Page 151 of Wild Then Wed
I hear her before I see her, humming under her breath, something off-key, as usual. She rounds the corner into the kitchen, tugging off her gloves with her teeth and pausing when she sees me standing at the counter, elbow-deep in the most suspicious pile of root vegetables she’s probably ever seen.
She’s in one of those big sweatshirts again—gray and slouchy, sleeves nearly swallowing her hands—and a baseball hat pulled low so I can barely see her eyes. The name of her family’s ranch is printed across the front, letters cracked and soft with age. Hercheeks are pink from the cold, and a few strands of red hair have worked loose and stuck to her face.
She looks tired. And beautiful in a way that catches me off guard, all quiet and unintentional.
She blinks. “Uh…what’s happening here?”
I glance at the cutting board. “I’m trying to make shepherd’s pie.”
She raises a brow.
“Vegan. Gluten-free.” I nod toward the cookbook open on the counter. “Found it at the bookstore in Bozeman. Thought I’d try not to poison you for once.”
She crouches down immediately to greet Hank, who’s nearly vibrating with joy now that she’s home. His tail slaps the floor like a drumline, and I swear he lets out a sigh of pure relief.
He’s been like that lately—mopey when she’s gone, extra clingy when she’s back. Which is concerning, because I don’t know what the hell he’s going to do when she’s not here anymore. When the year is up and she leaves and we go back to pretending none of this ever mattered.
Hell, I don’t know what I’m going to do either.
Wren scratches behind Hank’s ears, her voice soft. “Hey, bud. Miss me?”
He presses his head into her chest like the answer’s obvious.
She looks back up at me, smiling. “Shepherd’s pie, huh?”
I hold up the knife. “Don’t get excited yet. It’s mostly guesswork and lentils over here.”
Wren grins and stands, dusting her hands off on her thighs. “Sounds exactly like what I’d expect coming from you.”
She crosses to the counter, flips the cookbook shut, and tilts her head at the cover.
“Oh, I love her,” she says, flipping the cover back open. “Her last book had a lentil bolognese I lived on for, like, a year. I didn’tknow she put another cookbook out.” She looks up at me, a brow arched. “Why’d you buy this?”
I try to play it cool and shrug, but it probably comes off more like a twitch. “I don’t know. Seemed like something I should have on hand. For when you eat things that don’t come in a takeout container.”
The look on her face says she’s not buying it for a second. I don’t blame her.
Jesus. Honestly, what is happening to me? Why do I feel like a stupid sixteen year old boy all over again? And why can I perform a tibial plateau leveling osteotomy on a hundred-pound golden retriever without batting an eye, but I can’t chop a goddamn carrot without suddenly questioning all my life choices?
Wren scoots in beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. She eyes the pile of carrots on the cutting board with a smirk. “Give me the knife, Hart.”
I hand it to her, handle first, and she holds it like someone who knows what she’s doing. With a few quick strokes, she slices a carrot into clean, even coins. Each one the exact same thickness.
“Hold it like this,” she says, adjusting her grip and exaggerating the motion for me. “And keep your fingers curled, like a claw.”
She points to the zucchini next. “Try that one.”
I raise the knife, but before I can start, her hand wraps around mine. She doesn’t say anything—just guides my fingers, presses my knuckles into position, keeps her palm over mine as I follow her lead. And I should probably be focused on the vegetable in front of me, but I’m not.
I’m thinking about how small her hand is over mine. How steady she is. How my heartbeat is suddenly a hell of a lot louder than the knife hitting the cutting board.
I look down at her instead of the zucchini. Her face is calm, focused. There’s a scar on her cheek—small, near her jaw. Faint enough that you might miss it unless you’re standing this close. I catch myself wondering how she got it, whether it hurt, if they said sorry. Her freckles are scattered like someone shook them out of a jar. Her cheekbones are sharp. Her nose tips up at the end in a way that doesn’t match how serious she usually looks, which somehow makes it even better.
We finish the zucchini, or she does—I’m just following along. I grab something else from the counter. A bell pepper. Bright red, smooth, slightly dented on one side. I barely get the knife into it when she turns to step away.
I catch her wrist, gently, and put her hand back over mine.
She looks up at me—just for a second—through lashes that are a little damp, probably from snow flurries still spinning out in the dark beyond the window. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just lets her hand stay there, steadying mine as we chop up the bell pepper together.
