Page 107 of Wild Then Wed
Ridge still hasn’t said a word. His beer bottle is clenched tight in one hand, the label halfway shredded under his thumb.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“We get it,” he mutters, too casually to be anything but pointed. “You’ve got a thing for guys with weird dogs and commitment issues, Miller.”
Miller.I hadn’t heard him call her Miller once since I’ve gotten here. Mills or Millie, but never Miller.
A few heads turn, half-curious by the shift in the air. Miller, unfazed, reaches for her wineglass with all the grace of someone who’s had years of practice brushing off Ridge Wilding.
She takes a slow sip, shrugs one shoulder. “Weird dogs and great forearms. What can I say? I’m a woman of simple tastes.”
The table cracks up. Ridge doesn’t.
His mouth twitches like he wants to say something else. But he doesn’t. Just tears off another piece of the beer label and drops it on the table without looking at her again.
Sage finally says, “Well, that wasn’t fair, Lark. You’ve known her forever.”
“She’s fun,” Lark says, shrugging.
“She’s deeply concerning,” Boone adds.
“She’s iconic,” Wren says beside me.
I glance over at her, and she doesn’t look at me—just sips from her glass, her eyes still on Miller, who’s now basking in her moment.
The thing that catches me off guard most isn’t the laughter or the warmth of the house or the fact that Miller and Lark have apparently committed actual crimes together.
It’s how easy it is to be here.
Wren’s family is loud—but in a way that makes room for you, not in a way that drowns you out. There’s a rhythm to it. People talking over each other, sure, but never not listening. No one’s performing. No one’s pretending. It’s just messy, honest comfort.
It’s quieter than my house, and somehow, that makes it louder in my head. My family’s chaos always comes with an edge—too many people trying to talk over my grief without naming it. Too much effort. Here, everything justis.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not counting the minutes until I can leave.
Across the table, Wren suddenly stands and heads toward what looks like the kitchen. No announcement. Just quietly slips out.
I hover in the dining room, half-listening to the laughter around me, half-staring at the doorway she just slipped through.
For a second, I consider staying put. Giving her space.
But then my chair scrapes softly against the wood floor, and I follow.
She’s at the counter, standing in front of the cheesecake like she forgot what she came in here for. One hand braced against the edge, the other hovering over the knife. When she hears my footsteps, she glances up, her expression smoothing out just enough to pass as casual.
“Oh—sorry.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, not quite meeting my eyes. “You didn’t have to stop playing.”
I shrug one shoulder, leaning my hip against the counter. “It’s okay. Just wanted to check on you.”
She gives a quick nod, her gaze dropping to the plate she pulls from the stack. “You want some dairy-free cheesecake?”
That pulls a quiet laugh from me. “Why the hell not.”
She slices two pieces, sets one in my hands, then pivots—bypassing the dining room entirely. I follow as she heads for the living room, where the fire’s still going, low and steady. Orange light dances across the stone hearth, the room quieter than the rest of the house.
I follow.
“Sick of the party already?” I ask, tilting my head toward the dining room, where the hum of conversation still drifts in under the clink of glasses.
