; Lyle in a letterman jacket senior year; Lyle in his dress blues before he deployed. A familiar ghost. He was twenty-three when he died in Iraq, two years younger than she was now.
“I really don’t know how they kept it together,” Wren admitted. “But they did. I don’t know… maybe people who were born before TV are just stronger. More real. I’ve thought about it a lot, and that’s the best I can come up with.”
“Maybe…” Lee offered, his voice lighter. “…or maybe it’s in their genes. You seem pretty tough. It could be you inherited it.”
Wren huffed a laugh. “All signs point to no.” If strength were in the genes, Laurie would have been able to clean herself up. She would have survived. She would have been able to carry her own guilt and actually take care of someone else.
But she wasn’t strong enough.
“I disagree.”
Wren made a face he couldn’t see. “Not to be rude or anything, but what would you know about it?”
She heard him dip the paddle back into the water, and the kayak resumed its smooth gliding. “I seem to remember a girl in a hospital bed with an exploding ovary who — moments before passing out, mind you — rated her pain as a seven when it was at least a nine. Maybe even a ten.”
Wren twisted in her seat and stared at him. “Holy shit. You remember that?”
The left side of his mouth lifted. “Hell, yes. I remember telling myself you were tough. And you are,” he said. “You’re a survivor.”
The blood drained from her face, and Wren turned away, hoping Lee hadn’t noticed. She bent her knees, rested her elbows against them, and cradled her head.
Survivor? She’d never identified with that term.
How can I be a survivor if a piece of my soul is dead?
CHAPTER TWENTY
HE’D SAID SOMETHING wrong.
Lee wasn’t sure what, but the instant before she slumped forward, Wren’s face had held a look of devastation.
The last ten minutes had taught him so much about her. She was stronger than he’d ever imagined. And, yet, she was a hundred times more fragile. He wanted to crush her against him. He wanted to cradle her in his arms.
How had she survived the childhood she’d described? An addicted mother who’d dosed herself to death? Who didn’t bother to hide her drug abuse from her child? Who used her to get high?
And where was her father?
Lee found himself growing angry at a sick woman who’d been dead for almost twenty years and a man he knew nothing about.
He shook his head to clear it. By Wren’s own account, she’d had the safety net in her grandparents. Clearly, they’d loved and cared for her. Her grandmother still did. However Wren had made it through, Lee was just glad she had.
Still, this wasn’t an easy subject for her. Lee wanted to know more, but that could wait. He was supposed to be showing her a good time, not making her relive her nightmares.
“You haven’t eaten your lunch,” he ventured, setting down his paddle and picking up the chicken thigh in his lap.
Wren lifted her head. “Well, Victor’s very interested in it.”
Lee peered over her shoulder to find that Victor had gotten to his feet. The dog watched Wren in anticipation, his tail wagging.
“Is he bothering you? I can take him back here if he is,” Lee offered, but he was secretly glad the dog had given them something else to talk about.
“Oh, no. I love Victor. He’d never be a bother,” she said, her voice dipping sweetly over the words.
Lee wondered if he’d ever stop being jealous of his own dog.
“Can I feed him something?” she asked.
“Not the grapes. Those are poisonous for dogs—”
“Shit, really?” Wren looked over her shoulder, eyes wide. “Why didn’t you tell me? What if I’d dropped one, and he’d eaten it?”
Lee frowned. “Well, did you?”
Her eyes bugged as she craned around to glare at him. “No, but what if I had? Would I have killed Victor?” She wore a look of panic.
“Babe, no. We’d take him to the emergency clinic. He’d be fine.”
“Oh my God! One grape and we’d have to take him to the emergency clinic?” The whites of her eyes seemed to double in size. “Why would you even buy grapes if you knew that?”
In the next instant, he watched her pitch her bunch of grapes over the side of the kayak.
Sploosh.
“Hey—” Before he could speak, she reached back and did the same with his.
Splish.
With his mouth hanging open, he watched the rippling surface of the lake where his grapes had disappeared. “I was eating those.”
“I don’t care,” Wren said, shaking her head and raising her hands. “It’s not worth the risk. Promise me you’ll never buy grapes again.”
