Page 3 of One Small Spark (Love in Sunshine #4)

THREE

SHEPHERD

This afternoon has been full of revelations. When Wren walked into Ada’s house, I froze, sure I would be the one revealing more than I intended. But here she is, unveiling tiny, glimmering pieces of herself without meaning to.

I scoop up all the shiny pieces and tuck them away in my hoard. I collect little glimpses of the woman beneath the snark to treasure like a covetous dragon over his gold.

“Ooh, those shirtless scenes.” Nora fans herself. “Sorry, Shepherd, but you know how we feel about them.”

I laugh at her faux apology. “I’m not offended, Mrs. Gonzales.”

“Nora, please. How many times do I have to remind you?”

I nod, but it’s a tough habit to break. “Nora.”

“You don’t call me by my first name,” Wren grumps next to me. “You could mix it up, you know.”

An interesting request, since she’s the one who started the last name business. But I don’t trust myself to try. Our game has gone on so long now, saying her first name out loud would probably fall under the “revealing too much” category.

“Whatever you want, kitten,” I return .

She glares, sending a rush of heat through me. I’m a simple man. An idiot, but a simple one. I’ll take any reaction from her I can get.

“It’s when the hero rolled up his shirtsleeves that did it for me,” Isabel says. “A small gesture, but a mighty one.”

“Hmm…” Ada pats a finger against her chin. “My Harry never does that. I can’t quite imagine it.”

“How can someone never roll up their sleeves?” Fran asks.

Ada sniffs. “He has skinny elbows. They don’t stay up.”

Fran’s gaze lights on me with naked enthusiasm. “Maybe Shepherd would demonstrate for us.”

The ladies seem to like this idea—all but one. My seatmate rolls her eyes.

“How am I supposed to do it?” I’m game, I just don’t know what they want.

I’ve read the sorts of passages they mean, and was frankly surprised to learn it’s a recurring piece of imagery.

I assume it’s something to do with a buttoned-up man letting loose a little.

Doesn’t really apply in this situation, since I’m nothing close to stuffy.

“Just roll up your sleeves so we can see your forearms,” Ada directs.

“Slowly!” Fran adds.

I shake out my arms as if I need to gear myself up for it, and a couple of the women laugh.

Wren huffs at my side. “They’re objectifying you,” she mutters. “Like you’re their boy toy or something.”

I lean in so I can whisper in her ear. She freezes, her big blue eyes wide as she watches me draw closer. “It’s all good. Everyone here has my consent to objectify me.”

“Gross.”

It’s really not. Sure, it can be eye-opening to sit in on conversations where women twice my age admire fictional men, and discussion of sex scenes has been illuminating to say the least, but I’m not uncomfortable.

These women look at me more as a surrogate son or nephew rather than some potential conquest.

But if boy toy is where Wren’s mind goes, I won’t object.

I unbutton the cuff on each sleeve of my flannel shirt and roll twice before pushing them a couple of inches higher. Nothing, right? It’s a move I’ve done a hundred times, but here, it earns a round of applause. I don’t understand the appeal, but I’ll take it.

Then again, I have no room to criticize. Wren could expose anything right now, and I would lose the ability to speak in coherent sentences.

The ladies discuss the wonders of forearms for another few minutes.

Wren doesn’t add to the chatter. She’s quiet, her gaze stuck on my arms. Most likely, on my tattoos.

I doubt she realizes how often she stares at them.

I haven’t figured out if she likes them or can’t stand them.

It’d be a shame if she hated them, since I have no plans to get all this work lasered off.

Her gaze shifts to meet mine, and she narrows her eyes, silently daring me to say something for catching her. Of course, I can’t resist.

“Are good forearms on your list of Greek god requirements, too?”

“ No .”

Her heated response isn’t selling the denial.

“What do you like?”

Her gaze skims down over my chest, all the way to my knees before it pops back up to my eyes. Pink blooms across her cheeks, making my own blood heat.

“Brains.” She flashes a patronizing smile, her doubts about mine obvious.

I can’t help my smirk. It’s second nature around her and never fails to fire her up. “Same here.”

I could list more qualities I want in a partner. Motivation. Loyalty. An excellent sense of humor. Fire. But she doesn’t ask.

Conversation moves to the heroine’s emotional journey, but soon the ladies get distracted again.

“You know what I’ve never seen?” Fran pipes up. “A doorway lean.”

A couple of them nod agreement, but Nora asks, “What’s that?”

“When the guy puts his hands on a doorframe and leans in,” Rosetta explains.

Barb frowns at her. “That’s appealing?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s so sexy and confident, and just—” Wren snaps her mouth shut.

More shiny bits for my treasure hoard.

“I need to see that one,” Isabel says. “Shepherd?”

“There’s no doorway out here for me to lean against.”

Fran points over my shoulder. “Use the French doors that lead into the kitchen.”

“This is ridiculous,” Wren mutters.

It really is. This is my fourth month in the book club, and they’ve never asked me to do anything like this before. It’s usually typical book club fare—we chat, we talk about the characters, I learn more about romance tropes and clichés with each visit.

Today, they need visual demonstrations?

But it doesn’t bother me and seems to make Wren squirm. Whatever it takes.

Before I can get up, she pops out of her seat. “I’ll show you.”

I twist to watch her stalk across the patio, open one of the doors, and step inside. When she turns around, the spark of defiance in her eyes could burn down this entire neighborhood. I’m already on fire, smoldering in silence.

She rests one shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed. “Look at me all casual and manly. I’m leaning.”

