She ran a little styling gel through her damp locks and grabbed the blow dryer. While she fluffed out her waves, Wren debated with herself. Whether she listened to his message or deleted it before listening, Lee wouldn’t know the difference. Until he called back. And Wren knew he’d call back.
She stalked to her room, snatched up her phone, and played the message.
“I can’t believe you just hung up on me."
His voice was still deep but soft, as if talking right in her ear. Right to her. He didn’t sound angry, just sleepy and entirely too sexy.
“Wren Marguerite Blanchard, that is so rude.”
At this she gasped.
“And, yes, I found out your middle name… without violating HIPAA, I should add. But that’s a story for another time… Why did you hang up on me, Wren?”
She could tell he was smiling as he spoke, but she didn’t miss the disappointment in his voice. She felt it in her chest, and a little guilt there made itself known.
“I’ve never met anyone like you… never. I delivered five babies last night, and I checked on two dozen patients. I’m careful, Wren. I don’t let myself get distracted while I’m working… But every time I said goodbye to one of them, my thoughts went right back to you…”
Wren sunk down on the edge of her bed and pressed the phone closer to her ear. Listening had been a mistake. Now, she couldn’t tear herself away.
“As I was saying when you hung up on me…”
His voice was languid but sure.
“You spook just like a bird. Just when I think I’m getting close, you take flight, beautiful Wren. Would you believe me if I told you I’m not going to hurt you?”
Just like that, her heart started pounding again. Her skin prickled as she broke into a sweat. This she couldn’t believe. Of course he was going to hurt her. What was worse than this certainty was the feeling that she had no choice in the matter, no way to avoid it. He was going to hurt her, and she could do nothing about it.
“I work a twenty-four-hour shift starting tonight, but then I have Monday off. And I know you do too. Google says Studio Ink is closed on Mondays… so hear me out…"
He said it as though she would interrupt him, as though she weren’t hanging on his every word.
“Come kayaking with me and Victor on Monday. I’ll pack a lunch. Victor loves it. We’ve gone twice already. Come with us… I’ll be too busy paddling to chase you.”
At this, his voice softened.
“But I’d love to spend the day on the water with you…”
A whole day with Lee Hawthorne? She tried to call him Dr. Leland Hawthorne, but it was hard to picture Dr. Leland Hawthorne kayaking with a labradoodle puppy.
“Don’t think,”he told her, as if he could read her mind.“Just come with me.”
He hung up then, leaving Wren cut off from that voice. Her first impulse was to call him right back, but she stopped herself. She’d never felt such a compulsion before. It was ridiculous. But as crazy as she knew it was, Wren also knew that come Monday, she would be on a kayak with Lee Hawthorne.
She tapped the message icon on her phone and typed.
Okay. Yes.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LEE LOADED UPthe Jeep with Victor at his heels. The pup already knew what it meant when he strapped the single-person kayak to the roof of the Jeep, but when Lee hoisted the two-man Trident Ultra over his head and carried it across the yard, Victor began to bark with excitement.
And maybe it wasn’t the sight of the bigger water vessel that set him off. Maybe it was Lee’s own anticipation. The prospect of spending the whole day with Wren made the seventy-pound kayak seem weightless in his grip.
It was not yet eleven o’clock, and Lee had spent the morning getting ready. He’d packed a cooler with drinks, dark red grapes, and strawberries, and he had a bag of fried chicken from Albertsons’ deli. Lee knew it wouldn’t come close to anything like her fried peach pies, but he hoped it would be enough.
With the kayak secured and his Jeep loaded, he scooped up Victor, and they set off. Lee’s fingertips drummed against the steering wheel in a blur. If today didn’t go well, he might not get another shot. But, at least in his kayak, Wren couldn’t run away. Or hang up on him. Or send him packing.
Pulling onto the curb in front of her apartment, he remembered his first visit. He’d wanted to carry her up the stairs in his arms. He should have known then what that meant. In a year with Marcelle, he’d never felt that same urge — that need — to protect her. Marcelle just didn’t need protecting.