1. WREN

1

WREN

LATE JANUARY

Dry Cleaning.

Bank.

Clean out my purse.

Car detailing.

No. I did that last week. This week is my closet. Deep cleaning on a four-to-six-week rotation is the best way to keep everything orderly and immaculate. It isn't a foolproof system but it has been working well for me the past few years.

My closet has been the hardest to keep up with while in college. It's taken me years to get the proper system setup correctly. You would be surprised how easy it is for a cream blouse to get mixed in with the ivory.

Especially if you have a roommate like mine. I love Charlie, but she is chaos incarnate.

Organize closet .

Office supply run.

I continue to write my to-do list in my planner. I'll add it to my electronic planner after my tutoring session. I flick my wrist to check the time on my gold watch. They should be at the library any minute.

W. Rivers

I glance down at the blank student profile I've prepared.

The student center didn't give me any additional information. I didn't ask either. I never do. I don't get paid for my tutoring sessions. I do it to flex my skills. It's an opportunity for me to put my problem-solving abilities to the test.

If I want to secure a job at the top of my father's firm, without using nepotism as a step stool, I need to be the best business analyst he has on the team.

Tutoring is not the same as saving a company from going belly up, but the concept is similar in nature. I evaluate their study habits, determine where the disconnect is with class material, and come up with a plan to help them succeed.

It's all very simple.

Ten past five. They're late.

I begin to pack up my highlighters when a large form casts a shadow over the table.

"Hi, darlin'," he croons, as he takes the seat across from me. I visibly cringe. I know that voice. I hate that voice. It's attached to him .

Wyatt Rivers.

One of the pitchers for the Newhouse Knights baseball team. He's also the most annoying student that attends Newhouse University, at least according to me. If I issued an official survey, I doubt he would make the top ten list considering three-fourths of the student body wants to sleep with him or probably already has.

I haven't been tortured by his southern twang for months. Thankfully with finals and winter break it's been easy to make myself scarce. I haven't seen him since the night our little friend group attended the Halloween party at The Armory.

Well, they called it a party. I considered it more along the lines of my worst nightmare.

Not that I have any reason to be in his vicinity. I don't do sporting events, parties, or social gatherings of any kind for that matter. I typically enjoy the company of one person at a time versus larger crowds.

Wyatt Rivers is the last person I would ever want to spend one-on-one time with.

"Those are cute." He points to my sticky notes with hedgehogs on them.

"I know. That's why I bought them." I move the square pad of paper closer to me even though it completely destroys the order in which I like to keep my supplies. Sticky notes, pens, pencils, highlighters . I begin to line them up again to keep my eye from twitching.

Wyatt smirks as I attempt to find some semblance of structure. I'm glad I can amuse him. However, we aren't here for comedy hour. We're here because he needs a tutor.

"Here." I slide the student profile paper toward him. "You need to fill this out if I'm going to assist you. What class do you need help with?"

The new semester started a week ago. I was surprised to already have a student assigned to me for tutoring. One could assume he is simply being proactive since he's an athlete, but that doesn't line up with my observations of this man in our brief interactions.

The only thing he's proactive about is using protection. Even that assumption could be a stretch.

Wyatt scans the paper, making grunting noises so often I begin to wonder if he has something caught in his throat.

Then I notice the dimple in his smile peeking out from under the bill of his cap. Which by the way, is absolutely disgusting. It's soiled in what looks like years of sweat and dirt.

His long hair flips and curls haphazardly covering his neck and ears adding to his lackadaisical attitude towards personal grooming.

"I don't need your help with any classes," he says, sliding the paper back toward me. "But this is, ah, very detailed." His lip curls, mocking me.

My eyes trail from his middle finger, up his forearm, over the green T-shirt stretched tight over his bicep. Pushing my glasses back up on my nose, I stare at him through slanted eyes. I don't appreciate him wasting my time. "Why did you sign up for a tutoring session then?"

"I wanted to see you. "

I scoff. I can't imagine a world in which Wyatt Rivers would have a reason or need to seek me out. I think I made myself clear the last time I spent more than five minutes with this man that he is not high ranking on the list of people I like.

