11. WREN

11

WREN

"Do you know what I think would be fun?" I ask, spinning around in Wyatt's desk chair. I just wrapped up an online tutoring session at his place while I waited for him to get home from baseball practice.

It's odd how comfortable I feel being in his private space. Well, after I started getting it organized for him. It took a few days of cleaning for me to be able to enter his room without feeling itchy all over.

"Let me take a wild guess. Color coding my sock drawer."

"That wouldn't be fun. They're all white. Organizing them by size and style on the other hand." I mentally add the task to my to do list.

"That makes me sad for you." He frowns. "I already told you we're going out to do something." He bops me on the nose like I'm a child.

I huff a breath of annoyance. I have no idea what he has planned. If I had to guess it's going to be something where my humiliation is imminent. Worst case scenario we are spending the day outside. My only hint was Wyatt texting me to dress casual and comfortably .

His exact text was, "If you wear anything that requires dry cleaning, you'll be going naked."

I don't do casual well. I managed to find a pair of olive green pants that are casual enough. I paired it with a white tee and comfortable footwear. Wyatt still managed to tease me about it. Because he's so fashion forward .

All he wears are jeans and T-shirts. He'll claim his wardrobe has variety because all of the logos are different. I'll give him that. Wyatt advertises everything from the Newhouse Knights to farm supply companies on his chest. It doesn't however give him authority to be the fashion police to me.

"Can't wait." I pout.

"Give me a few minutes to get ready and we'll get out of here." He grabs his clothes—jeans and a T-shirt—and heads toward the bathroom down the hall.

"He's going to make me do something awful. I just know it. I'm going to look like an idiot," I grumble to myself.

Too antsy to sit still, I start to organize his desk. I've been dying to get my hands on this thing. There is no way he does anything productive in this mess. I set his phone to the side and begin gathering up all the writing instruments.

I only have a few pencils in my hand when his phone starts buzzing. I do my best to ignore it. He's always texting with his siblings in their group chat. I can't help but wonder if it's Charlie, though. He hasn't mentioned anything about their date.

I haven't asked either. I'm not sure I want to know what happened.

It's been a few days. If he wanted to talk about it, he would. I asked Charlie how it went when she got home and she just grinned. I figured that meant it went well.

Which is good. I'm happy for them. They make a good couple. They are both happy go lucky people who enjoy going out and letting loose.

I bet Charlie wouldn't have sweated through her clothes at the thought of singing and dancing in the kitchen with Wyatt. She would have led the way.

It makes sense that he would like her.

Wyatt's phone buzzes again. I glance at it even though I shouldn't. But I have to know. Unknown number. Stupid spam . I decline the call for him. Before I can drop all the pencils and pens in a cup, his phone is lighting up again. Read the room . I decline the call again.

Wyatt's phone lights up for the fourth time with an unknown number. Seriously?

Phone in hand, I walk to the bathroom. "Hey," I say, knocking on the door. "Your phone keeps ringing. Do you want to answer it?" I ask through the door.

"Nah, it's probably just my stalker."

I inhale a sharp breath. "Your stalker?"

"Yeah, they call all the time. I can't get rid of them."

"You're serious?" I need to see his face. He has to be lying. Who would be stalking him? A fan? A classmate? I'm tempted to open the door but he said he was getting dressed. Not something I want to walk in on. Now who's the little liar?

"What are you doing in there? "

"Shaving."

His phone rings for a fifth time. Another unknown number. I've had enough of this. I swipe right and answer the call.

"I don't know who you are but you need to lose this number. Stalking is illegal. And creepy." The door clicks open. Wyatt's staring at me with shaving cream and a big grin on his face. He needs to take this seriously. Someone could be trying to hurt him. "Don't call this number again. If I find out you are still bothering my friend, I won't hesitate to get the authorities involved," I say, hanging up before they can reply.

Taking a calming breath, I straighten any hair that got ruffled in between my threats.

"You really took care of them. I doubt they'll ever call again." Wyatt barely gets the sentence out before his phone is ringing.

"Unbelievable. Give me that." I hold out my hand.

"I got it," he says, pushing my hand away and answering the call. My eyes travel down his body and I realize for the first time that he's shirtless. How did I miss that? I must have blacked out while I was reprimanding the unknown caller.

My eyes zone in on his chest and abs. I find myself leaning toward him and counting each row of packed muscle. Eight. Is that how many you're supposed to have? I don't think I have one. I'm going to make a note and ask my doctor about it.

