Robin Constantine - The Promise of Amazing

“Hey, think you could give me a ride home after work?” I asked, nibbling on my straw.

He hesitated. The moment felt agonizingly long, but he finally answered.

“Yeah, sure.”

“The Mercedes-Benz of corkscrews?” Grayson asked as we walked up to the cottage.

I grimaced at my stupidity; I was happy my back was to him. Trying to find Dave-the-bartender’s made-in-France, Laguiole corkscrew was the best excuse I could come up with. Why couldn’t I have thought of something without the word screw in it?

“Yeah, he has a carrier for it and everything. Is completely obsessive about it, which is why he’s freaking out,” I answered, jiggling the key in the lock. The door squeaked open. Eben’s last words of wisdom were to keep the lights out so no one would investigate. How we were supposed to be in here searching for something without lights was beyond me, but I was making it up as I went along. And Grayson, being the above-average guy he was, immediately realized we needed some light.

“No,” I said, sort of batting his hand away from the switch. “We need to check the kitchen first.”

“I’d like to get to the kitchen.”

“We can’t have lights on in two rooms at the same time. It’ll blow a fuse,” I answered. “Um, okay.”

The cottage was dark, but streetlights from the parking lot cast a greenish tint so we could see outlines of furniture. I felt my way along the wall, edging around the doorjamb and into the kitchen, thinking of my next move as seductress.

Thwap.

“Oh, fuck,” Gray spluttered behind me. He was hunched forward, hand on his forehead. I went over and snaked my arm through his.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

“No. I think I’m seeing stars. I forgot to duck. . . . Maybe if the lights were on . . .” he kind of growl-spoke through gritted teeth.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I opened the freezer and pulled out a handful of ice. A spare bar towel hung over the sink and I grabbed it, even though it had a slightly sour smell, and wrapped the ice in it, handing it to Grayson. He waved it off.

“I’m okay,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

Just then the front door opened with a loud creak. Without thinking I dropped the towel and reached for Grayson’s free hand.

“Wren?!”

“Shhh . . .”

I dragged him over to the pantry door.

“Duck,” I whispered, pulling him into the tiny space. We faced each other, him hunching over me a little as I shut the door, plunging us into darkness.

“Hello? Anyone here?” a deep male voice called.

“That’s the band guy,” Grayson said.

“Shh,” I whispered so violently, I spat. Attractive.

“Wren, what’s—” He stopped when I put my finger up to his mouth. I let it linger, feeling the warmth of his lips, until I was sure he wouldn’t speak.

There was shuffling and movement and a few heavy thuds. The band guys must have been stowing their equipment. They did that occasionally, when they knew the main building wouldn’t be open before they needed their stuff again. My muscles began to ache from being still. How long would this take?

“Wren, why can’t we just go out there?” Gray whispered.

“No one knows we’re here.”

“But—”

“Grayson, please.”

“Did you hear that? I swear this place is haunted,” the band guy said. Grayson’s body rocked with laughter.

“Don’t,” I whispered, leaning into him to stop myself from cracking up too. The darkness cocooned us, heightening my senses. Gray’s breathing returned to normal, but his heart pounded. Or was it mine? A strong, insistent beat. He curled into me, his earthy-scented hair tickling my forehead. One tilt of my head and my lips would be on his neck. The thought made me swoon.

A door slammed.

“I think they’re gone,” Grayson whispered, a warm rush against my ear.

Just kiss him, Wren.

Grayson broke away, opening the pantry door and stepping into the kitchen. I emerged, squinting—even the dim light from the parking lot hurt after being in the dark for so long. I stood there, adjusting to the light and space.

“We’re not here for a corkscrew, are we?” Grayson asked.

“No, not really.”

“Then what?”

In the shabby light of the kitchen, all my thoughts in the dark seemed ridiculous. Wind rattled the window, and a draft seeped through the ancient sills. I hunched my shoulders up for warmth.

“Nothing, let’s go,” I said, walking out of the kitchen and smack into the band equipment. “Great,” I muttered, turning. Now Grayson stood in my way.

“Wren, talk to me. Please. Why are we here?”

“I wanted to . . .” I began, rocking back on my heels, avoiding Grayson’s eyes.

He leaned against the wall, waiting, his face half in shadow.

Soon this place would be leveled. St. Gwen, the Patron Saint of Clandestine Work Hookups would have no love shack to watch over. Grayson would no longer be my coworker. There would be no other casual way to see him. Unless I told him how I felt. But what if he . . . Why was I so afraid of things changing? I had nothing to lose.

“Gray, I wanted to be alone with you,” I said.

“Alone,” he echoed, trying on the word for size.

“I felt bad leaving the party last week, and when you didn’t text or call—”

“Wren, I’m sorry about that, I told you—”

“I know. I get it, really. It’s okay if you just want to be friends.”

He squinted and shook his head. “Where would you get that idea?”

“When you introduced me to Luke,” I said.

“That’s why you left, isn’t it? I introduced you to Luke as a friend because you’re none of his business. I didn’t mean . . .” He trailed off.

I waited for more of an explanation.

“Wren,” he said softly, shaking his head. I stepped toward him, putting my hands on his chest again. He wouldn’t look at me.

“Our timing sucks,” he said.

“Why?”

“It’s . . . I . . . hard to explain. I’d just rather be with you when my life is less . . . complicated.”

