Page 45 of Wild Then Wed
But maybe not. Maybe nobody tells her enough?
And even though I shouldn’t, even though I know better—I find myself wanting to be the one who does.
Before I can think any more about that, Emily materializes out of nowhere, grinning and reaching for a strand of Wren’s hair. Wren flinches like she’s been stung.
Emily jerks her hand back. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to spook you.”
Wren just nods her head quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite make it to her eyes. “It’s okay.”
“That’s your real color?” Emily asks, studying her hair like she’s something rare.
Wren tucks it behind her ear. “It is.”
Emily beams. “It’s so pretty. You’re like, atrueredhead.”
“In the flesh,” Wren says. There’s the hint of a smile there, tucked just under the surface.
Riley breezes past, tossing a wink over his shoulder. “Heard redheads are a little spicy.”
Wren smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Riley barks out a laugh and hands her a plate.
I head toward the counter where Mom’s laid everything out—there’s a big dish of roasted root vegetables, buttermilk biscuits piled high in a basket, a heaping green salad tossed with something that smells sharp and fresh, and a massive casserole dish that’s probably packed with enough carbs and cheese to kill a grown man happy.
I glance sideways at Wren, who’s hovering a little stiffly by the counter, her mouth pulled tight like she’s weighing every option. She ends up scooping a tiny bit of salad onto her plate. A few roasted carrots and sweet potatoes.
That’s it.
That’s it?
That’s all she’s going to eat?
My stomach grumbles loud enough to make me wince. I pile my plate high with everything in sight—casserole, biscuits, salad, a ridiculous helping of vegetables because Mom will give me hell if I don’t.
Wren follows the others toward the dining room, plate practically empty, while I lag behind, loading up like it’s my last meal on earth.
I skipped breakfast to run to the clinic this morning—helped an old heeler with a torn ligament who needed a quick bandage change—and now I’m half-starving. The smell of warm bread, butter, and roasted garlic practically drags me by the nose.
Wren slides into a chair next to Emily, tucking herself in like she’s trying to disappear. I take the seat beside her.
The chair creaks under me—not because it’s weak, but because I’m too damn big for normal furniture. Always have been. I shift, spreading my legs out a little to make room, and my knee knocks into hers under the table.
She jerks like I zapped her, a quick glance flicking up at me before she stares hard at her plate.
Mom leans over the table. “You want some dressing for that salad, honey? Made it myself. It’s my kids favorite, better than that store-bought stuff.”
Wren shakes her head, polite. Smiles just enough to be nice. “No, thank you. Thanks for offering, though.”
I squint at her plate—bare lettuce, a few sad cucumbers—and lean in a little. “What kind of psychopath eats salad without dressing? I don’t know if that even constitutes as a salad.”
Her chin tips up, those sharp blue eyes slicing right through me. “It takes one to know one.”
I huff out a laugh, taking a bite of my own food.
The table’s a mess of chatter. Riley’s telling some half-bullshit story about a tourist at the Lucky Devil who asked if cow-tipping was a real thing. Emily and Mason are trying not tolaugh while Nathan corrects him. Crew’s just shaking his head like he’s been through this a hundred times.
Mom dishes up a plate like she’s feeding a small army, then glances up. “Your dad’s not gonna make it. Had some ranch business to handle.” She waves a hand like it’s nothing. “Told us not to wait for him.”
