possible.”
He had no idea how to tell her he didn’t mind having her “in his hair”—in his house, in his life. He liked it.
Too much.
“No rush,” he said easily, leaning back against the booth seat. “Take all the time you need.”
Her puzzled expression was cute. Everything she did was cute. He shouldn’t think this way, feel this way, but damn it, he liked Wren. And his timing with all of these feelings was really fucking inconvenient.
“The fire season is almost over,” she pointed out.
“So?”
“That means you’ll be home more. You won’t want me there.”
He wanted her there more than he’d ever let her know. Didn’t that realization confuse the hell out of him? “It’s the end of August.”
She nodded. “Right.”
“And we’re in California. Summer’s gonna hang on through September, most likely into October. You know what it’s like. You grew up here. Was your dad home much in September?”
“Well. No,” she said reluctantly.
“How about October?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”
“Exactly. So you hanging out at my place won’t be a problem.”
“I won’t cramp your style?” she asked, making a face.
“Cramp my style?” he repeated. What was she talking about?
“Yeah. With girls or whatever. Women you want to bring home.” Her cheeks went bright pink.
Ah. Didn’t she get it? Guess not. “Dove. The only woman I want to bring home is sitting across the table from me. And I’m lucky enough that she’s going to be actually living in my home for the foreseeable future.”
“Temporarily,” she added, her cheeks even brighter.
“Temporarily,” he agreed.
“Okay.” She swallowed hard. He caught the delicate movement of her throat, knew he was making her nervous.
Great. They were on equal footing. She made him nervous too.
“But I think you know how I feel about you.”
Her gaze met his once more. “How do you feel about me, Tate?”
He shook his head, pushing his empty plate away from him. “I’m not going there. Not right now, after everything you’ve been through. We can talk about it another time, when you’re ready.”
“All right,” she said, but the disappointment on her face was clear.
And he hated that he was the one who put it there.
T HE LAST FEW days had been nothing but a whirlwind of paperwork, interviews, phone calls, and Internet searches. Wren had even managed to put in a few hours at the studio, calculating the month-end expenses and sending out the monthly statements to all the dance families, including the new ones. Delilah had held an open house a few weeks ago to encourage new students to sign up, and Wren had helped her. It had been a great success, and they’d added ten new students to the dance roster.
It may not sound like much, but for their little town? Ten new students were a lot.
But with new students came a new schedule, new shoe orders, new clothes orders—and that all added up to a lot of work. Work she was desperately behind on.
“It’s all good,” Delilah said as she glanced over the shoe order form. The list for new jazz shoes and ballet slippers was impossibly long. “I’ll order the shoes, so take that off your plate.”
“Thank you,” Wren said, crossing that task off her list.
“So how’s it going with . . . everything after the fire?”
Wren shrugged. She really didn’t want to talk about it, but how could she explain that to one of her best friends? She was only asking out of pure concern and love for her. Wren would sound like a snippy bitch if she brushed off Delilah’s question. “I went back to the house a few days ago. Holden and my mom took me there.”
“Oh.” Delilah seemed like she didn’t know what to say either. “How was it?”
Fucking awful. That’s what Wren really wanted to say. Her every possession was ruined. Thankfully she’d left all her childhood keepsakes and photos at her parents’ house. But everything else? It was gone.
Burned to a
He had no idea how to tell her he didn’t mind having her “in his hair”—in his house, in his life. He liked it.
Too much.
“No rush,” he said easily, leaning back against the booth seat. “Take all the time you need.”
Her puzzled expression was cute. Everything she did was cute. He shouldn’t think this way, feel this way, but damn it, he liked Wren. And his timing with all of these feelings was really fucking inconvenient.
“The fire season is almost over,” she pointed out.
“So?”
“That means you’ll be home more. You won’t want me there.”
He wanted her there more than he’d ever let her know. Didn’t that realization confuse the hell out of him? “It’s the end of August.”
She nodded. “Right.”
“And we’re in California. Summer’s gonna hang on through September, most likely into October. You know what it’s like. You grew up here. Was your dad home much in September?”
“Well. No,” she said reluctantly.
“How about October?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”
“Exactly. So you hanging out at my place won’t be a problem.”
“I won’t cramp your style?” she asked, making a face.
“Cramp my style?” he repeated. What was she talking about?
“Yeah. With girls or whatever. Women you want to bring home.” Her cheeks went bright pink.
Ah. Didn’t she get it? Guess not. “Dove. The only woman I want to bring home is sitting across the table from me. And I’m lucky enough that she’s going to be actually living in my home for the foreseeable future.”
“Temporarily,” she added, her cheeks even brighter.
“Temporarily,” he agreed.
“Okay.” She swallowed hard. He caught the delicate movement of her throat, knew he was making her nervous.
Great. They were on equal footing. She made him nervous too.
“But I think you know how I feel about you.”
Her gaze met his once more. “How do you feel about me, Tate?”
He shook his head, pushing his empty plate away from him. “I’m not going there. Not right now, after everything you’ve been through. We can talk about it another time, when you’re ready.”
“All right,” she said, but the disappointment on her face was clear.
And he hated that he was the one who put it there.
T HE LAST FEW days had been nothing but a whirlwind of paperwork, interviews, phone calls, and Internet searches. Wren had even managed to put in a few hours at the studio, calculating the month-end expenses and sending out the monthly statements to all the dance families, including the new ones. Delilah had held an open house a few weeks ago to encourage new students to sign up, and Wren had helped her. It had been a great success, and they’d added ten new students to the dance roster.
It may not sound like much, but for their little town? Ten new students were a lot.
But with new students came a new schedule, new shoe orders, new clothes orders—and that all added up to a lot of work. Work she was desperately behind on.
“It’s all good,” Delilah said as she glanced over the shoe order form. The list for new jazz shoes and ballet slippers was impossibly long. “I’ll order the shoes, so take that off your plate.”
“Thank you,” Wren said, crossing that task off her list.
“So how’s it going with . . . everything after the fire?”
Wren shrugged. She really didn’t want to talk about it, but how could she explain that to one of her best friends? She was only asking out of pure concern and love for her. Wren would sound like a snippy bitch if she brushed off Delilah’s question. “I went back to the house a few days ago. Holden and my mom took me there.”
“Oh.” Delilah seemed like she didn’t know what to say either. “How was it?”
Fucking awful. That’s what Wren really wanted to say. Her every possession was ruined. Thankfully she’d left all her childhood keepsakes and photos at her parents’ house. But everything else? It was gone.
Burned to a
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