5. WREN

5

WREN

Why can't I say no to him? It's a simple word. It should be easy.

I keep allowing him to get under my skin. He's like a bad rash that won't go away.

I can't believe I let myself get tangled up in this situation. Wyatt is a big boy. If he wants to get Charlie, he is more than capable of doing it on his own. But he read me right and dangled the carrot of competition in my face.

I won't give him the satisfaction of thinking he has me beat.

I'm doing my part. He is the one who is botching the whole ordeal. Do you know how long I spent studying his stats? Hours . I made color coded index cards and memorized as much information as I could to make him look good. Was he thankful? No.

He makes inappropriate jokes instead about being good with his bat.

Now I'm here waiting for someone to answer his front door because he thinks we need a game plan. I don't need anything. Then why are you here?

I knock again. A little louder this time to work through my frustration .

Suddenly, the door swings open and Wyatt's roommate Nash is standing there with a game controller in his hand.

"Hey, Wren." Nash gestures for me to come inside. I about jump out of my skin when I notice the giant sitting on the couch playing a video game. "That's Eli. Don't let him scare you. He's a teddy bear. Eli, this is Wren. One of my sister's friends."

"Hi," I greet Eli. He doesn't say anything, just nods and goes back to shooting someone on the television screen.

"He's kind of shy. What are you doing here? Did you need something?"

"Wyatt," I say.

"You need Wyatt?" Nash asks with a smirk.

"No. That is not what I meant. I'm here to see him. He asked me to come over."

"Interesting. He's downstairs in his room." Nash points towards what I'm guessing is the basement door as he takes a seat on the couch and starts playing his game again.

"You want me to go down there." I stare at the door in question. My face scrunches up in disgust. I do not want to be in the same room where Wyatt brings women and does Lord knows what. I thought we would meet in the kitchen to study and figure out a plan.

"He doesn't bring girls here if that's what you're worried about."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Well, it's true."

"Why? "

Nash lip lifts in an evil grin. "You'll see. Good luck."

Hesitantly, I leave the safety of the living room and head towards the basement door. I glance back at Nash and he nods and waves a hand for me to keep going. I'm not sure I want to.

The air is significantly cooler as I make my way down the stairs and enter the open den. Minimal furniture decorates a small living area. A pub style table is positioned in the far corner beside a black leather couch. It screams bachelor pad.

"Wyatt?" I call out towards the hallway of doors. No answer. He never makes anything easy for me.

I knock on one door. Again no answer. I open it up and it's the bathroom. I pass another door on my right that is slightly ajar. A bedroom. The bed is unmade. There is a picture on the dresser of Nash and Sydney. I'm guessing this room belongs to Nash then.

Only one door left. I knock with no response on the other side. There is country music playing. Maybe he can't hear me. I try the knob and it turns easily. "Wyatt?" I call out to warn him before entering his room. I do not want to walk in on anything that will scar me for life.

Dear mother of God.

I blink hard and adjust my eyes. I was not prepared for the sight in front of me. And no, it isn't Wyatt naked. That would be a welcome visual compared to this.

"Hey. You're here. Come on in. I was just starting my paper." Wyatt pops up from the chair at his desk where his laptop barely fits around all the clutter surrounding him. How is he able to get any work done with his desk in this condition? I scratch the itch at my neck.

"Were you raided? Did your room get tossed?" Or maybe he started cleaning out his closet and got distracted. It's very easy to become a victim to memorabilia that's been lost and buried in a closet.

Wyatt has clothes everywhere. It's not just clothes. It's books, papers, shoes, belts, hats, weights.

I glance into his open closet. My knees threaten to buckle. My throat gets scratchy and dry. His closet is a hoarder's paradise. Close your eyes and look away . Pretend it doesn't exist.

"No, I wasn't raided. This is how it always looks."

I gasp. "You're kidding," I say as I tiptoe around his room, avoiding random objects like land mines. Wyatt lifts my backpack off my shoulder and places it on his bed.

"It's not that bad. I'm busy. I don't have time to clean. Okay?"

"I'm not judging you." I glance around his room, trying to keep my face neutral. Internally I'm having a moment.

"You are. It's what you do," he says casually as if this is information I'm already aware of. I stare back at him open-mouthed, not really sure how to respond. "Oh come on, you had me figured out the moment we met."

"I form opinions based on what I observe. If you don't want me to think of you a certain way, act differently."

He nods thoughtfully. "You're okay with people assessing you based on the same criteria?" he asks, gathering all the clothes from his bed.

