Her small frame tucked against him. The silk of her hair on his cheek. Her perfume of patchouli and vanilla and warmth. It wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough. When she’d opened the gate to let him in, happiness had trampled him. If he’d ever doubted goodness in the universe, his faith had been restored. Because he’d wanted so badly to see her again, but honorably. He knew where she lived. He knew where she worked. And he knew that if he went to her, he’d be going behind Marcelle’s back. And he didn’t want to be that guy. But their stars had aligned, somehow, so that she stood before him again. Her anger hadn’t surprised him, really. In a way, he was angry, too. He wanted Wren. There was no denying it. He was angry that he couldn’t have her without hurting Marcelle. And he was angry that, because of him, Wren, who was blameless, had been hurt. And then he’d found himself singing the Bad Horse theme song, and all anger evaporated. Her laughter made him feel like the luckiest man in the world.