"This should be good. Why did you want to see me exactly?" I fold my arms over my chest.

"Do I need a reason to see a friend? Maybe I wanted to catch up. How was your holiday break?"

"It was fine," I reply. I don't want to be rude. "We both know that we're not friends."

"Don't be like that now. We had a great time at The Armory together." He flashes a smile that doesn't feel genuine, but it's one he's practiced often. It appears on his face so effortlessly. I wear a similar one when I'm forced to spend time with my father's business associates.

I shudder thinking back to the night at The Armory. Too many drunk people wearing ridiculous outfits packed in a small space like sardines. As soon as we got inside, I hightailed it straight to the bar. My friend tequila was calling my name.

For whatever reason Wyatt trailed behind me in his Scottish kilt and sporran. If he called me lass one more time, I would have strangled him. He already insulted me once by assuming I was wearing a costume. Like that is something I would do.

I don't know what part of my tailored blazer, slacks, and sensible blouse screamed Halloween costume to him. It's a classic look—my go to choice for most social outings .

"We must have different definitions of the phrase great time ."

He shrugs dismissing me. "I didn't see you running away."

"I was barricaded in by your mob of fans. There was nowhere for me to go." Thanks to his little fan club I spent my time that night choking on floral perfume and listening to women jockeying for his attention.

If I took a shot every time someone—male or female—offered to take care of him in the bathroom, I would have been at the hospital getting my stomach pumped within the first ten minutes. Hmm…that might have been a better alternative now that I think about it.

I was counting down the seconds until I could be back in a quiet, controlled environment. I promised Charlie I would stay for thirty minutes, and I did. Once the timer went off on my phone, I paid my tab and left.

"You should consider yourself lucky. Your seat was prime real estate."

"And to think, I didn't even have to flash my boobs to get it either," I snark.

His eyes widen in shock before dipping to my chest. "I didn't miss much."

My nostrils flare and my hands clench without warning in my lap. Didn't miss much . Smug little…

Standing from the chair, I place my palms flat on the table. I lean forward allowing my blouse to dip low enough for him to peer down my shirt.

He holds my stare with curiosity. That's right. You never know what I'll do next . It's easy to assume with my large frame glasses and blazers that I am a quiet wallflower. While I do enjoy a peaceful afternoon, I am not afraid of speaking my mind.

Years spent in the beauty pageant circuit when I was younger has made me confident in my own skin. There is no room to be shy or uncomfortable when you have a limited amount of time to change into your next gown or costume.

I jerk my eyes away from him and pretend to be intrigued with the wood graining on the table. I even fiddle with one of my pens to keep up the ruse.

He takes my bait and allows his eyes to wander down to the hollow of my throat, the top of my cleavage, and the lace cups covering my breasts. They look amazing, by the way.

I tilt my head in his direction in time to catch him absentmindedly licking his lips.

"You can't miss something that was never yours," I say, a breath away from his face before retreating.

He shakes his head loose, and his mane of hair swishes from side to side. I smile to myself as I begin to pack up all my belongings. The fact that I've entertained his company for this long is galling.

"What are you doin'?" His calloused palm lands on top of my hand halting my movements.

"Packing up. Do you mind?" I give his dry, cracked knuckles a pointed look silently asking him to move. What does he do all day with his hands? Hasn't he ever heard of moisturizer ?

"Not really." His lip twitches on one side.

I blow out a frustrated breath. My hair whips around and lands over my glasses. He watches as my hair swings back and forth like a pendulum until I finally push it off my face.

I attempt to free my hand but his grip only tightens. I stare at him. Really .

"Sit. Please ." He gestures toward my chair.

"Let go of my hand first," I counter.

"Sit and I'll let go of your hand."

My stubborn side wants to keep fighting with him, but I'm starting to lose blood flow in my fingers from his punishing grip.

"You are such a child," I quip as I sit down.

He bristles. I've touched a nerve. It wasn't my intention. Pulling off a verbal slap in the face is yet another skill in my arsenal. My father has warned me more than once about my sharp tongue.

