Page 32 of The Ex Project (The Heartwood #3)

HUDSON

The lobby of City Hall is packed with people filing into the chambers for the official vote.

Tonight’s the night. The determining factor of who will take the lead on the arts centre.

I have to admit, now that the day is here, I’m nervous.

My palms are clammy, my gut is roiling, and I spent way too long figuring out what to wear just to end up deciding on tan chinos and a white button-down.

Wren is standing next to me, determination lining her expression and the set in her jaw. She’s transformed into yet another version of herself. Tonight, she’s all business. No whimsy. None of her blithe charm is shining through her oat-coloured pantsuit.

I’ve caught glimpses of it in the last few weeks.

Little signs that there’s a part of her that hasn’t changed all that much.

And as much as I hate seeing her so prim and proper, there’s something about her in a pantsuit that makes my cock twitch, stand on end like it’s preparing for a challenge.

It makes my testosterone sizzle in my veins.

It’s like another game. I wonder how long it would take me to have this stiff and starched Wren on her knees, suit dishevelled, buttons halfway undone, moaning as I part her lips with my?—

Wren’s sharp elbow digs into my side, the sudden pain yanking me back to the present. I must have looked completely zoned out, lost in my sexual fantasy—enough that she noticed. Her dark eyes drill holes into me as if she could read my thoughts.

“Mrs. Rose was asking you a question,” she grits out with an exaggerated smile.

“Sorry, Alma. I got … distracted for a second,” I say to the elderly woman, but I’m still looking at Wren.

“I was saying,” Alma continues like she has no clue that I was undressing and fucking Wren with my eyes, “Emma seemed to have such lovely things to say about you. I knew you would charm her. She wants to stay in Heartwood for the foreseeable future. She’s decided to take over the shop.”

Wren’s gaze breaks from mine and snaps to Mrs. Rose. Something unreadable crosses her face. I thought I had put the whole Emma issue to rest with her, but the look on Wren’s face tells me she might not be over it. Is it horrible I get a strange sort of satisfaction from seeing her like this?

Wren made it seem like she wanted nothing to do with me when she first got here. In fact, I was genuinely scared of her. She was ready to unleash her wrath, and now the tides have shifted. I wonder if Wren ever hated me in the first place. Somehow, this is all the proof I need that she didn’t.

“That’s great, Alma. She fits right in here.

It’s great she wants to stay.” The corner of my mouth quirks up into a smirk as Wren fidgets.

Alma walks away, satisfied, before I turn to face Wren.

“Everything okay, Miller? Do you need to use the washroom or something? You look a little uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.” I raise my eyebrows at her, letting her know I don’t believe the lie. “Shut up,” she snaps.

“Are you … jealous?” I guess, and Wren glares at me, stepping towards me and backing me up against the wall. She raises her finger to point at me, her face inches from mine.

“The only thing I am is ready to stomp you into the ground. Get ready to lose the vote, Landry. By a landslide.” My mouth twists up even more because, if I know anything about Wren, it’s that she hates to look weak.

Her constant need for competition is the way she shields herself when she feels vulnerable.

But this tough-girl front isn’t fooling me. She’s forgetting that I know the real her. I was there through every single formative year, every success and every failure. I know what makes her tick.

I glance around the lobby and see that Wren and I are alone. Everyone has arrived and filed into the room—it’s almost time to get this show on the road. But not before I let Wren know I can see right through her. Ruffle her. Get under her skin.

I grip her wrist, firm enough that I can control her position. She lets out a yelp as I flip her around, so we’ve switched places. Wren is backed up against the wall now, my thigh in between her legs. Her hips buck a little as she takes a sharp inhale of breath.

“Don’t expect me to lie down and take it, Miller,” I murmur into the shell of her ear, drawing out the words and revelling in her breath hitching and coming out as a soft whimper.

She wrenches her hand free from my grip, and I back away slightly, enough so we’re staring each other down. But I don’t hide the playful smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

“This isn’t one of our little games, Landry. I told you the other day, I have a lot riding on this,” she snaps, her eyes going dark, murderous.

“It means something to me, too. But we can still have some fun with it, right?”

Wren pushes off the wall and slides out from where I’m blocking her in.

“I don’t have the time for petty games anymore.

I’ve grown up. You should, too,” she says before turning and walking into the gymnasium, leaving me speechless and alone.

Where was the fun, playful Wren from the other day?

It’s like she put on that pantsuit and transformed into someone else entirely.

When I enter the room, Wren has already taken her place at the front, her presentation already up on the projector, illuminating the darkened space with a blue glow.

I take a seat off to the side and watch as she addresses the crowd.

