All the Feels (Spoiler Alert #2)(33)

Today, he intended to earn her laughter by showing her Ian’s photos. In fact, when he’d first received the pictures, he’d walked halfway to the stables before realizing it was after two in the morning, and Lauren might not appreciate his waking her up for updates on Ian.

She probably looked cute, though, all rumpled in bed.

“Hey, Lauren,” he said as she approached their normal breakfast spot outside. “Ian sent the cast all-new pics of his home reno efforts last night.”

No doubt spotting the glee in his expression, she plopped down into her usual chair and narrowed her eyes at him. “What did you do, Woodroe?”

“I might have mentioned something about my dungeon.”

Her brow crinkled. “You have a dungeon?”

He sent her a chiding look. “If I didn’t, how could it have been on the cover of Modern Dungeons Monthly for their annual ‘Most Beautiful Dungeons’ issue? Last year, it was only number thirty-three on their ‘100 Oubliettes to Watch’ list, so this is a real triumph for me. And so I told Ian, shortly before he decided to do some home renovations.”

At that point, she bent forward and preemptively covered her face. “Please say he didn’t.”

He scratched his bearded chin reflectively. “I might or might not have had someone mock up an issue of the magazine. My dungeon had vaulted ceilings.”

“Alex.”

Over the past couple of weeks, his fondness for that scandalized tone had markedly increased.

“Ian, by sheer coincidence, has recently decided to dig out a dungeon of his own.” He produced his cell phone. “You should take a look.”

“Oh, jeez,” she muttered, but she peeked through her fingers.

Then her mouth dropped open, and she scrolled to the next photo, and yes. Yes, that.

Pink cheeks. Hands on her face. Little snorts amid gales of laughter.

His morning was complete.

“Is that—” She giggled more, then tried again. “Does he have a wet bar in his dungeon?”

“Don’t forget the gold-plated shackles fastened to the wall of each marble-floored cell.” He snickered. “In our cast chat, I called the dungeon his Gilt Room of Pain and asked when Christian Grey planned to pop by for a visit. At that point, Ian had some very unflattering things to say about my character. I was hurt.”

She shook her head at him, but she was still smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You have no idea.”

He offered her the serving tray he’d brought out earlier, which he’d used to carry their drinks and two plates of bagels topped with cream cheese, lox, thin slices of red onion, and capers. Her fingers paused over the bagel with the most cream cheese, but she reached for the other plate, leaving him the bagel she’d silently deemed best. He managed not to roll his eyes, but it was a near thing.

He plucked her plate from her hands and claimed it for himself. “This bagel had the most salmon. Don’t be so selfish, you absolute shrew of a woman.”

The remaining plate, its bagel mounded high with cream cheese, he plopped in front of her, and she stared at it in silence for a minute.

“Thank you,” she finally said, very quietly.

“For what?” He scoffed. “Taking the most salmon? You’re welcome. Please feel free to thank me when I claim whatever slice of cake has the most frosting too.”

Lauren wasn’t really into frosting, he’d learned, which was preposterous. Possibly un-American.

“What are your plans for today, Nanny Clegg? Heading to Griffith Park and breaking up children’s birthday parties for unlawful displays of joy and levity?”

At some point in the near future, he intended to find a new nickname for her, although he wouldn’t entirely retire Nanny Clegg from circulation. But this version of Lauren, the one that laughed and chatted, deserved a different option.

“I’d thought—” she began, only to be interrupted by the chirp of her phone. “It’s Sionna. Give me just a minute to tell her I’ll call back after breakfast.”

As she got to her feet and moved away, he heard an unfamiliar woman’s voice say, “Wren! How are you doing?”

Wren?

How the fuck had he missed that?

All this time, he’d had the niggling sense he knew what type of bird she reminded him of, and he hadn’t been able to put his finger on it.

But of course she was a wren. Of course.

A winter wren, specifically.

While she was still chatting with her friend—and it was oddly pleasing to see her animatedly talking and relaxed with someone other than him—he got out his own phone and did some research to confirm his memories.

Yes. That was it.

Winter wrens were very small: check. So round they looked like little balls: check. Brown and gray feathers: check. Loud and cheerful song: If her joyful, snorting laughter was an equivalent, check. Not particularly fast-moving on their feet: check.

Huh. Nests built by males were called cock nests. Better not to speculate about that.

When Lauren returned to their breakfast table, he complained, “You were so incredibly chatty, our bagels aren’t even hot anymore.”

She dropped into her chair. “Our bagels were never hot, jackass.”

“Ahhhhhhh.” He sat back and beamed at her. “Good harpy energy, Wren. Maybe even Big Harpy Energy.”