My mouth opens to say something reassuring, maybe apologize, but before I can speak he is smiling and back to his jovial self. Or is Mr. Happy Go Lucky a front he puts on?

"Yeah, that's me." His tone straddles a line between sadness and sarcasm.

"I didn't realize that was a sore spot."

"It's not."

"Fine." I raise a questionable eyebrow.

"Good."

"Great." I force a smile. " I'm sitting. What do you want?"

He glances at me for a moment, as his pointer finger lingers over my neat row of pencils before pushing every other one, making them uneven. I scratch at my chest that's now warm to the touch.

Directing my focus back to his face, I wait for him to speak even though my fingers itch to fix everything he just destroyed. Two can play this game. I am equal parts stubborn and perfectionist. I guarantee I will outlast him in this match.

"Charlie," he finally answers.

"Excuse me?" Charlie? As in my roommate. I must have heard him wrong. What does he want with her?

"I need your help getting a date with your roommate." I would laugh if we weren't in a library surrounded by several groups of people trying to study. Ever since an anonymous article was printed about the top hook-up spots inside the library last semester, it has become more popular than a dating app.

"You date?" I question. I blink hard attempting to register this information.

"Well, no. I need you to get me in a room with her. Alone ." He leans back in his chair until it's on two legs. What I wouldn't give for it to slip out from underneath him right now. Instead he removes the filthy cap from his head and roughs up his caramel brown hair.

"So, you want to sleep with her?"

"Yes." He drops his hat back on his head backwards. It's a momentary distraction. He might be a worthy opponent after all. He seems to be well equipped with his own bag of tricks .

"And you want me to do what exactly?" I ask, focusing on his face again. Not that it's any safer here. This man knows how to work a dimple to his advantage.

"Get me in a room with her. I can do the rest," he says with a smirk that curls the hair of his mustache on the left side of his face.

"I don't understand why you need me. I doubt you have any problems getting a girl alone." He has a certain…reputation on campus.

He flashes his dimpled smile proving my point. "You're right. Usually I don't. Charlie, however, has been difficult to track down."

"Have you actually tried?" I have a system for organizing my closet and Charlie has a system when it comes to dating and getting a man's attention. I stopped trying to figure it out sophomore year. I do know it will take more than a bicep flex to get her to notice a man.

A backwards hat and a nice smile will not work on her.

"Yes?" he says, fidgeting in his seat. "I've been busy with practice and…other things. Not other girls."

"I didn't say anything." I hold up my hands.

"You didn't have to. Your face speaks volumes." He rolls his eyes. "We were both distracted at the Halloween party and now she's playing hard to get."

"Right. That's what she's doing," I deadpan.

He scowls back at me.

"Look," I start before he can correct me. "Charlie dates. She doesn't sleep around. She wants to find a husband. Unless that is something you are also interested in, I don't think I'll be very proficuous in your endeavor." I grab a pen and put a tally mark in my planner.

"Did you just word of the day me?" His eyes narrow in suspicion.

My head tilts. He follows the word of the day too?

"Maybe. I like to use the word at least once per day. I saw an opportunity. I took it." I shrug.

He peers at my notebook. "That's your third checkmark."

"It's been a good day."

His intense gaze holds mine, making me uncomfortable. I clear my throat. "I'm sorry I can't help you with your…situation."

He scoffs. "You can. You just won't."

"Twist the narrative however you wish. The answer will still be no. I'm not a matchmaker."

"What do you want in exchange for your help?"

"You're bartering now? Why is this so important to you?" Girls are a dime a dozen to guys like Wyatt. What is it about Charlie?

"It just is. Will you do it?"

"No." I check the time. "Your tutoring session is over. I hope it was to your satisfaction." This time when I start packing up my things he doesn't stop me.

"Hardly," he murmurs.

"Feel free to file a complaint and I'll throw it away for you."

"You're a strange bird, aren't you, Wren Ellington?" he asks, watching me put each pen, pencil, and highlighter back in their proper place in my bag.

My movement falters. This time he's the one who hit the mark.

"Good luck," I say my parting words, throw my crossbody bag over my shoulder, and walk away with the heat of his stare at my back.