WREN
After I’ve mademy purchase and we’re about to leave, Kirstin brings me my coat. Crew takes it from her and helps me slip it on, his hands going to my hair, fingers brushing against my nape when he pulls it out from beneath my collar. His fingers continue slipping through the strands, stroking through my hair, and I glance up at him, unable to look away from his heavy gaze.
“Didn’t want it to get caught,” he murmurs, and I nod in agreement, unable to find any words.
So I remain quiet. Lost in thought. At the realization that this isn’t some fantasy that I conjured up in my brain like I did last night. He’s actually here, standing in front of me, watching me carefully. As carefully as I watch him.
Can he feel it? The attraction between us? The chemistry? Or is it all one-sided? Am I just a silly little girl with a crush on a guy who has zero interest in me? Is he only humoring me? Toying with me?
Crew came here, to this exhibit, to seek me out. There’s no other reason for his appearance than his wanting to see me.
Me.
He escorts me out of the gallery, his hand at the small of my back, guiding me to the curb. He looks both ways before he takes my hand and leads me across the street, heading toward a black Mercedes sedan that sits idling at the curb. A man in a black suit climbs out of the driver’s side, a pleasant smile on his face.
“You found a guest, Mr. Lancaster.”
“I did,” Crew answers. “Wren, this is Peter.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say to Peter. He’s an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair and warm brown eyes.
“Miss.” Peter tips his head toward me before he reaches for the handle and opens the back door for us. I slip inside first, Crew following after me and the door shuts, enclosing us in complete silence. The only sound I can hear is the soft purr of the idling engine and my rapidly beating heart.
“Where do you want to go to lunch?” Crew asks, his voice quiet. Making me shiver.
“I don’t know.” I shrug one shoulder, my stomach suddenly protesting.
I can’t remember the last time I ate anything.
“Are you hungry?”
It’s the way he stares at my lips that makes me say, “Absolutely starving.”
“Me too.” His smile is slow.
So is mine.
After we do a little research on our phones, we settle on a restaurant not too far from the gallery that serves breakfast and lunch. The front of Two Hands Restaurant is painted a bright, cheerful blue and when we walk inside, I’m captivated by the light, airy design. It’s all white or pale wood, the brick walls white-washed, the giant light fixtures hanging from the ceiling constructed of metal wire.
The hostess leads us to the only open spot in the restaurant—a cramped table for two in front of the windows, overlooking the street. When we settle in our seats, Crew’s knees bump against mine, making me flush all over.
“How tall are you?” I ask once the hostess leaves us with menus.
He frowns. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh. You just, uh, bumped into me.”
“Sorry.”
“I didn’t mind,” I admit, my cheeks catching on fire, which is so stupid. “You have long legs.”
“I’m six-two.”
I knew he was tall. I’m only five-five.
“All the Lancasters are tall,” he continues. “Mostly blond. Blue eyes. We all look pretty much the same.”
If all the Lancaster men are as handsome as Crew, then they must be devastating.