She goes on glaring at me as though she thinks she’s showing me up. She’s so cute.

“Or they do a one-hand version.” She shifts and places a hand on the door frame at about eye level. “All I have to offer you are these two hands and the kilt on my back.”

She’s deepened her voice and narrowed her eyes, doing her best Blue Steel. Behind me, the ladies chuckle at her impersonation of a generic romance book hero.

Wren slides her hand higher in the doorway and turns toward the frame, raising her other hand as though caressing an invisible face. “I’m not like other guys. I’m…built different.”

Her saucy wink at her audience tears a laugh from me.

“What about the one where their hands are on the top of the doorframe?” Fran asks.

Wren lifts her arms, but her fingertips only graze the wood.

Rosetta tsks . “I guess we need Shepherd, after all.”

I get up before I think to do it. I don’t love this much attention on me.

I don’t like performing and I’m terrible under pressure.

A shiver of anxiety washes through my stomach, but I can’t pass up this opportunity.

I’m at the doorway in a few steps, staring down at Wren.

I lift my hands, easily resting them on the frame above us.

Her blond hair is wild today, loose and free, unlike the slick ponytails she prefers when she’s working in the bakery.

I catalogue her sassy hoodie, the latest in a seemingly endless collection of shirts printed with sarcastic sayings.

Even though it’s torture, I breathe her in.

She rotates her perfumes, so I never know what I’m going to get.

Today, I fill my lungs with a fresh, citrusy scent.

I lean down a touch, tilting my head closer to hers. She glares up at me, her chest rising and falling with quick breaths. My nearness affects her, but I’m not naive enough to trust that she’ll magically drop her walls. She’d rather fight with me than fall into my arms.

I don’t pick up on subtle flirting cues and am far from smooth, myself. If I thought she legitimately hated me, I would keep my distance. But this…it’s not hate. I don’t know what this dance we’re doing is, but I can’t make myself give it up.

Wren licks her lips, staring at me as if waiting to see what I’ll do next. Like with most of our dance, I let her take the lead.

Doesn’t mean I can’t push her a little.

“Okay there, kitten?” I ask low.

She huffs out a breath, placing both hands on my chest to move me out of her way. I step aside, but her touch lingers as she brushes past, leaving my skin heated and my fool heart wishing for more.

After closing the door, I follow her to our loveseat, where we’re flooded with appreciation from the rest of the book group.

“Thanks for indulging us, you two.” Ada beams as though we acted out the entire book. “That was very helpful.”

“Yes. Very illuminating.” Rosetta sounds a little too pleased for my taste.

“Maybe we should do some more,” Fran says.

“Hmm.” Wren seems to think about it. “The heroine in our book kneed the hero in the face. We could demonstrate that.”

“They were in a compromising position when that happened,” I point out. “How book-accurate do you want to be for our demo?”

She purses her pink lips. “I don’t see you wearing a kilt.”

“Ask nicely and you might.”

Her lips part as if to fire off something else.

“Maybe we should get back on topic,” Nora says. “Like the heroine’s predicament of needing to marry to keep her estate.”

They discuss inheritance laws and societal norms of the time.

Barb is almost feral to share all the facts she’s researched.

Talk gradually moves from Regency England to the patriarchy and back to kilts for some reason.

Finally, before wrapping up for the day, we vote on next month’s reading options.

In a close vote, a contemporary wins out.

“Phew,” Wren says. “I’ll be glad to get back into the modern world. It was a little annoying to read about a character five years younger than me, lamenting how she’s never going to find a man. Have some dignity, girl.”

“The heroine in this one should be more relatable.” Ada’s eyes twinkle in the afternoon light. “She’s convinced she hates the broody cowboy hero, but I have a feeling he’s going to change her mind.”

Wren’s excitement fades, leaving a hollow smile. “Yay.”

Inside, we pack up the leftovers, and women slowly start heading out. Ada grabs her phone off the kitchen table. “Give me your number, Wren, and I’ll add you to our group chat.”

“Do you discuss books as you read?”

“We try to keep spoilers out of the chat,” Rosetta tells her. “But we like being in touch.”

“Maybe Shepherd will give you his bread recipe,” Barb suggests.

“If you ask nicely,” Nora croons.

“Maybe he’ll even give you a one-on-one lesson.” Fran’s gleeful smile completely misses Wren’s growing grimace.

“Maybe we can knead the dough together, Ghost -style.” Wren’s lack of enthusiasm almost makes me laugh.

So does the lack of subtlety in this group.

“Take these with you.” Ada foists so many containers of leftovers into her hands they almost topple.

Wren glances at me as she juggles the food, and I can’t hold back my “I told you so” smirk. Her frown deepens, but she switches to a smile for Ada .

“Thanks so much for inviting me.”

“We’re glad to have you join us. You’re the perfect match for…” Ada takes a deep breath, drawing out the pregnant pause. “Our little group.”

“I’m always looking for my next book boyfriend.”

“What about a real one?” Fran asks.

“Find me a guy with a kilt and a castle, and we’ll talk.” She backs toward the door, avoiding eye contact with me. “I like my men like I like my coffee: tall, dark, and fictional.”

A couple of the women shake their heads at her silly expression.

“Is that from one of your shirts?” I ask.

Her gaze hits mine like a thunderbolt. She’s almost smiling. “Trademark Wren Krause. Don’t steal my idea.”

With that warning, she slips out the door. I watch her out the front window until she disappears from view.

Rosetta sidles up next to me. “That’s a wildfire just waiting for a spark.”

I chuckle at her perfect assessment. I’ve been looking for a match for years.