Page 133 of Wild As Her

He kisses my temple. “It’s real. It’s messy. It’sus.”

“You gonna build me a porch swing?”

“Already halfway done.”

“You gonna kiss me under our tree again?”

“Every damn day.”

And when I lean in and kiss him under the fairy lights, surrounded by the loud, nosy, ridiculous town that raised us, it’s not about performance or drama or proving anything anymore.

It’s just love. Loud. Wild. Rooted. Ours.

Chapter 35

Cami

What Kinda Man by Parker McCollum

It was my idea to have a big dinner at the Wilder House. Now that the show is over, it’s great to just relax and enjoy ourselves without cameras around. By the time the roast is in the oven and the cornbread in the cast iron is ready, I’ve already dropped my wooden spoon, burned my forearm on the stove, and threatened Tucker with a rolling pin when he stole a bite of mashed potatoes.

But the house is loud, full of laughter, and great food smells that I am grateful for every second.

Which means:things are going well.

The kitchen is chaos in the way that makes me feel weirdly alive. Every burner’s going. Dishes are stacked on the counter. Poppy’s chopping salad with way too much dramatic flair, and Jack’s trying to sneak a biscuit off the tray before they’re done.

“What is it with these thieving Jessop brothers?” I grumble but can’t help but grin.

“Don’t even think about it, Jessop,” I say, tapping his hand with the back of a wooden spoon.

He grins, all cocky and unrepentant. “They smell so good, baby.”

“You’ll live.” But then I see the look on his face and say, “Okay, just one.”

He steals a kiss from my cheek and takes one, disappearing into the dining room with a smug little whistle. God help me if our kids give me that same look. They’ll get away with murder.

I take a deep breath and look around.

This isn’t a holiday. It’s not a party. But somehow it feels likemorethan that. It’s the first time both families Wilder and Jessop are sitting under the same roof. No cameras. No chaos. Just us. And I cooked for them. Dishes full of love.

The back door swings open, and my mom walks in, holding a pie tin and looking like she had to psych herself up for twenty minutes in the car before knocking.

I brace myself, mentally and emotionally, but instead of a lecture or a critique about the state of my kitchen, she gives me a warm-ish smile.

“I brought coconut meringue,” she says. “From scratch.”

I blink. “You made a pie?”

“I do cook, Cami.”

I smile at her and say, “It looks good, Mom.”

She exhales like she’s trying and looks relieved.

I don’t know what to say, so I just take the pie and put it on the counter.

“You’re feeding everyone tonight?” she asks, surveying the kitchen.

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