Page 24 of Crave Me

CHAPTER 7

Evan

I proved to Wren how much I wanted to know her over a five course meal I never wanted to end. I can’t remember the last time I spoke at length to woman I barely knew. But everything she had to say made me crave more.

I roll to a stop in front of her garage, barely managing to park with how hard I’m laughing as she shares another story from her childhood.

She slaps at my arm as I set my Explorer in park. “I’m serious,” she says. “I’m like fifteen, Finn’s thirteen, and the rest of my brothers are practically grown-ass adults. But holy shit, my mother and Grammie—God rest her soul—walk into the house, see half the neighborhood kids in the living room, and Angus lifting Seamus up for a keg stand, and it’s like the world stops spinning and we know we’re all fucked.”

I cup my hand over my face, barely able to catch my breath. “Evan, my mother is five feet nothing and Grammie’s osteoporosis had kicked in so bad by then, we could have legally registered her as a midget in thirty-two states. But they might as well have been mutant lumberjacks swinging axes by the way everyone was jumping out the windows, trying to get away. ‘You’re supposed to be in Florida,’ Finn says like a dumbass, half a second before my mother grabs him by the throat.”

“And what were you doing?” I manage, my hand falling away.

“What do you mean what was I doing? I was running for my life like everyone else!” She grips my arm. “Picture this, hordes—I’m talking hordes of teens racing down the street like some kind of freak evacuation. I was knocking people out of the way, speeding ahead, and Grammie still caught me—by the hair!”

The visual alone is enough to make me laugh uncontrollably.

“That tiny woman snatched me off the street, two blocks away, and dragged me back home, yelling that I was going to hell and begging the God Almighty not to strike me dead and take her with me.” She holds out her arms and throws her head back, her voice morphing to that of an elderly woman with a thick Irish accent. “It’s not me time, God. It’s not me time, Jesus. Oh, sacred Mother, keep me from killin’ this child.”

I fall forward, holding onto the dash for the support.

“Just so you know, her prayers weren’t answered,” she says. “She still knocked me on my ass, and I spent the rest of the summer teaching the Sacraments to kids who looked like rejects from The Grudge.” She makes a face. “But it was either that or be sent straight to a convent, so I went with the creepy kids and prayed I wouldn’t find one lurking under my bed. God, I think at least two of them grew up and joined the circus or some shit.”

I’m no longer laughing. You need air to laugh and I ran out long before this. “You think it’s funny,” she says, wagging her finger at me. “But you’ve never had your ass kicked by an old woman with ninja-like reflexes capable of wielding Catholic guilt like a light saber.”

I wipe my eyes. My God, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this hard.

Wren could be a comedian, but she could also be a model if she wasn’t busy ruling the car sales empire. As our laughter fades, once more the silence encompasses us.

I return her soft smile. This is simply one of many quiet moments we’ve shared this evening, where we simply watch each other, our eyes doing most of the speaking.

It should appear ridiculous, two grown adults taking each other in as we do. But I enjoy this side of her and I find myself torn between which of the Wrens I like best, the one who quietly regards me now, or the one who allows me to laugh and mean it.

I remind myself she’s one in the same, and I don’t have to choose. Perhaps that’s what widens my smile.

“What are you thinking?” she asks. Her head falls against the seat rest. “I can usually read people pretty well, but I’ll admit, you have me stumped.”

I lift her hand, kissing it. “That I can’t imagine a more perfect evening with a more beautiful woman.”

“Did you read that shit somewhere?”

“What?”

She leans forward as if she’s finally figured me out. “What you said has to be from a book, movie, or some poem no one but nerds have read.”

My thumb grazes over the delicate skin along her jawline. “Why?” I ask.

“Because men don’t say things like that and mean it.”

“I do, but only to you.” I wink. “Even though you think it’s shit and called me a nerd.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I just . . .” She shakes her head slowly. “You’re a lot different from the men I’ve dated.” Her voice softens, erasing almost all traces of her thick Philly accent. “But that’s a good thing.”

“I’m glad,” I reply.

Again, silence takes hold. It’s different this time, as if we reached a standstill.

“It’s cold out here,” she tells me. “Do you want to go inside and warm up?”