Page 27

Wren

A lot of people find puzzles stressful, but I’ve found peace in the process—the sorting of pieces, the search for the right shapes to fit into the empty slots, the satisfying click when a piece falls perfectly into place.

Strangely, it calms my racing mind, giving me nothing to think about except the picture I’m trying to recreate in front of me.

Right now, I have a few colorful birds staring up at me, surrounded by a border of trees, probably wondering where their houses are.

I carefully slide the half-complete puzzle onto a flattened cardboard box. I haven’t had much time for hobby testing this week, but I’ve been slowly working on this puzzle during the early mornings, coffee in hand, before work. It’s been…oddly soothing.

This past week has flown by. I’ve been so busy at work that it’s hard to think straight some days. But it’s a job I love, and even on the hard days, I know I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

If I weren’t so tired in the mornings, I’d get up earlier so I could work on the puzzle more. When I get home at night, I’ve been cooking more, but I still manage to snap a few pieces in before I go to bed.

Once I have the puzzle secure on the cardboard, I carry it to my room and place it on the bed. Tonight, I’m finally making Carson the dinner I owe him for fixing my dryer. It seems we’ve been like ships passing in the night over the last week. Every time I’m available, he’s not.

It’s hard to believe that two weeks have nearly passed since he challenged me to do things just for me. These have been some of the most peaceful days I’ve had in a really, really long time.

My calendar has never looked so empty, and after turning down a few people a couple of times, they stopped calling.

It’s strange realizing how many people only reach out when they need something.

No one ever calls to invite me somewhere or just to talk.

Well, except for my brothers, Carson, Indie, and Lucy, of course.

I know they never used me like my other “friends” appear to have done.

One thing I learned during this process is that it’s much easier to ignore a call or text.

Turning someone down in person is far more nausea-inducing.

Thankfully, I only had to do that once. And while I may have had some help from Carson telling Maggie I couldn’t babysit for her, I was still proud of myself for not caving in.

Stepping back into the kitchen, I grab the notebook with my list of Wren-ovation Project items from the table. I scan over all the crossed-off activities, noting which ones got green marks (loved it) and which ones were red (never again).

A knock echoes from the front door, and my eyes fly to the clock on the stove.

“Coming!” I sing-song as I hurry to the door, taking one last sip from the wine I opened earlier.

When I open the door, I’m greeted by deep blue eyes and a dark, stubble-lined jaw. He looks exhausted, but still manages to be the most attractive man I’ve ever seen.

“Hey!” I instinctively throw my arms around him. I know he’s not a hugger, but I can’t help myself.

“Hey, Tink,” he murmurs, voice low and rough around the edges.

Maybe I’m crazy, but I swear his grip on me feels tighter than usual.

He pulls back and holds out a small bag.

“Here. Got these for you.”

I peek inside and blink in surprise.

“Inserts?” I grin up at him. “You didn’t have to do that—but thank you.”

I’ve been limping through long shifts in flat shoes for way too long. With a job that keeps you on your feet all day, decent arch support isn’t a luxury—it’s survival.

“You’re welcome,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Figured you’ve been too busy lately to take care of your feet. Thought I’d help.”

Something tightens in my chest. I can’t tell if it’s gratitude…or something warmer.

Something heavier.

We move into the kitchen, and he drops into one of my mismatched chairs like gravity’s working harder on him than it should.

“What’s for dinner? Need me to do anything?”

“Absolutely not. You sit and let me work. I’m makin’ these pork chops Lucy made for lunch the other day. I’m hopin’ they turn out as good as hers were.”

I have little confidence that they will.

I’m usually a ‘sides’ gal. Every time we all get together, I bring enough sides to feed an army.

Main courses, however, have never been my specialty.

I either overthink it or completely forget about it while making side dishes, and thus, let it burn to a crisp.

“Well, they smell good.” Carson stands up from the table and goes to the cabinet, where he pulls out a glass. He quickly inspects the bottom before filling it with ice water.

I know he doesn’t think my dishes are dirty; it’s just a habit of his that he’s had since I’ve known him.

When I asked him about it once, he said he drank from a cup one time that had a dead gnat floating in it.

When he looked in the cabinet, he saw that several of the cups in the back had them as well.

Given that he’s been working in the food industry for so long, I’m sure he’s seen some pretty dirty dishes pass by.

