Page 4 of The Ex Project (The Heartwood #3)

HUDSON

God, she is stunning.

My heart pounds behind my ribs as I come face to face with her now, my gut a mess of nerves.

She’s grown into her curves and filled out in a way that’s making my jeans tight.

Wren Miller is drop-dead gorgeous—always has been, always will be—even with the terrifying scowl she’s wearing on her pretty painted pout.

It would look more menacing if she weren’t currently wearing the ridiculous hat I got for Jett the summer we worked together.

“Nice hat.” It’s such a casual greeting given Wren and I haven’t seen each other in a decade, and that she’s all I’ve thought about for just as long.

Wren’s mouth opens and closes like she’s considering a quippy comeback, but before she has the chance to say anything, Shelley’s phone rings.

She pulls it out of her pocket, checks the screen and then looks back at us.

“I’m so sorry, I have to take this. One moment, I’ll be right back.” She answers her phone as she’s walking away, and now Wren and I are left alone together. A soft breeze wafts between us, and the rustling of the trees around us is the only sound as we stand facing each other.

I scan her for any sign of the girl I used to love, but all I find is a starched, stiff-looking woman in stilettos carrying a bag that looks like it costs more than my six-month salary.

I could say a million things to her—how I hope she’s been doing well, how much I’ve missed her, how sorry I am—instead, I shift awkwardly on my feet. I’ve thought about this moment so many times, and now that it’s here … everything I can think of to say feels inadequate.

“I thought you worked at the firehall,” she snaps before I manage to get a word out.

Her gaze is intense, those dark brown eyes boring right through me.

I don’t know how much she’s heard about me over the years—I’m sure Poppy has passed along key pieces of information—but one thing is clear: she was not expecting to see me here today.

My arrival is a surprise, and judging by the intense glare she’s directing at me, not a pleasant one.

“I do.” I nod slowly.

“Well then don’t you have more important things to be doing?

Isn’t there a kitten that needs saving from a tree or something?

Some little old lady you can help get across the street?

” she hisses, keeping her voice low in case Shelley is still within earshot.

“I’m sure we can fill you in later since VanTek will be taking on the bulk of the planning and design. ”

A familiar feeling of inadequacy threatens my confidence for a moment as I cross my arms over my chest and my spine stiffens.

“As much as I would love to be helping a little old lady cross the street, that’s not what we do. Besides, as a site coordinator, I like to be involved every step of the way,” I say, enunciating each of my words.

Her brow furrows as her eyes graze over me, flicking down to the steel-toe boots I changed into when I got here.

Her mouth works as she considers the implications of this development.

To be fair, I had no idea she’d be working on the project either.

Surely, we can be civil with each other.

It’s been ten years since our breakup, and despite the mistakes I made back then, she must have moved on by now.

But Wren always kept a running tally of my shortcomings and held them against me, so clearly things aren’t any different now. She’s still out to achieve her own ends, and still looks at me as an obstacle in her way.

She doesn’t say anything in response because Shelley is walking back towards us. Wren fixes her gaze straight ahead of her, lips pursed, arms crossed.

“Sorry about that. The assisted living place in Calgary was calling about my mom.”

“Is everything okay?” Wren asks, her voice kind and warm. Complete opposite in tone to how she addressed me. She’s plastered on a false look of concern.

“I think so. She has to go into the hospital for some treatment, but everything should be fine.” Her voice shakes, and if I had to guess, I’d say she’s worried that, in fact, it won’t be fine. I know the feeling. I lived with a constant sense of dread when my mom was sick.

“Will you still be involved with the project?” Wren asks, and I’m appalled that this is her biggest concern. Not whether Shelley is okay, not whether she needs some help, or even understanding, but how it’s going to impact her . Wren. Shelley thinks for a moment before responding.

“As of right now, yes. But I’ll keep you both in the loop if anything changes.” Wren’s expression softens as she gives a tight-lipped nod.

I don’t know what Wren’s endgame is here. All I know is the woman standing in front of me today is not the woman I fell in love with a decade ago. Something fundamental in Wren has shifted.

