LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter Three

      Just a few weeks after that girls’ night out, Wren was in the student lounge, working on her sketch pad when her phone rang with Kelsey’s number on the screen. She put aside her pad and answered.

      “Wanna make Gregori your last stop of the day? I just got some contracts he should probably see this week. If not, I can take them by.”

      “I can do it. I’m done anyway. I was just hanging out and working on some sketches. I’ll stop by his place on my way home.”

      “Great. I’ll call it in for you.”

      But when Wren arrived at Kelsey’s apartment, which also served as her office, she interrupted a hostile phone call.

      Kelsey made the wrap it up move with her hand to whoever it was she was talking to on the phone. “We’ve covered that. No.”

      Wren sat across from her cousin, watching the interplay.

      “If he wanted you to know his new cell number, he’d have given it to you.”

      Kelsey paused, holding the phone away from her ear. The yelling from the other side was audible.

      “I’m his wife! I need to talk to him.” Oh, her.

      Kelsey rolled her eyes and, the genius was, it sounded in her voice, too. “You’re his ex-wife and if you have a message you’d like me to pass on, I’m happy to do so.”

      Kelsey examined her nails as the yelling continued. Finally she’d reached her limit after a particularly vicious spate of epithets was hurled her way. “Nice. You kiss your mother with that mouth? Classy. This call is done now. I’ll let him know you’re looking for him. Don’t call back.” She hung up.

      Kelsey snorted. “The last thing he needs is that crazy bitch back in his life. Ugh.”

      The crazy bitch was Prentiss Ivanov, Gregori’s ex-wife. Wren was biased, of course, but she thought the way Prentiss kept pulling Gregori back into her life when she got bored was selfish and petty. Every time they reconciled he devolved into too much everything and yet not enough. Too much partying, too much anger and public scene making. Not enough work on his art, not enough happiness or stability.

      “I thought they were done for good. Why’s she calling you?”

      “After the last time they had one of their reconciliations, he cut her off. He changed his number, had the building owner change the codes and locks on the outer door at his place. He’s done, thank god. Anyway, she’s getting his message and she doesn’t like it. I think she truly thinks if she can get him face-to-face, she can pull him back in.”

      Wren took the envelope and a few other packages. “I hope she’s wrong. I don’t think it’s good for either of them. I have one other delivery to make and then I’ll go to his place. Call me if anything changes.”

      It was an hour or so later when Wren buzzed up from downstairs as the main door to the street was locked. He didn’t respond so she used her key and let herself in. Her arms were full so she took the elevator, hearing the music before the doors even slid open on his floor.

      It was a guess that he was working. He often didn’t come to the door when he was. She had a key but the last thing Wren wanted was to let herself in and interrupt some makeup sex if the crazy ex had gotten past Gregori’s protests and back into his bed.

      She kicked the door because her hands were full. No answer. There was only one other tenant on his floor and the building had good security, so it wasn’t a risk to leave stuff. She scribbled a quick note and then texted him, informing him there were deliveries on his doorstep.

      As she headed back to the elevator she heard his voice, raised, arguing in Russian with someone. His door opened and he stormed into the hall. His face…she froze at the anger on his features. But then it was chased away as he recognized her.

      “Wren!”

      Standing, her hand on the doorknob of the stairwell, she was able to tear her gaze from his face to find him, barefoot, in threadbare jeans and a snug T-shirt, his hair in a ponytail, eyes ablaze with emotion. The intensity of the entire package continued to freeze her in place.

      “Yeah?”

      He lifted a shoulder and she saw beneath the hard outer shell, into the vulnerability beneath. “Why are you running off? Why didn’t you let yourself in?”

      She blew out a breath. “I didn’t know if you were working or if you…had a visitor.”

      He snorted and jerked his head toward his door. “Come.”

      “I really should go.”

      He put a hand on his hip. “Why?”

      “I have a job. Other deliveries to make.”

      “Your hands are empty.”

      She sighed, annoyed. “Of course they are. I delivered your things.”

      “Do you really have another delivery to make right now? Or can you come in for a bit? I need a break and you’re good company.”

      She should have said she did. But instead, she narrowed her eyes. “Sounds like you already have company.”

      “Me? No. I’m alone.”

      She took a few steps closer. “I just heard you yelling.”

      He shrugged. “I do that. It was a phone call.” He turned, bending to pick his things up. “Stop hovering five feet away as if I’m going to gobble you up. Come in. I have baked goods. Is your bicycle all right? Do you need to go bring it up?”

      She’d left her bike in the lobby. It was locked in a rack. Everything was fine. He was her last delivery of the day. Not that he needed to know that.

      “It’s fine. It’s locked up downstairs.”

      “Why are you hesitating? Do you think I’m going to pounce on you?”

      She wished.

      “What sort of baked goods?”

      “Macarons.”

      “Well, you should have said.” She moved inside, closing the door in her wake. The place was a disordered mess. Not his usual.

      “My mother came over this morning with them. Had I known it would take so little to lure you inside, I would have ordered them straight from Paris.”

      She rolled her eyes. “Who were you yelling at?”

      Wren followed him into the kitchen.

      “I have coffee instead of tea. Would you prefer I make tea?”

      “You’re awful accommodating today.”

      “I’m

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