“I have wine.” I hold up the bottle.

He scrunches his nose.

“Okay.” I chuckle. “I made more lemonade. It’s in the fridge if you want some. Or there’s a fresh pitcher of sweet tea.”

“This is fine,” he says, lifting his glass and taking a big swig. “I need to replace all the water my body lost today.”

“You still don’t have your A/C runnin’ in the diner?”

“I do. I just don’t use it. No sense in that while I have the windows open, airin’ the place out while I work.”

He slumps back into the chair with a soft groan, and something about the sight makes my chest ache. The view sparks crazy ideas in my mind. What would it be like to have this every day—someone coming home to you, filling your kitchen with their quiet, steady presence?

What would it be like to have someone to talk to after my own long day of work?

“How’s the diner comin’ along?” I ask as I place the freshly washed cucumber on the cutting board and start slicing into it.

“Just about ready to reopen. I talked to LouAnn. She got ahold of the other girls. Everyone’s excited to come back.”

“Wow. That feels fast.” Lifting the knife, I slide the remaining cucumbers on the blade into the bowl for our salad. I glance up and catch the tight line of Carson’s mouth, the furrow in his brow.

“What?” I ask.

His eyes meet mine and hold for a moment. He thinks for a second before shaking his head and grabbing his water.

I shrug, feeling only slightly self-conscious that a trained chef is watching me prepare food. “Do you have a date set for reopening?”

The knife slides down into the cold, green vegetable just as I hear a grunt from Carson. I quickly look up to see his white-knuckled grip on the table’s edge. My eyes can’t help but trail up to the biceps straining against the thin, black fabric of his T-shirt.

Shaking away that image, I let out a soft, breathy laugh, fully aware of what’s bothering him.

“Carse,” I tease, waving the knife over the board, “do you have somethin’ you wanna say?”

He exhales sharply. “No one should trust you with a knife.”

“What? Why? I’m doin’ just fine.” I glance down at the assorted shapes of the cucumber and take a quick sip from my wine glass. “Mostly.”

He stares at me. “I can see those knife cuts all the way over here.” His chin lifts toward the board in front of me. “Y’know, there’s a reason you cut things proportionally… And you’re gonna cut your finger off holdin’ it like that.”

“What, like this?” I hold the knife again, and he lets out an exaggerated sigh.

He mumbles something under his breath and is across the kitchen in three strides. “Here. Let me.”

He stands behind me, and my heart seizes as his warm hand wraps around mine on the knife. The other tucks my fingers in against the cucumber.

“You have to keep your fingers in, or you’ll cut them off. And your index finger,” his finger reaches over mine holding the knife and tucks it in, “needs to stay in as well.”

His body heat envelops my back, sending a shiver down my spine. The rich scent of his body wash is so close that I want to spin around and run my nose along his neck for a better whiff.

His strong, calloused hands press down against mine, demonstrating the proper way to slice a cucumber. “There you go. Just like that.”

We keep the motion going, moving up and down until we reach the end, his warm hands securely locked around mine.

He’s so close. So unbelievably close to me.

I can feel every part of him pressing against my back.

Should I have leaned more toward the counter while he was showing me the proper technique to cut? Probably . But there wasn’t a single part of me that wanted to do that. And now that we’re finished, I find myself unsure of what to do next.

Warm breath glides down my exposed neck as I feel him lean in, sending a wave of raised goosebumps down my skin and a tingle up my spine. Carson stands easily a foot taller than I am, but his large frame has always made me feel nothing but safe.

His gravelly voice drifts past my ear. “Wren, I?—”

The smoke alarm blares above us, and we quickly jump apart. Carson rushes the few steps to the stovetop, where the pork chops have turned a nice charred black.

I let out a groan as I glance into the pan. “Shoot!” My eyes scan over the meat. “Any chance you think we can… salvage them ?” If anyone can fix a ruined meal, it’s a professional cook, right?

Carson purses his lips as he pushes the pan to an empty burner. “No.”

“Well.” I bite down on the inside of my cheek. “I don’t have a backup. Unless you want…” I open the cabinet in search of something else to make. “Salad and… cereal ?” I laugh.

“…Cereal?” he echoes, doing his best to suppress a laugh, too.

All I want to do now is pretend to be sick and research time machines so I can go back and prevent this from ever happening.

Where’s Doc Brown with that DeLorean when you need it?