Page 108 of Wild Then Wed
She laughs under her breath and sinks into the couch, curling against the armrest like her body’s finally given permission to let go. One leg drapes over the other, bare toes peeking out from the frayed edge of a throw blanket.
“Sometimes my social battery just dies,” she says, pressing her temple to the cushion. “No warning. One minute I’m fine, the next I want to crawl out a window.”
She nudges the empty space beside her with her foot. “Sit.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not sitting next to your nasty feet.”
She gasps, mock-offended, eyes wide. “My feet arenotnasty.”
I grin. “I believe you. I grew up with five brothers. Their feet could end entire civilizations.”
She laughs again, softer this time, and I drop onto the cushion beside her. Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for her legs and pull them into my lap. She stills—not dramatically, just a subtle pause, like I caught her off guard.
I almost move. Almost apologize. But then she shifts, just enough to settle back in. Like this is fine. Like this is familiar.
I stare at the fire and try not to think too hard about how natural this feels. Or how fucking nice it is to have something feel easy for once.
She slices off a small piece of cheesecake with her fork and eyes it like it might betray her.
When I do the same, she glances over and says, “Okay, we have to taste it at the same time.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Because even though this was done withverygood intentions”—she lifts her fork slightly—“there’s a solid chance this tastes like shit.”
I glance down at the cheesecake again. It’s neatly plated, garnished with a single raspberry like it’s trying to distract me from the truth.
Dairy-free cheesecake.
The words alone feel like a lie.
The more I think about it, the more I realize she’s probably right. What the hell evenisdairy-free cheesecake? Is that even a real thing or just unique marketing?
She catches the look on my face and laughs. “See? Now you’re scared, too.”
I grimace. “A little bit.”
She holds out her fork. “Cheers.”
I clink mine against hers.
We take the bite at the same time.
And—somehow—it’s good.
Like actually good. Rich. Sweet. Not aggressively fake or plasticky like I was expecting.
Wren chews and nods once. “Okay, Hart. That’s actually decent. Rare win.”
I swallow and lean back into the couch. “Yeah. I’m a little shocked.”
She smiles, and something in my chest goes stupidly still. The firelight dances across her face, warm and golden, catching on the high sweep of her cheekbones and the freckles dusted across her skin like cinnamon. Her hair glows auburn in the low light, the loose strands around her face lit up like a halo.
She looks soft. Unarmored. Like the version of herself she only lets surface when no one’s asking anything of her.
“Is that ever hard?” I ask, clearing my throat and nodding toward the plate in her lap. “Like…eating out at restaurants and stuff.”
She tips her head side to side, like the answer isn’t black and white. “Sometimes,” she says. “It’s mostly hard when I have to ask for something to be made different. Not because I want to be annoying, just because I can’t eat it the way it comes.”
