10. Daddy Wilson

“Ready, baby girl?”

A moment later, Wren stepped out of the room whose only resident had been the bag I deposited in there yesterday.

I ate up the distance between us and reached for it.

Before I could take it, she stepped back, frowning. “You insisted we didn’t need Kline.”

Yeah, I had, and when she discovered that I’d bought a train ticket for our security guard and sent him home to DC, she’d followed me around, yapping and cursing.

When Wren got fired up, she was feisty as hell.

I loved it. Her passion turned me on. Most people were afraid to stand up to me, but Wren never had that issue. Surprisingly, I didn’t hate it at all.

“We’re driving back to Boston, just the two of us.” The entire reason I’d opted to rent the SUV rather than take a train was so I’d get a few more hours alone with Wren. The last thing I wanted was some random guy hitching a ride with us. “It’ll be fine.” I’d keep the car locked .

“So you’ve told me. However, you should take the painting.” She flung her hand toward the box. “And I’ll get the bags.”

I frowned.

“Teamwork makes the dream work, old man,” she teased.

A strange mix of annoyance and desire swirled inside me. “Don’t remember you calling me old when you were begging me to let you come on my cock an hour ago.”

That had hands-down been the best shower of my life.

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t shy away. Fuck, she was beautiful.

When I leaned in and brushed my lips against hers, she sighed into my mouth. At the sound, that hard fist that remained locked deep inside me once again unclenched.

“Teamwork, it is,” I mumbled against her lips. “But let’s get going.”

I snaked my hand down her body and gave her ass a light smack.

Smirking, she sauntered past me and yanked on the handle of my suitcase. As much as I hated letting her haul our bags, I didn’t mind seeing her black Louis carry-on resting on top of my luggage. They almost looked as if they were meant to be together.

“Are you coming?” As she stopped at the door, she flashed a mischievous grin over her shoulder.

I shook the thoughts from my head. I was being such a schmuck.

If Wren didn’t have to get back for the auction, I’d be tempted to stay another day and revel in the opportunity to be locked in this snow globe together.

A world where there were no daughters or friends standing between us. A world where we had a real chance.

But that wasn’t our reality. We’d have to go home and deal with the fallout. For now, I pushed the thought from my mind and picked up the large box—the reason I’d come to New York. I had always loved this painting, but after last night, it meant so much more. I was certain that every time I looked at it, I’d be transported back here to Wren.

“Seriously, we should have checked out five minutes ago,” Wren called from the hall.

I almost chuckled. I was the one causing the delay, and that never happened .

I never got behind schedule. I’d created routines in order to survive the times when I felt like I was drowning.

Raising my daughter while playing professional baseball had not been an easy task. The schedules I’d put in place allowed me to hold things together for the two of us when everything could have fallen apart.

Her mom was little help. Often, in fact, she made it worse. My ex-wife was well-meaning and loved Avery, but she thrived on chaos. She was the kind of person who loved to drop everything at a moment’s notice for a new adventure. The kind of person who didn’t appreciate the type of consistency required to raise a child. Needless to say, I did most of the parenting, which felt damn near impossible some days.

But I got through it by cutting out all disorder and sticking to strict routines. Miraculously, I continued to work toward the goals I’d set for myself all while raising a girl who had become an amazing woman.

I lifted the painting, and with a sigh, I left the place that given me the most fun I’d had in years. As I followed Wren to the elevator, I reminded myself that with fun came chaos. And that had no place in my life. Even if, for the first time in forever, I wished I knew how to be a bit less rigid.

I circled through scenarios where I told Avery, or even Heath, that I wanted to give a relationship with Wren a try. No matter how many hypothetical conversations I ran through my mind, I couldn’t for the life of me come up with the words that would make my daughter or Wren’s father okay with us. We were absolutely treading into chaos. The idea of being nothing more than a weekend fling was a rock in my stomach. But the idea of telling the people we cared about most—ruffling feathers, hurting feelings—and ruining relationships caused my chest to tighten with anxiety. But I didn’t want to lose Wren now.

When we got down to the lobby, I headed out to meet the man delivering the rental while Wren checked out. Once the painting was lying flat in the back and I had the keys to the white SUV in my hand, I turned back to the hotel and watched her chat with the concierge through the windows. The sight of her eased the tension in my shoulders. It was nice sharing the burden of responsibility like this. Normally, whether it was with work, friends, or even with my daughter, I’d juggle the checking out, the car, all of it. Because I was the one with the plans. And rarely did I find a person who met my standards when it came to capability.

Yet Wren had her shit together. And there was peace in knowing that.

“Ready?” She dropped her black sunglasses over her eyes as she rolled the bags out the door.

I met her halfway to the curb and took them from her. After they were loaded, I climbed into the driver’s seat, finding her already waiting with her seat belt on.

So efficient.

Once I’d pulled out onto the one-way street, we settled in for the long ride.

Her perfume filled the car, and instead of pissing me off, it drained the tension from my shoulders.

“You know you’re smiling again.” Wren rolled her lips in and tucked her hair behind her ear as she peeked over at me, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Always giving me shit.” I chuckled.

“I just didn’t think you knew how to smile.”

“I was stuck underwater, holding my breath.” I shrugged. Fighting my attraction to this woman had become a physical pain. Letting myself embrace it? That was easy. “I lived with the tension for too long. Turns out it’s easier to breathe.”

She blinked and pursed her lips. “That sounds like drowning. Underwater, trying to breathe, only to realize what you’re inhaling isn’t air? And then you’re gone.”

A deep rumble of a chuckle worked up my chest.