She flicks through the first few slides, an introduction to her engineering firm, the prestigious work and awards they’ve won for groundbreaking architectural design.

She lists off famous architects they’ve consulted for, as if these accolades will convince the people of Heartwood.

It’s like she doesn’t even know the town at all, like she didn’t spend over half her life here.

Her presentation already seems out of touch, but when she gets to the design for the arts centre, I swear you could hear a pin drop.

I wince at the deafening silence in the crowd. The expression on Wren’s face tells me she was expecting shock and awe, not crickets.

Her mouth falls open momentarily before she schools her expression and continues, explaining how each of the different rooms will have walls made entirely of glass so anyone walking through the arts centre can see artists at work with their various mediums. What was meant, I’m sure, to promote inspiration, looks like everyone will be on display at a zoo.

I catch a few grimaces from people who are lit up by the screen in the front row of the crowd.

I feel myself grimacing, too, not at Wren or her design, but the unanticipated reaction of everyone in the room. And now I have to get up and present my concept. I wasn’t necessarily convinced it would win earlier, but now I am, and guilt stabs at my gut.

Wren sits down. The confidence she had earlier has fallen off her and dragged her shoulders lower to the ground with it.

She slumps in the chair, and I regard her for a moment.

All the wind has been knocked right out of her sails.

That feisty, strong woman I went toe-to-toe with outside?

The one who can turn me on with the fire behind her eyes?

That woman is nowhere to be found right now.

Standing slowly, I walk to the front of the room and address the crowd with a little less pizazz and gumption than I had planned. Wren likes a fair fight, and she would never want me to concede, but it feels wrong to shove this in her face when her presentation went so catastrophically.

I deliver my speech, my voice monotone, speeding through slides highlighting the strengths of my concept.

The arts centre I designed is colourful, vibrant, yet cozy.

There are big wood-framed windows on one side to let in natural light for the painting studio, and plenty of windows elsewhere to incorporate the beautiful views around Heartwood.

I believe in this design. It fits with the feel of Heartwood.

It incorporates suggestions from the public forum—the reasonable ones—I did not account for a porcelain doll room.

Mostly, it makes me feel close to my mother.

She was creative and colourful and larger than life.

And she loved Heartwood because, as she said, everywhere she looked gave her inspiration.

She felt inspired every day of her life because of the stunning landscape.

That’s what I wanted to showcase in my design. I fucking nailed it. But you wouldn’t know I felt that way by my presentation, because every time I click to a new slide, I glance over at Wren. She’s staring into space now, zoned out, dissociating. Her mind isn’t in the room with us.

I conclude the presentation by pointing everyone’s attention to the three-dimensional model I had made of the arts centre, and someone announces that the voting is open.

I scan the room for Wren. Her chair is empty, but before I can move to search for her, the crowd has begun rushing the front of the room to get a better look at my model, and I’m bombarded with questions.

‘How did you come up with the design?’

‘Where will the pottery studio be? ’

‘Will it be accessible?’

I answer them in absent-minded, one-word sentences, because all I can think about is finding Wren and making sure she’s okay. It was stupid of me, riling her up. In retrospect, that probably wasn’t the best approach.

As soon as I get a break in the questions, which feels a lot more like an interrogation, I bolt. I stride through the cramped room, pushing past people who are milling around waiting to vote, brushing off more comments on my presentation, and eventually make my way into the lobby.

Empty.

I suddenly remember the last time Wren took off after the public forum, the way she ran outside for fresh air, feeling like she was having an asthma attack.

So that’s where I go. I exit the building and glance around in the dim light of dusk, and I spot her.

Sitting on the same bench I found her on after the forum, knees tucked up to her chest.

My chest caves in, air sucked out of my lungs. She looks the same as before, but I know better now. It’s still unclear if she’s aware of what’s happening—that what she’s experiencing is a panic attack. Severe anxiety.

She looks so … small. It hits me that I had a part to play in it. The way I goaded her, trash-talked her, egged her on. And she tried to tell me, this wasn’t a game to her, it meant more. I wanted it, but not the way she did.

I’m a fucking asshole. All I do is hurt her. Somehow I never consider how my actions are going to affect her. Maybe she was right the other day, I haven’t learned. I haven’t changed. But I want to. I want to for her.

I jog over to where she’s sitting and take the spot next to her, pulling her into my chest. Being this close to her now, her chest heaves against me, desperately trying to catch her breath.

“Wren. Wren, I’m here. It’s okay,” I whisper into her hair, clutching at her, wanting to comfort her and somehow make this okay. “I’m so sorry, Wren. Just breathe.”