Page 54 of Wild Then Wed
Normally, I wouldn’t have even looked twice. But I saw it and thought of Wren, figured she probably didn’t eat much before her sessions, maybe didn’t drink much either.
It was stupid. I tossed it into my cart anyway.
I made a batch last night just to be sure it didn’t taste like shit. And to my surprise, it didn’t. A little different, a little less sweet maybe, but still good. Better than I expected for hot chocolate with no dairy.
The engine rattles to life, the heat quick to kick in. I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, not because I’m in a hurry but because I can’t sit still with the way my thoughts keep pulling in directions I don’t want them to go.
I’m not surewhyI’m doing this. Why it matters to me if she has something warm in her hands after a cold morning workinghorses. Why it bothers me that she usually shows up with nothing but a half-empty water bottle and a stupid protein bar.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her like this.
Not when the only woman I ever thought I’d love is buried six miles from here under a bed of white stone and frozen earth.
Not when every good part of me—the parts that knewhowto love, how to plan for a future—got buried with her.
Thinking about Wren this way feels like standing on a fault line I don’t have any business crossing. It feels like a betrayal. Even if all I’m doing is handing her a cup of hot chocolate.
I glance at the cupholders again. It’s nothing. A small thing. Something anyone would do.
I check the time again on the dash and blow out a slow breath. If I’m lucky, I’ll catch her before she heads out.
The thermoses are warm in my hands as I step outside, the cold cutting across my face sharp enough to make my eyes sting and wake me up all over again.
The round pen sits a little ways off from the main barn, tucked into a patch of frostbitten earth that still remembers the heat of summer under all this early winter gray. My dad built it years ago, poured more into it than he had to—solid steel rails, the footing just right, good drainage, enough space to work a horse properly without worrying about slipping or breaking something that can’t be fixed.
I close the gate behind me with a snap and cut across the pen, boots dragging through the cold sand that’s packed down from years of hooves and hard work.
Wren’s inside the ring, finishing up with the gelding she’s been working with—a skittish horse who used to bolt if he saw his own shadow.
Today, he moves differently. Steadier. His head is lower, ears swiveling toward her instead of away, like maybe the worlddoesn’t seem like such a bad place when she’s the one leading him through it.
There’s no rope between them, just a quiet understanding. One that doesn’t happen overnight. One you earn one inch at a time.
I hang back by the fence, watching her tuck the horse into his stall. She runs a hand down his neck like a promise she’s not going anywhere.
Anna’s waiting for her, notebook in hand. Wren crouches beside her, balancing easily on the balls of her feet, pointing something out with the tip of her finger, her voice low and steady as she walks Anna through whatever notes are scrawled across the page.
The morning light cuts across the pen in thin streaks, catching on her red hair and bringing out strands of gold, like the sun’s choosing to notice her first. Her long lashes frame sharp, high cheekbones, freckles scattered like they were tossed by hand across her skin.
She smiles at something Anna says, and for a second, she looks different than she usually does—softer maybe, or just a little less guarded.
Like there’s a version of her most people never get to see unless they know how to look for it.
And here I am, looking. Longer than I should. Way too damn long.
Wren stands up and brushes her hands against her pants, a quick swipe down her thighs. She glances up and spots me by the fence, a quick, polite smile tugging at her mouth before she looks away just as fast. Her focus snaps back to Anna.
They start gathering their things, Wren pulling her scarf from her bag, looping it around her neck with quick, practiced fingers while Anna hoists her notebook and coat over one arm.
Anna’s the first to pass me, her boots kicking up little clouds of dust as she walks slower than necessary. She tosses a smile up at me, one that’s more than a little flirty, her lashes batting as if she’s got something in her eye.
It’s not subtle. Hasn’t been for weeks now.
She’s made it pretty obvious she’s interested, always finding reasons to hang around after lessons, twirling her hair around her finger, laughing a little too hard at things that weren’t even jokes, stretching conversations until they stop making sense just for the sake of talking.
Wren was right—there’s definitely some eye-fucking going on. At least on Anna’s end.
She can’t be older than twenty-one, maybe twenty-two if I’m being generous. I’m pushing thirty-six. Fifteen years and a lifetime between us.
