Crazy Girl(50)

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I’d love to help you, Wren. But you have to feed me,” she jested. “Will work for food.”

I chuckled a little, relieved the tension between us was ebbing. “That, I can do. I’ll text you tomorrow and let you know when I think I’m getting off.”

“Okay. Hope your day gets better.”

“Thanks. And Hannah?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for offering.”

After we said goodbye and hung up, I jammed my phone back in my pocket and headed toward the chow room to grab some coffee. I was halfway down the hall when I heard, “Marner!”

Turning back, it was Van. He was standing in the hall, hands in his slacks pockets, watching me, and Henry was just exiting his office.

“I need to speak with you,” Van went on when he saw he had my attention.

Henry practically sprint-walked in the opposite direction, his head slightly hung, avoiding making eye contact with me.

Kegs was right.

A tool can’t help doing toolish things.





“To write something you have to risk making a fool of yourself.”

-Anne Rice





As part of building the new and improved me, and in an effort to get out and get “inspired” for writing, along with offering my services more, I decided to join a volleyball league. I figured the physical activity couldn’t hurt either. I’d played in high school and wasn’t too bad at it, taking into account I was only 5’1 and the top of my head barely reached the bottom of the net—I’d played defensive specialist. Joining this adult league was brazen of me, considering I was mostly an introvert; granted, I had some extrovert tendencies, but as a whole, it was still bold as hell.

The gym smelled like most gyms…sweatyish.

That’s a word.

I’m a writer.

I knew these things.

The orange-brown floor was shiny, reflecting the fluorescent lighting. There were several courts, and the echoes of shoes squeaking and grunts of players lunging for the ball filled the room. I neared Court 7, where I was to meet my group. I’d joined one of the less experienced groups, fearing my athletic abilities were not as on point as they were in high school. Baby steps. Several people were sprawled out, stretching, chatting with one another, none of them really noticing me. This was the part I hated—meeting new people. I figured most of these people joined with a friend or partner, unlike me. I’d asked Courtney and Kate if they wanted to try it with me, but Kate had noted she didn’t like sweating, and Courtney had laughed in my face.

Both of them.

Assholes.

Sitting on the floor, I started stretching. Spreading my legs wide, I leaned forward making sure to bring my chest toward the floor to stretch my hamstrings.

I was holding the stretch, counting in my head, when someone shouted, “Look out!”

In my peripheral vision, I could see a volleyball hurtling toward me, but it was too late. With the position I was in, I didn’t have enough time to react to catch it, so I tensed, preparing to get hit.

But I didn’t.

“Always lost in thought, aren’t ya?” a deep voice asked, causing me to lift my line of sight. The first features I noticed about the man who had caught the ball meant to hit me were his crazy-blue eyes, sparkling-white smile, and his salt-and-pepper hair against a young-looking face.

I recognized him.

The silver fox.

The best man at Britney’s wedding.

Sitting upright, I continued staring up at the man standing beside me while he threw the ball back to the players. Then his gaze honed in on me, his lip curled on one side, giving the impression he might be imagining me naked. “You look different in workout clothes,” he observed.

“So do you,” I noted. Geez, what was his name? I don’t think he’d ever told me.

“You’re pretty flexible.”

I tilted my head. What an odd thing to say. “Are you an authority on flexibility?”

His icy blue eyes flickered as he grinned, then he sat on the floor beside me. “As a matter of fact, when it comes to women, I most certainly am.”

“Is that so?” I asked with disinterest as I bent one leg into me and reached for my foot on the extended one.

“I’m not hitting on you, ya know. If I’d wanted to hit on you, I would’ve at the wedding. Wouldn’t have been too hard, either. You were three sheets to the wind.”

I scowled. “I was not.” I might’ve had a buzz, but I certainly wasn’t drunk.

He held a hand up. “I’m not judging. Just saying I’m not hitting on you.”

I looked back at him. “Then what are you doing?”

His lips perked up in thought as he let his gaze scan the folks surrounding us. “Just being friendly.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re alone here, like me.” Something about the statement hit me. Alone. That word was not a favorite. His eyes met mine and he furrowed his brow. “I’m always in pursuit of new friends.”

I snorted. “Is this some kind of fake-out? You pretend to want to,” I made air quotes with my fingers, “make new friends, and really you want to sleep with me?”

Reaching a hand out, ignoring my question, he laughed. “I’m Brigham. I don’t think we ever properly introduced ourselves that night.”