"Hello." Wyatt's deep, southern twang pulls my attention back to his face. Which appears to be quite satisfied with the fact that I was checking him out. "Hold on a second," he tells the person on the phone. "See something you like? "

I cross my arms over my chest. "I was looking for research purposes."

"Research purposes?" He laughs and places the phone on the vanity.

"Will you just deal with that please?" I point towards the phone. He's so infuriating sometimes.

He puts the caller on speakerphone. Good, I want to give them a piece of my mind. I was too nice before.

"Are you there?" he asks.

"Who was yelling at me?" a woman on the other end of the line asks. She sounds older. Really, lady? Get a life.

"Mama, that was birdie," he says, grinning at me.

"Your mom?" I ask aghast. "I'm going to shave your mustache off while you sleep. I would keep one eye open if I were you," I warn.

"You wouldn't," he says, smoothing his mustache down with his hand.

"Watch me." I snag the phone. "Ma'am."

"Please. Call me Faith."

"Oh, okay. Faith, I want to apologize. Wyatt said he had a stalker and I let my instincts take over. Taking charge seems to be my default setting. He led me to believe he was in danger." I glare at him.

"Honey, I'm not mad. You stuck up for my boy. Not very many people would do that. It's my fault I'm afraid. I call him from random numbers hoping he'll pick up the phone."

"I do pick up the phone, Mama."

"Not every time," she grumbles. "I'm glad he has someone like you on his side."

"It was the right thing to do. I would do it again," I say honestly, with a quick glance to Wyatt. The razor stills in his hand momentarily before continuing to shave away the last twenty-four hours of stubble.

"It's one of the many reasons Wyatt likes you so much." Her words feel sincere, but I question their truth. I find it hard to believe he speaks to his mother about me. The red tint to his cheeks and ears makes me think he might have at least mentioned me once.

"Mama, did you need something?" Wyatt abruptly changes the subject.

"I hate to ask on your only weekend off."

"What is it this time?"

"The planter broke down again. Colt is working on fixing it. I'm counting on it being ready by the time you get here. It will be all hands on deck to get the field prepped for planting. Birdie, that means you too."

"Wren. My name is Wren."

"She doesn't like my nickname for her, Mama," Wyatt informs her.

"She will one day. I'll see you both in a few hours."

"Bye, Mama." Wyatt hangs up the phone. Then he wipes his face with a towel. His skin is smooth and free of hair except for his upper lip.

"You missed a spot."

"Where? "

"Your entire mustache." I tug on a few of the hairs on the corner.

He frowns. "You don't like it?"

I briefly think of what it might feel like scraping against my inner thigh. "It's growing on me better than it is on you. Maybe you should take care of it now. Save me the trouble of doing it later. Your stalker? Really, Wyatt? I just yelled at your Mama!"

"It's fine. It's something we'll laugh about in ten years." The statement makes my heart flutter. He's probably saying that we will laugh about it as friends in ten years, but my heart hears it will be a funny story to tell our kids. "You really don't like my mustache? It's my good luck stache."

"Serial killers have nicer ones."

He pulls a shirt over his head. I take advantage of his temporary blindness to ogle—yes ogle—his body. Again . My eyes get stuck on the band of his underwear and the way his jeans sit on his waist. It's a tease. I want to grip his hips and run my thumb under the ridge of his bone.

I wonder if he's sensitive there. Would he like it if I touched him there? Or kissed him there? Why am I even allowing these thoughts into my head?

"That's not very nice," he says once his head pops through the neck hole. Huh? What's not nice? Oh, right we were talking about his facial hair.

"I'm not here to feed your ego. I'm here to tell you the truth."

"You take your job too seriously," he jokes.

"I'll try to be nicer."

"Don't. I like you mean." He grins. I think he's being serious, but I'm not certain. Why would anyone like someone being mean? That doesn't make any sense to me. "We need to get going. It's a two hour drive back home."

"You actually want me to come?"

"If Mama said you have to be there, then you have to be there. Don't worry, I'll still show you a good time." He smirks at me. I know that look. He's definitely up to something.

"We're going to be outside. I'm going to get dirty, aren't I?"

"Oh, we'll definitely be getting dirty," he says, his eyes trained on me. A spark of fire spreads over my skin. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you, birdie."

That's exactly what I'm afraid of.