The Moth and the Flame (When Rivals Play #2) - B.B. Reid Page 0,91
old, holding a newborn baby. His head was bent, and the chair he was sitting in seemed to swallow his small body, but I could see the look of wonder on his face even as he held the baby tightly as if he’d never let anything happen to him.
Of course, maybe I was just being overly emotional but gazing at that picture, I knew I hadn’t been fair to question where Wren’s true loyalty lay. Protecting was in his marrow and the way he took care of me…I might as well have been.
I wanted to push my pride aside. To run and find him. To fall to my knees and beg him to forgive me, and while I was there, I could show him in a more pleasurable way how much I appreciated him. If only he’d let me.
I was so caught up in my fantasy I hadn’t realized he’d crept up on me until he spoke.
“I see you met my mom.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, she was,” he agreed reluctantly. I didn’t detect any sadness, but Wren wasn’t exactly an open book or a myriad of emotions. He was indifferent until he wasn’t, and then God help you. You’d never know how angry he was until you were already lying bloodied and broken.
“Were you there when she died?”
“I was here.” And then he mumbled, “As usual,” before walking away.
This time, I followed him out of the living room. I was getting sick of him dropping bombs and just walking away. I trailed him down a dark hallway and ended up following him into a bedroom. I stopped short just inside the door when I spotted the many posters adorning the wall, the cluttered desk in the corner, the five skateboards, each a different color, size, and shape, hanging above the black iron bed rail, and the dark blue and green plaid comforter atop the double mattress. This was a boy’s room, and after everything I’d learned, I knew without a doubt that this was Wren’s room.
He crossed the room and dropped down onto the bed until he was flat on his back with his booted feet planted on the carpeted floor. I stood there feeling awkward while he seemed perfectly relaxed. “Something on your mind?” he taunted without ever opening his eyes.
“What did you mean by ‘as usual’?”
He didn’t answer right away, and I could tell he was contemplating if he should. “I told you I lived here. My grandmother raised me. Pamela was good to me, but she didn’t come around all that often.”
“I know how that feels,” I grumbled as I stared at the floor.
I could feel Wren’s gaze on me when he said, “Then I guess I can understand why she stayed away.”
I shrugged even though I felt anything but indifferent. “Your loss. Someone thinks I’m good for you,” I pettily boasted before I could stop myself.
“Who?” he immediately demanded.
I shrugged and refused to meet his gaze. He stood from the bed and stretched, drawing my attention to his bulging muscles. I shifted against the heat and moisture pooling between my thighs, but the itch I couldn’t scratch continued to build.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you to your room.” He moved past me, and I followed him to a larger bedroom with dark pink walls. I stared at the queen-size bed covered by a frilly pink quilt, which had so many decorative pillows in varying shades of pink that there was barely room to sit, before eyeing the ivory gossamer curtains. Besides the gray carpet and the white furniture, it was the only thing that wasn’t pink.
“This isn’t your grandmother’s room, is it?”
“No.” And then he frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s so…pink.” I felt like I was trapped inside a bubble of gum.
“All of the rooms except mine are like this. I helped her paint after my grandpa died.” He seemed sad as he looked around. “This was my mom’s room whenever she visited.”
Not wanting to think about the fact that I could be sleeping with a ghost tonight, I moved to the window. I was pleased to find that I had a view of the water and the small beach just a few paces away from the house. “When did your grandpa die?” I asked him while still facing the window.
“A heart attack took him a year before my mom died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” There was an awkward silence that he filled by saying, “You have your own bathroom.”