“Um, Wren—”
“You just can’t have shit like that around. I mean, he’s your responsibility. You have to take better care of him. He needs—”
“Wren—”
“Let me finish! He needs you to look out for him. You’re all he has.” Her eyes were pleading with him now, and Lee had the feeling they weren’t talking about puppies and grapes anymore.
“Wren?”
She was frowning at him, the little crease between her brows signaling her distress. Lee wanted to wipe it away.
“Yeah?”
“I’m training Victor to eat only what I give him. He doesn’t eat anything that drops on the floor unless I tell him to take it. He’s really good about it.” Lee had started the training from the beginning, and Victor had become a pro. Even if a piece of sausage fell from the kitchen counter, Victor would look up at Lee and wait for permission before he broke his stay.
Wren blinked. “Really?”
He had to work hard at not laughing at the look on her face. “Really.”
She bit her bottom lip and dipped her chin.
Contrition looked damn cute on Wren Blanchard.
“You just threw half my lunch into the lake,” Lee said, only just managing to keep a straight face.
She slapped her right hand over her mouth to smother a mortified giggle. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry,” she spoke against her hand, and the words came out muffled.
He raised a brow. “Now what am I supposed to do?” There were more grapes and chicken in the cooler. He certainly wasn’t going to starve, but teasing her was too much fun.
Her lips disappeared between her teeth, and her eyes got wide again. Wren rotated in her seat to face him with the chicken breast in her other hand. She raised it up.
“You can have some of my chicken.” She pulled off a piece of meat and held it toward him. Feeling like the devil himself, Lee leaned forward and captured it between his teeth.
Wren gasped.
Surprise flashed in her eyes, and the animal in his DNA awoke. “More.” He knew he was pressing his luck, but he’d just discovered that eating from Wren’s hands was one of the sexiest acts on earth, and he wanted to do it again.
She watched him for a moment, and he knew she was debating — doubting —but he knew other things, too. Her lips had parted, and he could now see the pulse at her throat. The wind stilled, and the lake went silent.
And then she tore off another piece of meat.
His lips met her fingertips this time, and he let himself taste them. She didn’t draw away. She didn’t look away. But she was too far away. And he wanted a turn.
He crossed his legs and scooted closer. “You’ve hardly touched this,” Lee said, taking the chicken from her. Wondering if she would let him feed her, he pulled off a piece.
When he pressed it to her mouth, she didn’t hesitate. So he fed her again, and this time — just like with
his — her lips closed over the tips of his fingers. Their soft heat maddened him.
He wanted to feed her for the rest of his life.
If this became his new commandment — Feed your woman with your own hands — he’d gain so much. He’d get to see her and touch her three times a day. He’d get to make sure she was safe and sated and cared for. Where was the drawback in that plan?
While he grabbed bites to give to her, she reached forward and did the same, making sure he ate just as much as she did. It made his chest swell.
“Do you want more?” he asked after they’d picked the bones clean. When she shook her head, he tossed the bones into the lake for a lucky turtle or alligator. He grabbed his paper napkin and dabbed it against her lips and fingers before cleaning his own.
Then, before she could turn away again, he took her mouth with his.
He’d wanted to kiss her all day. Truth be told, he hadn’t stopped wanting to kiss her since he’d pulled himself away from her at Studio Ink.
Lee took. He cradled her face in his hands, and he took her lips and her softness. He took her ripeness and her response. And she did respond. She might try to run from him half the time, but she let him catch up now and then.
He pulled back and smiled at the drowsy look in her eyes.
“You like me,” he said, unable to help himself.
She narrowed her drowsy eyes. “No, I don’t.”
Lee chuckled. “Yeah, you do. Maybe not as much as I like you — not yet — but you like me.”
Wren frowned, and he could see that she fought her smile. “Okay, maybe I like you a little,” she admitted, and he felt it deep in his chest. “But I still don’t get it.”
He frowned back. “Get what?”
She stared at him for a moment, skepticism overtaking the kiss-softened glow that had made him so proud. Then Wren shook her head.
“Never mind.”
Hell no.
“Don’t blow me off. I know what you’re thinking, and it’s bullshit.”
Wren pulled back and rested an elbow against the back of her seat. “So, tell me. What am I thinking?”
All the lust that brimmed inside of him fed his anger, an anger that seemed to be too close at hand whenever she tried to push him away.
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