The Wren I knew was not so self-serving. She didn’t plaster on a fake smile for anyone, and she wasn’t two-faced like I saw earlier. She wasn’t sweet and warm one moment, cold and calculating the next. She wasn’t cold and calculating ever .

But here we are, and I could not have predicted these circumstances of us meeting again. Nor could I have predicted she’d be so cold, so stuck up. Such a … snob .

The way she subtly glares at me as she suggests we continue with the tour is oddly familiar, and I suddenly realize why.

She’s the spitting image of her sister. Claire, who Wren and I used to relentlessly make fun of as kids for being such a try-hard.

So obsessed with academic success. She was so ruthless in her pursuit of it that she stepped on a lot of people to get there.

It’s amazing how little of Wren I see in her now.

I’ve had this imaginary version of her in my head for so many years, this woman I’ve been so hung up on.

And now that she’s in front of me, I can finally let her go.

Because I don’t love her anymore, I loved the version of her I made up in my head.

If I’m being honest with myself, I’m not even sure I like her .

I let out an involuntary scoff at the thought of how ridiculous it all is.

“Did you say something?” Shelley asks, looking over her shoulder at Wren and I following behind her. Wren teeters on her heels, trying desperately not to let them sink into the ground.

“The arts centre will be perfect here,” I say, plastering on a cheerful smile.

“I’m glad you think so, Hudson. Together, you and Wren will be able to bring the vision to life, create something special for the community. I have full faith in you both.”

Shelley finishes the tour by showing us the side of the lot that will need to be used for parking, and discusses how it will need to be graded as well as general considerations for paving.

Wren nods along, as if she’s taking mental notes.

She asks a few questions she obviously already knows the answer to—probably trying to sound smart—and I have to hold myself back from rolling my eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” Shelley says, holding up her phone again. “It’s my mom’s facility calling again.” Concern lines her face as she looks at the screen. “I’ll let you two discuss the plan, and we’ll be in touch in the coming days about how to proceed. Lovely meeting you, Wren.”

As she heads back across the empty patch of land towards the portable, Wren and I are left in a wake of awkward silence neither of us is too eager to fill.

“So …” I say, rocking back and forth on my feet, shoving both hands into my pockets. Fuck, this is painful.

“Listen, we both know neither of us wants to be in this situation, so here’s what needs to happen.

” Wren’s gaze is fixed on me and it makes my skin feel hot, like at any moment her stare will turn into laser beams and I’ll combust on the spot.

“We stay out of each other’s hair and only communicate when necessary for the project.

That’s it.” She fishes around in her purse and pulls out a card.

I realize this is the second time today I’ve been handed a woman’s phone number, each time under very different circumstances. One wants me to call her, or at least her grandmother wants me to call her, and the other wants me to stay away. “You can e-mail me.”

I turn the card over in my hands. It’s a thick, textured cream paper with the letters embossed in gold. Letters that spell out Wren’s name—her last name is unchanged—her phone number, her e-mail, and her official title at her company.

VanTek Structural .

I’ve heard of this company before; they’re well-known in the industry, so I have to wonder why Wren has chosen to take on this project.

It’s relatively insignificant compared to her other work.

I’ve seen the projects VanTek has been a part of, the multimillion-dollar high-rises in Vancouver known for their cutting-edge design.

“Great,” I say, sarcasm lacing my tone. “We’ll be in touch.” I hold up the card before sliding it into my back pocket and turning on my heel to stalk back to my truck. Wren is a few feet behind me when a blood-curdling shriek stops me in my tracks.

I whip around and the sight behind me is almost enough to make me laugh out loud.

But I stifle it, only allowing the corners of my mouth to turn up instead.

There’s Wren, waving her arms in the air, trying to steady herself while she balances on one heel.

The other foot is in the air, shoe still on her foot, but the heel has snapped off and is stuck in the mud.

“What are you standing there for?” she barks.

I hesitate a moment, considering whether I want to come to her aid.

She did this to herself, after all, wearing heels to a construction site.