“Then you want to be friends,” I said, letting my hands fall. I knew I should be okay with it, but my heart felt like it was free-falling down to my feet. Complicated . . . Damn, what a cliché.

His fingers trembled as he swept loose strands of my hair away from my face, tucking them behind my ear with his index finger, tracing my earlobe. He breathed out hard.

“Oh, screw it.”

He pulled me against him. Our mouths touched, lips parted, my breath disappearing into his. My body sparked to life again, the disappointment from moments earlier replaced by a warm, liquid whoosh that filled me up. His hands were on my face, in my hair, snapping off the elastic that held my braid together.

I fumbled with the zipper of my coat. Grayson’s fingers covered mine and unzipped it fiercely, pushing the coat off my shoulders in one swift motion. Eyes on mine, he tugged at his pullover. His hair fell across his face as he brought it forward. I peeled the pullover from his arms and dropped it to the floor as he moved toward me. He shook his hair off his face, practically growling as he reached for me again.

Our lips couldn’t meet fast enough.

I closed my eyes, ran my fingertips across his jaw, into his hair. Firm hands caressed my back, untangled my braid. We swayed backward, mouths still touching, toward the sofa, where only hours before Bridezilla and her friends had toasted her marriage. I reached behind me to soften our downward plunge onto the cushions. We fell diagonally, feet hanging off the edge.

Part of me was aware that things were getting wildly out of hand. That the Wren and Grayson who existed before this moment—the harmless flirtation—was over. There would be no going back to friends or coworkers. This changed everything.

Grayson burst out laughing.

He rested his forehead on my shoulder, his body convulsing with each new round.

“What?”

He grinned. “Wren, help me look for a corkscrew? That’s the best you could come up with?”

I clapped my hand to my forehead, spreading my fingers to cover my eyes.

“Oh, God, I know . . . I know. It’s ridiculous.” He coaxed my fingers away from my face.

“Nah, I love it,” he said, pausing to kiss the tip of my nose. “You’re so adorable, it kills me.”

I maneuvered my body so we faced each other, side by side. He reached for my hand, entwining our fingers.

“So if I had said, I’ve got a key to the cottage; we can be alone, you would have said, Sure, let’s go?”

“Are you nuts? I would have said, No way, I’m out of here,” he answered, pretending to get up.

“Stop.”

His eyes got serious again, and he gently nudged me to my back so he was on top of me, the pressure of his body making me weak and warm at the same time. He kissed me lightly on the cheek, nuzzled my neck.

“I’d go anywhere for you, Wren,” he whispered.

And then he kissed me.

WREN.

Wren. Wren. Wren. Wren.

I couldn’t stop thinking.

About.

Her.

But I had to. In order to do what I needed to do, I had to put her out of my thoughts, at least for the morning.

It was so hard. The night before had been so . . . sweet.

Yes, sweet. Me. Grayson Barrett, former male slut, kissing, just kissing. Well, and getting a preview of Wren’s curves with my hands. The King of Instant Gratification was dead. I was willing to wait for what I knew would be incredible.

“What’s up with you?” Pop asked. We sat around the breakfast table, him with a bowl of cereal that resembled something you might find in a horse’s feed bag, me with two well-done English muffins dripping with butter. Tiffany put three shots of her acai-berry wonder juice on the table and then sat down, cup of Greek yogurt in one hand, Ladies’ Home Journal in the other.

My father picked up his shot. “Salut,” he said, tossing it back and wincing.

I did the same.

Wren.

“So have you given any more thought to what we talked about yesterday?” he asked.

Wren. Wren. Wren. Wren.

“Um, what?” I asked, taking a bite of one of the muffins, butter dripping down my chin.

“Going to your mother’s next week,” he said, then looked at Tiff for backup.

“Oh, that,” I said, catching the butter drip with my thumb. “Um, yeah, maybe.”

“Maybe?” Tiffany asked.

“I do think I’ll ask Wren though. Have some fun like you said, Pop.”

Saying Wren’s name out loud, tossing it into casual conversation, felt good.

“Wren,” Tiff said. “Maybe that’s why you’re in such a good mood this morning?”

I put my coffee mug to my lips and shrugged. I hadn’t planned on last night being a good one. As a matter of fact, I’d wanted to put off hooking up with Wren until I’d finished up my business with Luke. When I went into work last night, I tried to play it cool, but I could see how much it bothered her. I hadn’t planned on our hour-long gropefest. And while I initially resisted, the thought of touching her, of her wanting me to touch her . . . Well, damn, I just wasn’t strong enough to abstain from that.

But I still had to find a way to separate the two: my life with Wren and my life with Luke.

And I had no clue how I was going to pull it off.

“Of course that’s why he’s in such a good mood. You think he got that job because he likes to wait tables?”

“Pop.”

“I told you, even from my deathbed I could see you two were diggin’ each other.”

“Cool it with the deathbed,” Tiffany said. “Gray, it’s just nice to finally see you getting serious about a girl. You’ve been running around for so long.”

“Running around?” I asked, laughing. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, you must have been doing something. You’re too much of a catch to spend your Saturday nights alone.”

“He and Luke were racking ’em up and forgetting names, like his old man back in the day.”

Tiff leaned over and gave Pop a pinch on the arm.

He chuckled. “Honey.”

“We’re going out together later,” I said, throwing Tiffany a bone.

She squealed and clapped. “A date?”

“They don’t label it anymore, Tiff. Don’t you know that?” Pop said, laying out the paper beside his cereal bowl.