Page 232 of Wild Then Wed
She shakes her head. “It’s too hard without seeing her first. Nothing feels right yet.”
“I’m sure whatever you land on will be perfect.”
From the kitchen, Mom calls, “Wren, the gravy’s actually just about done. You two can go sit and relax if you want.”
“Where’s Loretta?” I ask.
“She’s visiting her daughters this year,” Mom says, already back to stirring something that smells like garlic. “She’ll be here for New Year’s.”
“Are you sure you don’t need help?”
She waves me off. “Go. Be festive. Let me have my kitchen while it’s still intact.”
Sawyer takes my hand and threads his fingers through mine, gently tugging me toward the living room. Hudson falls into step beside me, talking before we’ve even cleared the hallway.
“So I hit two triples this fall, and Coach said my swing’s getting stronger, but I still need to work on my follow-through. And have you seen Gunnar Henderson this year? He’s totally crushing it. Like, his OBP is insane. And Corbin Carroll’s already locked up Rookie of the Year, obviously—”
I nod, doing my best impression of someone who knows what an OBP is. “Totally. He’s…on fire.”
Sawyer glances over, amused. “I actually played baseball in middle and high school.”
Hudson and I both turn to him, stunned, as we simultaneously say, “You did?”
Sawyer laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I did. I wasn’t terrible either.”
“What position?” Hudson asks, clearly impressed as we settle onto the couch. Sawyer sits beside me, his arm casually draped around my shoulders.
“Center field,” Sawyer says. “And shortstop, sometimes.”
Hudson nods, eyes wide. “That’s actually really cool.”
They fall into an easy conversation—talking about players, stats, swings—and I find myself tuning them out just a little, my fingers playing with the ring on my left hand. The diamond catches the light from the Christmas tree, scattering little reflections onto my jeans. I twist it gently around my finger, like I still can’t believe it’s mine.
“Merry Christmas,” a familiar voice says beside me.
I look up just as Sage sinks into the seat beside me, pulling me into a warm hug. She looks beautiful, of course. She always does. She could be in a potato sack and still easily be the prettiest person in the room. Her dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, her makeup done perfectly, little diamond studs twinkling in her ears. And the worst part is, she doesn’t even try. She’s pretty without realizing how pretty she actually is, which makes it somehow worse and more likable at the same time.
Her sweater is bright red with a giant, stuffed elf sewn across the front—full limbs, floppy hat, and disturbingly muscular abs stitched in gold thread. His pants are pulled halfway down and above him it says“Stop Elfing Around”in all caps. It’s truly horrific. The kind of sweater you have to commit to emotionally before putting it on. And somehow, she still manages to look put-together in it. I don’t know how she does it. I’ve stopped trying to understand.
I hug her back and she leans in to kiss my cheek. “Love you, sis.”
I recoil, scrunching my nose in disgust. “Ew! Why would you do that, you freak?”
Before I can escape further affection, Ridge materializes out of nowhere like a Christmas demon.
“Wait,” he says, pointing at himself. “I didn’t getmyannual Christmas kiss in yet.”
I barely have time to move before his tongue is on the side of my face as he licks it.
“Oh my god!”I squeal in utter horror, shoving him so hard he stumbles into the arm of the couch. “You are an actual psycho! Don’t ever do that again.”
He cackles as he falls back, totally unbothered, while Sage looks way too proud of herself. They glance at each other and fist bump like they’ve just pulled off a flawless tag-team takedown, two annoying younger siblings high on victory.
I wipe my cheek with my sleeve. “You’re both going to hell.”
“Worth it,” they say in unison.
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Just a little. Sage and Ridge have been pulling stunts like that since we were kids—hiding my homework, taping a picture of Steve Irwin over my fourth-grade school photo. Always something dumb. Always something loving in its own backward way.