“That wasn’t supposed to be funny.” Her forehead creased. “I was serious.”

“You’re right.” I rested my arm on the center console so it brushed hers. “I’m definitely gone.”

None of the moments that I’d called this woman mine had been anything but real and raw and honest. But there were so many things in the way of getting us there. We had to move slower than I wanted to. I couldn’t come back from this weekend, move Wren into my place, and put a ring on her finger. That would be madness. I was almost fifty. I was well aware of how hard it was to find a connection that felt as right as the one we shared, but I also knew how to show a woman she mattered. And I intended to teach this woman just how much she was worth.

“You’re not dead.” She rolled her eyes. “Who knew you were so dramatic.” She reached for the radio but pulled back without touching it.

“Is this going to be a silent trip? Please don’t tell me you hate music.”

I fought back a chuckle. “I don’t hate music. You can put on whatever you want.” Though I hoped she wouldn’t go for the crappy pop shit Avery had always loved.

Surprisingly, she stopped when she found a classic rock station. “I love this song.” She turned it up a bit, then sat back and sang along to the chorus.

“You know Tom Petty?”

She spun my way, eyes bright. “I love him. This song’s great, but ‘Zombie Zoo’ is my jam.”

A chuckle worked its way up my throat. I wouldn’t admit it, but that was one of my favorites too. “Of course it is.”

“Don’t be so uptight.” She went back to quietly singing, this time bopping subtly to the beat.

Unable to resist the temptation, I clasped her hand and pulled it to rest on the console between us. She only hesitated for a second before she wrapped her fingers around my hand.

By the time we were merging onto 95, it was clear that Wren’s taste in music was pretty similar to mine. Not only did she like classic rock, but she liked country. She even stopped on a few of the classic stations when she recognized a song. Not once did I wince at her choices.

“Wait, wait. This one should be your jam.” Wren reached forward with her free hand and turned up the music.

Frowning, I squeezed her hand. “‘Dust on the Bottle’? Really?”

She giggled. “Yeah. Old, but getting better with time. Like fine wine?”

I rolled my eyes. “You think you’re cute, don’t you? ”

Batting her eyes, she leaned closer. “You don’t think I’m cute?”

“No.” I shook my head.

In my periphery, she frowned, as if she truly thought I didn’t find her adorable.

Eager to correct her assumption, I kept my focus on the road and said, “I think you’re stunning, intelligent, creative, competent as hell, and sexy as fuck. You’re blowing me away, baby girl.”

Her sharp intake of breath was loud enough to hear over the music.

Anger flitted through me. Not because of her, but because she was truly shocked by my statement. How was it that men hadn’t been praising her for these things night and day? Fucking morons.

I lifted our joined hands and pressed my lips to the back of hers.

When she didn’t say anything else, I changed the subject, going with a topic I knew would get her talking.

“Is there anything good coming up for auction tomorrow?” Besides the event where Christian’s sister sold a few pieces, I hadn’t attended any auctions at the Boston Auction House. But I had the ability to bid remotely.

With a smile, Wren launched into a long explanation that she’d clearly crafted for the patrons who would attend tomorrow. If I’d looked at the email I’d received this month, I’d probably know all this information. But this was not what I’d meant.

“Now that you’ve gone through all the auction house’s lines about the paintings, want to tell me what you think?” I glanced over at her, wondering whether she’d claim that she’d been the one to craft the email—that what she’d told me was exactly what she thought—or whether she’d give me her honest opinion. I was hoping for the latter.

“Well.” She cleared her throat and shifted. “I worked to get three of the pieces on this block.” She rubbed her free hand over her thigh, tempting me to stare at her long legs. Damn, they looked good in those heels. It wasn’t often I got to actually appreciate her body. Normally I had to ignore her.

“Road, Daddy Wilson.” She chuckled. “Watch the road.”

I rolled my lips and arched a brow not minding for one second that she caught me. I liked her knowing I enjoyed watching her. Much the way I enjoyed appreciating a work of art, I enjoyed taking in every angle of Wren Jacobs.

“I’m a multitasker. You can trust me.” I fought the smile playing at my lips. “So the art?”

“Yes.” With a clipped nod, she tucked a piece of dark hair behind her ear. “An abstract painting by an up-and-coming artist from the Savannah area. I’m not personally a huge collector of the abstract, but mark my words, ten years from now, everyone is going to know who Brice Meadows is.”

“Interesting.” I wasn’t big on the abstract either, but if she thought this artist had potential, then I’d look at it or maybe some of his other work, even if it was only as an investment.

“Then there is a Degas.” She frowned. “I’d hoped it was in better condition, but it’s been reframed too many times. And,” she shrugged, “it’s much smaller than I thought it’d be. Regardless, the name alone means it’ll sell.”

“Would you buy it?”

She hummed thoughtfully. “No. It’s going to sell for more than it’s worth, considering the condition. Unless you love the work, it’s not a good investment.”

“Will there be any pieces up that you would buy?”

She ran her teeth over her bottom lip as she considered the question.

“ Bridge of Snow .” Her words were quiet but filled with excitement. “It’s a watercolor. I tracked the original down to an artist in rural Maine. I’d seen a print of it; the blend of colors is amazing. The way that painting makes my heart feel the silent peace of the storm and also the bubbling excitement of a snow day is awe-inspiring.” Her cheeks went pink as she gushed. Passion looked sexy as hell on her.

I squeezed her hand and gave her a half smile.

“I can’t buy any of them. But if I could, that would be the one.”

Bridge of Snow . I locked that piece of information away.