"Yes. I know how I come across. I am who I am. People can think whatever they want about me." I watch in horror as he tosses everything onto the floor. "Were those clean?" I can't stop myself from asking.

"Yeah, I pulled them out of the dryer twenty minutes ago." He shrugs like it's no big deal.

"Those are going to wrinkle."

"It's workout gear and T-shirts. It's fine. I'm not worried about it. Make yourself comfortable." He gestures toward his bed. "We can do our homework first. That way I can have your full attention later." I ignore another one of his innuendos. He has no filter. It's a side of him I'm becoming more accustomed to.

"In here? I don't think I can be comfortable in here."

"I'll sit on the bed. You can have the desk."

I understand now what Nash meant about Wyatt bringing women down here. There is no way you are entertaining anyone in this room. Why does that make me feel relieved?

"That's not the problem." I scratch at my chest again. Great . I'm going to break out in hives if I don't do something about this. Wyatt pulls out the desk chair for me. He's moved his laptop, but the piles of books and miscellaneous items remain cluttering the surface.

"Sit," he commands. I glance up at him. His hand goes to my shoulder, applying the slightest amount of pressure, forcing me into the chair. I feel the same tingle I felt yesterday when he placed his hand on my back. Instinct told me to flinch away, instead I relaxed into his touch.

"Can I just…I need to…" I glance back at his laundry.

"Seriously?" he asks, his head tilts and eyebrows rise toward his hairline. I can't explain my need to organize and clean his space. I know it will gnaw at me until the task is complete. I won't be able to concentrate on anything else until it is taken care of.

I stand up and place my hands on his chest. His eyes focus on where we're connected. The tips of my fingers buzz like I'm touching a live wire. I ignore it. "It will only take a few minutes."

"Fine. If it will make you feel better." Wyatt backs away, leaving my hands hanging mid-air for a moment. He collects all the laundry he dropped moments ago and throws it back on the bed.

I eye the clothes in front of me and start mentally sorting everything into categories. "Do you fold your shirts?"

He looks at me like I have two heads. "You could call it that." Wyatt grabs a shirt off the bed and walks over to his dresser. With his eyes on me he opens the drawer and stuffs the shirt inside. I squawk or maybe I squeal. "Just don't look at it, Wren," he says, attempting to calm me.

"Is that how your mom taught you to do laundry?" I tease as I pass him walking to the dresser. I snag the shirt out of the drawer and lay it out flat on the bed. "Ignoring things doesn't make them go away. I should know. I tried with you," I say with a wry smile.

"You're hilarious." He watches me attentively as I pinch the top of the shirt near the shoulder with my left hand and in the middle of the shirt with my right. Looping my left hand around my right, I pinch the end of the shirt and then untwist my arms.

Giving the shirt a quick shake to even it out before placing it flat on the bed and folding in half.

"How the fuck did you just do that?"

His astonishment makes me giggle. Wyatt's eyes catch on mine. There's a satisfied grin on his face for making me laugh. He should be. I don't do it often. The fact that he made it happen so effortlessly should be a concern.

"It's pretty simple once you learn how. I'll teach you." I lay out another shirt. "Pinch here and here." I slow my movements and I put my hands in place and grab the end of the shirt. "Then, wallah," I say as I pull the shirt taut. "It may look like a legerdemain but—"

"Motherfucker. Seriously? You set this up just to get a point." His words come off as angry but there's a smile on his face.

"I did no such thing. I can't stand disorder. My brain." I gesture to my head. "It can't function when things are out of place. I know. I sound crazy."

Shaking his head he says, "Nah, you don't. I get it. I mean, well, obviously I don't feel the same." He smiles sheepishly looking around his room. "Needing structure and order has never been appealing to me."

"Really? I never would have guessed." I smirk at him.

"I'm not that bad, am I?"

"It doesn't matter if it's bad or not. It's your room. You're busy and have a lot on your plate. It's easy to let a few things slip." Or a lot of things. I'm not usually one to cut someone slack, but Wyatt looks like he could use some.

I silently work on folding all his shirts. Most have the sleeves cut off with large holes down the side. They would be more useful as rags, yet, he's hanging on to them for dear life.

His phone dings in fast succession, cutting off the music he was playing. Probably for the best. I keep having to stop myself from singing along.

"Does everyone text like you?" I ask as he grabs his phone off the side table.

"Most people like texting."

"I prefer texting to talking on the phone like the next person. What I don't understand is one word or one sentence texts. Put it all together."

I would never admit it but there are times I find myself looking forward to his texts. I'm trained like a puppy to jump when my phone chimes. I know it will be him because they always come after I leave class or before one of my tutoring sessions. Wyatt apparently knows my entire schedule. Another thing I should find concerning, but feel quite the opposite for some reason.

