I love being around my family. But I can’t stop myself from the urge to go home with Wren, to be alone with her. Touch her as much as I want, fold into the couch and hold her there with me.
It’s a different kind of quiet, having her pressed against me. I finally understand why people use weighted blankets—whyhaving the press of something heavy and warm and alive is so appealing.
“It wouldn’t be fair,” Wren says. She trails her finger up my chest slowly, hooking it in the collar of my shirt and drawing me closer to her. “So I figured I’d sit this one out.”
When my lips meet hers, there’s that familiar spark of fire between us, gasping, touching, pulling, trying to get her as close as possible. Here I am, wearing my Sunday best, visiting my family, and sliding my hand up her skirt until I’m squeezing her ass, wondering how quickly and quietly I could make her come without anyone knowing.
It’s just like that first time, in the alleyway, baiting the paparazzi to photograph us. I’ve never felt like this before. Insatiable. Wren makes me feel like the waiting is torture.
When she steps back onto something and slips, tilting to the side, I catch her, but not before something falls from the top shelf.
It’s not loud, but it’s disorienting, and a moment later, I’m flipping on the light, finding the object on the ground that was very close to hitting her right in the head.
“What…?” Wren whispers, kneeling down and picking it up. “Do they normally keep these in here?”
“No,” I move next to her, watch as she opens one of our old family photo books right in the middle, the plastic sleeves crinkling under her fingers.
“Holy shit,” she laughs, and at that moment, the door to the closet flies open and Sloane and Cal stand in the open spot, the rest of the family crowding around behind them seconds later.
“What was that?” Cal asks, concern on his face as his gaze skips over us.
“Son of a bitch,” Sloane swears, her hand going to her belly as though she’s covering the baby’s ears.
“Language,” Mom warns, her face lighting up when she sees what Wren holds in her hands.
“That’s gotta be a sign,” Katie mutters, her eyes flicking to the glittering golden egg—a printout, instead of a physical thing—between Wren’s fingers. She steps forward cheekily, shooting the two of us impressed looks. “Welcome to the family, Wren.”
Wren
“Is Vic gonna run the 2-1-2?”
“Come on, Wren, you know he’s going to do whatever you tell him to do,” Luca says, glancing over at me as we deboard the plane. Despite my protests, he’s carrying his duffel in one hand and my stickered pink suitcase in the other.
For the first time, I wonder if it might be worth it for me to get a different suitcase. Something a little classier.
I’ve had the pink one for years, and now when I look at it, I’m reminded of my dad. Of the life I’m going to leave in the past for once and all. Though he’s still calling me every day, it’s sloweddown, and that gives me hope that if I just keep strong, ignore him the best I can, he’ll give up.
After Easter at Luca’s parents’ house—which was just as charming and welcoming as it was at Christmas—something has shifted even further between us. The golden egg was a spa retreat for two at a place in Europe. When I’d quietly given it to Sloane, telling her to use it after the baby, Luca had looked at me like I hung the moon.
Maybe he knew that, unlike him, I can’t just afford to go and do it myself if I want. That I was probably the only person in that house who couldn’t have just made the golden egg happen for myself anyway.
But it felt weird to accept a spa retreat when I’m not stressed. When this point in my life is the closest I’ve come to being content, being relaxed. After a childhood of running from the police and looking over my shoulder, then a year with the FBI, this year with the Frost has practically felt like a wellness retreat.
The airport is busy, and we move through a private area to get from the team plane to a chartered bus. Luca is quiet, and when my thoughts wander back to the team, I can’t stop myself from filling the silence.
“The Panthers struggle with puck movement. They’ve been lousy with turnovers lately. What we need is pressure, and since Hawkins is at full health and particularly mobile, we’ll have more of that attack in the corner,” I say, to which Luca nods like he’s heard it before, because he has.
It’s the first play-off game, and I’m uncharacteristically anxious. Something feels off. I can’t put a finger on it, but something in the air feels strange, my instincts pricking at me to expect something bad.
“We’re going to come out strong and get ahead,” I go on, running through the same ideas we’ve been considering and reconsidering for weeks. “You’ll put pressure on the puck carrier, with Callum on the strong-side wall. And we have the play strategy for the second and third lines, but honestly, if you guys can, we should keep you in for longer. The Panthers are worried about playing against you and Cal, that weird silent communication thing you guys do—”
“Wren.” Luca turns to me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “We’ve gone over the strategy. It should be fairly straightforward. We have nothing to be worried about.”
I chew on my lip, unable to shake the feeling that wedefinitelydo have something to be worried about.
***
Of course, my instinct turns out to be right.
