Page 47 of Wild Then Wed
Mom’s face lights up. “S’mores? That sounds yummy. I’m definitely going to try it next time I’m in the city. Maybe I’ll get Sawyer here to pick some up for me.”
Wren gives a small nod. “You’ll have to let me know if you like it.”
The conversation spins out from there—Crew grumbling about how Bozeman’s too far to drive for ice cream, the twins and Mason arguing about what flavor of ice cream is better, Riley mouthings’moreslike he’s never heard the word before.
Wren just looks back down at her plate and focuses on eating. I don’t have to ask why she never told me back at the round pen about the allergies.
I know.
Because Wren Wilding doesn’t want to be an inconvenience.
Because somewhere along the way, she learned that needing something—anything—makes her harder to be around.
It hits me in a place I thought I’d locked up years ago. A hollow, familiar ache that sneaks in before I can shove it down. It’s not just about the allergies—it’s abouther.
About how easily she folds herself smaller, quieter, like she’s convinced that’s the only way to be wanted. How she’d rather go hungry or sick than risk being “too much.”
God, I hate that for her.
Under the table, I nudge her knee with mine. Just a small, intentional push.I see you.
For a second, I brace for her to pull away again. The way she always does.
But she doesn’t. She presses back.I see you, too.
It’s stupid, how much it gets to me.
How that tiny, quiet thing—her trusting me enough to stay close instead of pulling away—makes something sharp in my chest ease for the first time in…I don’t even know how long.
She peeks up at me from under her lashes, the smallest smile curving at her mouth—barely there, but real.
And then she looks back down and keeps eating, like it never happened.
I don’t say anything. I just sit there, feeling it settle between us.
Something small.
Something new.
And for once, I don’t try to make sense of it.
I just let it be.
Chapter 9
WREN
“The problem with modern men is,” Miller says, tossing a handful of popcorn into her mouth, “they think knowing your love language all of a sudden makes them husband material. But who gives a fuck if it’s ‘acts of service’ when he can’t even service you properly?”
The room erupts in a mix of gasps and laughter. Sage nearly chokes on her wine while Lark throws a pillow at Miller’s head.
“I’m just saying,” Miller continues, unfazed as she smooths her hair, “if your love language is ‘gift giving,’ but the best he can do is a gas station rose and half a protein bar, he can take that self-help podcast shit and shove it right up his—”
“Okay!” I interrupt, laughing so hard my ribs hurt. “We get it. Romance is dead.”
Sage wipes tears from her eyes. “You’re awful, Mills.”
“I’m honest,” Miller corrects, waving a hand. “There’s a difference. And until someone invents a dating app that screens for grown-ass men who own actual plates instead of eating cereal out of mixing bowls, I’ll stay happily single.” She pauses. “Or at least single. The happiness part is negotiable. Let’s be real—I’ve always been a moody bitch.”