A little embarrassment from falling in the mud might do her good.

I let her struggle for a moment longer, enjoying this a little too much.

In the end, though, I shake my head, chuckling to myself as I give in. I approach her, holding a hand out so she can steady herself, and she glares at me before taking it.

“Thank you,” she says, punctuating each word.

“Stop flailing,” I say as she grips my forearm.

I swear her fingers dig in harder than necessary, and when she looks up at me, there’s a fire in her brown eyes.

They’re a warning to back off , and I think it’s a warning I should heed.

“How are you going to walk on that thing?” I ask once she seems to have her footing.

I point down toward her broken heel and look back at where our cars are parked.

They’re at least a hundred feet from where we now stand, and the terrain doesn’t get any easier to navigate.

I can’t imagine it would be any less challenging in those sky-high heels, let alone a broken one.

“I’ll figure it out,” she says, taking a tentative first step, but now that one heel is broken, she is forced to put more weight on the one that’s still intact, and the heel quickly drives into the soil, causing her to wobble.

She lets out a little shriek, and damn if this isn’t the funniest, most satisfying scene to witness.

“You’re going to have to take them off.” Her mouth forms a tight line as she glares at me and drops my hand.

“Fine, I’ll walk barefoot.” She yanks her shoes off and holds them together in one hand.

“No, you won’t,” I say, matter-of-factly. “This is a construction site. God only knows what you could step on. You could get tetanus from a rusty nail.” That earns me another glare.

“So, what do you suppose I do?”

I turn my back toward her and crouch.

“Hop on.”

“No fucking way.”

“It’s your only option. Trust me, it’s not my favourite either,” I say, cocking my head in a come here motion and waving my hand as a gesture to get on my back.

She huffs an annoyed breath, but she finally concedes and approaches me.

The corner of my mouth tugs upward. It’s not like I’m enjoying this per se, but there’s something familiar about the way Wren and I push and pull against each other, and I can’t help but feel satisfied when I beat her in an argument.

It’s never been that serious, these little games we play, but I still love the feeling of winning.

I crouch down a little more to make it easier for her to climb onto my back, and although it’s more challenging with her shoes and her bag in hand, she finally gets herself seated so I can hoist her high enough to carry her weight.

She lets out a quiet ooph as I adjust her, and the warm puff of her breath on my neck sends a shiver skittering down my back.

The sensation sends my mind careening back in time, to the night we spent together before she left.

The heat of her breath on my neck. My hands clumsily, nervously, roaming around her body, having never felt a woman’s smooth skin on so much of my own.

I steer my mind away from the memory of Wren’s body, and the current proximity of my hands to the curve of her ass as I walk her back to her car.

“Would it kill you to walk faster?” Wren calls over my shoulder.

“Sorry, my bad. Hold on tight,” I call back, breaking into a run. She shrieks as she bounces on my back, and I feel her reach up to hold the hat that keeps slipping off her head.

“Slow down!” she cries as we reach the portable, and I set her down on the ground next to the sparkling white Audi parked next to my dirty, grey truck.

“You’re welcome,” I say, and she huffs a breath instead of saying thank you.

She removes the fluorescent vest and obnoxious hard hat, handing them to me before brushing herself off and straightening out her pristine white blouse.

“Okay. Well. E-mail me about the next steps.” Her voice is clipped, her body language awkward as we figure out how to part ways. She shifts on her feet, bare on the fine gravel. My eyes catch on a silver toe ring wrapped around her second toe. The same one she got when we were teenagers.

She loved it. She went barefoot almost that entire summer because she said it was the only thing she wanted to wear on her feet. I bet her she couldn’t go an entire day barefoot, so she did. And then to prove a point, she went almost the whole rest of the summer, too.

We laughed a lot that summer. I haven’t seen her laugh once today. She’s barely even cracked a smile. But that silver toe ring is still there. A small but not insignificant remnant of the girl I used to love. And it kills me a little that it’s the only remotely familiar thing about her now.

“Bye, Wren Miller.” My boots crunch on the gravel as I turn on my heel and walk back to my truck.