Handle With Care (Shacking Up 5)

Wren nods. “I was the same.” She presses her thumb against my chin and slowly drags it down my throat. “You’re everything and nothing like I expected you to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, in my head, you were this elusive introverted mountain man, which I mean, you kind of were at first. But I was positive I would find out all of these horrible things about you, that the image you presented couldn’t possibly be authentic and you’d be just like Armstrong, or maybe even worse because you made it look like you cared. But you’re nothing like Armstrong. You honestly couldn’t be more opposite. If you didn’t have at least a couple of physical similarities, I’d be hard-pressed to find any real way to connect the two of you.” She bites the tip of her tongue. “I’m rambling. I do this when I’m drunk. I get all introspective, and then all this stuff comes out of my mouth and I don’t really have control over it.”

“I think I might want to get you drunk more often.”

She giggles, then nibbles my chin. “Your dimple does things to me.”

“I noticed that.”

“As a good boyfriend does,” she murmurs. Her eyes lift to mine. “Saying it out loud makes it real, doesn’t it?”

“It’s always been real, Wren. This is you and me choosing to acknowledge it and own it. Now we see where it goes from here.”

I end the conversation with a kiss that becomes more. We have soft, slow sex that feels like it’s weighted down with words that mean more than either of us are willing to say for fear of breaking the spell we’re under.

And I fall more in love with the woman who fits so perfectly into my life, like she’s always been part of it, like she’s somehow been sewn into the fabric of who I am, without either of us realizing until now.

I don’t know how I’m going to keep my feelings for her masked much longer. As I wrap her up in my arms and wait for sleep to come, I consider how deep I am with this woman. All the things I thought I wanted are changing, and it’s all because of her.CHAPTER 18TRUTH DOESN’T SET YOU FREEWRENLincoln slides into my office and closes the door behind him. Most of the time we’re extraordinarily careful about the way we interact at work, and I make a concerted effort not to fix his tie or smooth his suit jacket when we’re anywhere a photo could be taken. As a rule, we also keep our office doors open when we’re together. I’m about to remind Lincoln of this, however, his expression is tense, not playful.

I stop typing and give him my full attention. “What’s up? Everything okay?”

“Can we make a stop on the way home?”

My stomach flutters when he says things like that. I’m sure it’s subconscious, and that he’s just referring to his place as home—which isn’t even technically his—because it’s easier. But in my head, it sounds like he’s referring to it as our home.

“Yeah, of course.”

“You almost ready to go?” He drums his fingers on the doorknob.

He’s obviously antsy about something. “Give me five?”

“Yeah. Okay. I can do that.” He doesn’t make a move to leave, though.

“Would you like to sit while you wait?” I motion to the chair across from my desk.

“Sure.” He crosses the room and drops into the chair, crossing one long leg over the other. The finger tapping resumes, this time on the arm of the chair.

I don’t bother finishing the email I was about to send. He’s clearly on edge. Instead, I shut down and start packing up my things. “Where are we going that has you so agitated?”

He glances at the door and shakes his head. “I’ll tell you once we’re out of the office.”

Well, that’s cryptic. I throw my laptop in my purse and double-check that I have everything I need so I can finish up the last few emails once we’re at home. Penelope should be back from her cruise soon, but she’s been in regular contact as long as she has reception. Mostly, she checks in to make sure Lincoln is managing okay and that Armstrong isn’t causing problems.

I sleep at Lincoln’s at least four times a week. He would probably like it if I stayed every night, but I have to justify paying my rent, and I need time with Dani and my family. My mom and I have made volunteering at the hospital a weekly event followed by dinner. Sometimes I go back to Lincoln’s afterward, but other times I need space since it can be emotional.

Lincoln doesn’t say much on the elevator ride down to street level other than to exchange pleasantries with a couple of people heading home for the day.

“Okay, what’s going on?” I ask as soon as we’re in the car and Lincoln has given the driver the address. “Why are we going to Lower Manhattan?”