"That's called an email. This is my family chat. It always blows up. I should add you," he says, with an evil gleam in his eye.

"I will actually kill you. How many family members do you have?" I ask as his phone continues to ping. "Can you do something about that?" I gesture toward the phone in his hand. The one that he has yet to look at and check the messages.

"I could."

"I swear, Wyatt."

He chuckles at my annoyance. "To answer your question, I have three brothers and a sister."

My jaw drops. Five children. It sounds loud, overwhelming, chaotic. All the things I hate. Yet, I find myself a little jealous deep down that my upbringing was lonely and not wild like his.

"Let me guess. Your sister is the baby."

He looks up at me from his phone. Brown shaggy hair frames his face. "No, I am." He smirks. "They couldn't stop until they had perfection."

A derisive noise slips past my lips. "That must be why my parents stopped with me too."

"Yeah, that must be it," he says dryly. I whip his thigh with the pair of shorts I was in the process of folding.

His eyes travel slowly from his leg and back to me. "You shouldn't have done that."

"Why's that?" I taunt him .

"Because." He reaches for the gym shorts I'm holding and attempts to yank them out of my hands. He didn't anticipate my firm grip and pulls me along with the clothing. I fall forward and slam into his chest.

He steadies me with a hand on my hip. It reminds me of the time I almost fell on my face at the campus store. My body remembers that moment too.

For the second time today, I place a hand on his chest. I tell myself it's to keep from pressing up against him. I'm not convinced it's the only reason. My other hand wrestles him for the shorts. With each tug, he pulls me closer and closer.

With no space between us, I feel everything. Including his growing erection. My gaze slowly floats up to meet his. My stomach does a little flip. I will chastise myself about that later.

This is Wyatt I'm dealing with. It doesn't mean he's attracted to me . He said so himself that he wasn't. He probably walks around campus half-mast ready to spring into action.

"Why shouldn't I have done that?" I ask breathlessly. I wonder if he realizes his grip is getting tighter on my hip. I'm not a small girl yet his palm spans the width of my waist. His stare is intense like he's attempting to do long division in his head. What are you thinking so hard about?

Suddenly he yanks his shorts hard, throwing me off balance, and I stumble backward onto his bed. "Because this is going to hurt," he says roughly, spinning the shorts around until they are as thin as a rope. I squeal and scramble towards the middle of the mattress out of his reach.

"Please don't. I didn't hit you that hard." I hold up my hands placating him. He doesn't seem to care. I crawl further across the queen sized bed. Before I can make it to the other side he snaps his handmade whip across my upper thigh.

On all fours, I stretch out my back, hissing at the sting. "Damn it, Wyatt. That hurt." I glance at him over my shoulder with anger coursing through my veins.

His focus is on me. More specifically my ass that is currently up in the air. His eyes glaze over and his hands flex at his side.

I am confident in my own skin regardless of my size. However, his intense stare is making me feel self-conscious in this precarious position. I spin around and face him.

The tension is making the air thick and hard to breathe. His silence is unsettling. Unsure what to do, I slide off the bed and continue folding his laundry. I need to do something to quiet my brain. Because right now it's running wild with thoughts of Wyatt and why he would be looking at me the way he is.

His chest presses against my back. I'm reminded once again of how perfectly his body frames mine. He tosses the shorts on the bed. His fingers graze from the top of my forearm down to my fingers, causing the hair on my arm to rise, and he takes the clothing I'm holding out of my hands.

"Come with me," he demands. He grabs my backpack and walks out of his bedroom. Where is he going? I follow him down the hall until we reach the den area. He drops my bag on the bar top table. "Sit."

"I wasn't finished in there," I argue.

"Do not test me right now." He grits the words out with clenched fists. Is he angry? What has him strung so tight? He's the one who made me fall onto his bed, if that's what he's so mad about.

Once I'm sitting in a chair he walks back toward his room. I start pulling out my supplies, books, and laptop. I guess we're studying now. He enters the room with his laptop and phone.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yep."

His reply is unconvincing. He's not even looking at me. His nose is buried in his phone.

"If you say so." I hop out of my seat to plug in my laptop. I find the slow draining battery signal distracting and panic inducing. The closest outlet is behind the furniture. Not very convenient. I have to bend all the way over the side table and stretch my arm behind the couch. He curses behind me.

"I'm going to get snacks," he announces. "When I get back, you better be sitting in that chair."

The commanding tone in his voice sends a tingle down my spine. It also makes me want to push him a little and see what he'll do if I defy him.