Page 136 of Wild Then Wed
“Well, if that ain’t a jawline carved by the good Lord himself. You must be the groom. I’m Irene, a good friend of your mother,” she says, smiling up at me with bright eyes that don’t miss much. “And your bride, my goodness—she’s stunning.”
“She is,” I say honestly.
The man claps a hand on my shoulder, steady and firm. “You did good, son. She’s got some fire in her, it seems. Those are the ones who’ll change your life.”
The woman steps closer, lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Of course, you’re not bad to look at, either. If I were forty years younger…” she winks, “I’d climb you like a tree.”
I bark out a laugh before I can stop it. “Appreciate the honesty, ma’am.”
Her husband grins, totally unfazed. “She says that to all the tall ones.”
“Only the ones with biceps like that,” she adds.
I shake my head, smiling, and glance out across the room again—just in time to catch Wren mid-laugh, her head tilted back, that white dress hugging her like it was stitched to her skin. Her cheeks are flushed, one hand wrapped around a wineglass, the other gesturing as she talks to someone. She looksrelaxed. Happy.Light. Loosened up in a way I haven’t seen before.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Not just in the conventional sense—even though she definitely is that, too—but in the way she takes up space without trying to. In the way people lean in a little closer when she talks. In the way her silence feels like a presence, not an absence.Thatkind of beautiful. The kind that sneaks up on you and ruins your defenses in the quietest way possible.
And that kiss—I wasn’t ready for that.
I thought it would be awkward. A little sloppy. Mechanical, at best. But then my hand was on her neck and her mouth was on mine, and everything else just went quiet.
It was soft at first—careful, almost like she didn’t mean to like it—and then something shifted. Her lips pressed back, slow and sure, and that was it. My brain went still, even though my body didn’t. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t staged. It felt like something I’d been missing without realizing it.
And I didn’t think about Julia. Not once.
Not until it was over. Not until I realized I didn’t want the kiss to end. And even then, I only thought of her long enough to realize she hadn’t crossed my mind at all. I don’t know if that makes me a shitty person or just someone who’s finally tired of living like a ghost.
It’s been years since I kissed someone. Years since I let anyone touch me in a way that meant something.
I haven’t lived with anyone since Julia. And earlier this week, Wren moved into my house. She didn’t bring much—just a few boxes, a duffel bag, a basket full of boots. Some worn paperbacks and her painting supplies. But it was enough to shift the feel of the place.
Her mugs sit next to mine in the cabinet now. Her boots are by the door. I catch her scent in the hallway—something likecitrus and flowers, and her shampoo is tucked onto the shelf in the guest bathroom like it’s always been there. None of it takes up much space, but I feel it anyway.
I didn’t realize how empty the house had felt until she was in it. Like it had been holding its breath for years, and someone finally opened a window.
The couple’s still talking—something about their anniversary and a fishing trip in the spring—but I’ve stopped listening.
Wren excuses herself from the group she was talking to. I watch her slip through the French doors that lead out to the balcony, her silhouette framed in soft light, a wineglass still in hand.
And then she’s gone.
I nod to the couple, give them a politeexcuse me for a moment,and make my way toward the doors.
I can’t help it—I want to follow. But I pause at the doors, my hand hovering over the knob.
There’s always that moment, right before you do something, where your brain pipes up with every worst-case scenario it can come up with.
What if she wants to be alone? What if I go out there and she looks at me like I’ve ruined the one quiet moment she’s had all night?
Or worse—what if she doesn’t want to be alone and Idon’tgo?
She’s my wife now. For better or for worse, for optics and paperwork and water rights and whatever the hell this is turning into. Isn’t this what I’m supposed to do—go after her? Make sure she’s okay, or not okay, or at least not about to climb over the railing and flee into the night? I feel like that falls under the “bare minimum” of husband-ly duties.
“Alright, fuck it,” I mutter under my breath, and push open the French doors.
The cold hits first—Montana air, sharp and clean, enough to make my lungs tighten. The music fades behind me, dulled by the glass, replaced by the low scuff of heels on concrete.
