Page 26 of Leave a Mark
Two hours later, she had four hand-sized pies. They weren’t quite as pretty as Mamaw’s; those were always a perfect fan-shape, but these were golden, flaky, and plump. While they cooled, Wren made a bag out of parchment and scribbled a sketch out the outside.
In less than a minute on Google, she’d found his street address on Dunreath. It was a little past six o’clock. Chances were that Lee would be at the hospital. But when he came home, he’d find the bag on his doorstep, and he’d know she’d left it.
That was the plan anyway. But when she found the pretty blue house with his white Jeep already parked in the drive, Wren knew she couldn’t just leave his pies outside. He might never see them.
She parked her Mustang on the side street and debated with herself. She didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable, and she didn’t want him to thank her. And most of all, she didn’t want to have to look him in the eye where he could see that she hadn’t stopped thinking about him since the night they met in the ER.
But she did want him to have the pies while they were still warm. And she did want him to feel like she thought he was special, too. And she couldn’t deny that she wanted to see him again.
Wren killed the engine, grabbed the parchment bag, and walked around the corner to the path that led to his front porch. It was screened in, and the door creaked as she opened it. The house made her smile. She’d told him the day he brought her home that she hadn’t pegged him for someone who lived in the Saint Streets. But that was before she’d known that he had an eye for antiques. His home itself was like an antique. It had character and history, and she liked the thought of him living there.
After taking a deep breath for courage, Wren knocked on the dark-stained French door. Footsteps crossed the house, but they were too fast. Too light. Wren’s heart fell just before the door opened.
“Can I help you?” The words were polite, but the copper-blonde towered over her with an expression of annoyance.
“Um… I…” Wren gulped and glanced down at the bag in her hand. Grease had soaked through the parchment in a few places, spotting her drawing.
She looked up to see that the woman’s eyes had followed hers to the bag, and now her lip curled in disgust. Were it not for the scowl, she would have been gorgeous. For a moment, Wren thought she was staring at Blake Lively.
She tried again, fully committing to her humiliation. It wasn’t as if she could turn and flee now.
“Is Dr. Hawthorne at home?”
At her question, the woman’s eyes narrowed, and the ends of her mouth turned up in a hint of a malicious smile. “He’s indisposed at the moment.”
The blonde was sizing her up. Wren could feel it. And the look in her steely gray eyes and that fake smile told Wren she didn’t come close to measuring up. And how could she? The woman before her — from the top of her salon-smooth hair to the bottom of her Sergio Rossi slingback pumps — was elegant. Chic. Lethal.
Next to her, Wren looked like a circus act.
“This was a mistake,” she said, but it came out only just above a whisper.
Blondie rose to her full height and crossed her arms with a smug nod as if to agree when a voice cut across the house. “Marcelle…? Who’s there…?”
This time, the footsteps that echoed across his wood floor were heavy, measured, and Wren had just enough time to die a little before he reached the door.
Because she had lied to herself. The homemade pies weren’t just a gesture of consolation from one motherless child to another. They were a reason to be in his presence. To feel what she’d felt when he looked at her. To find out if the pull toward him was more than one-sided.
Clearly not — not at all.
But the universe was rarely kind to foolish girls, because he stepped into view scrubbing a towel over his shaggy, wet hair, wearing only a pair of light-washed jeans. His sculpted chest and abs were cruel in their beauty. The masculine patch of dark curls on his chest and the flash of hair under his arms would be hard to forget.
Kill me, now.
“Wren?!”His look of shock would have been almost comical if she weren’t the one mortifying herself. Lee’s dark blue eyes bugged full tilt.
Blondie — Marcelle — whipped around to glare at Lee. “Youknowthis person?”
Lee’s eyes tracked from Wren to his girlfriend back to Wren before settling on the bag in her hands.
“Yes,” he said, looking back at Marcelle. “She’s a patient.”
Marcelle’s head cocked back, like a cobra ready to strike. “Well, what’s she doinghere?”
At least she’d directed the question to Lee. Wren glanced to her left through the screen. She guessed she could make it back to her car in about five seconds if she sprinted.
“I don’t know.” She heard Lee say. He sounded mystified, but the softness in his voice made her turn. His eyes locked on hers, and in them, she could read an apology.
I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression,they seemed to say.
