Page 89 of Wild Then Wed
He raises a brow like she’s just challenged his honor. “Excuse you. There will be wine.”
“Oh?”
He shrugs, still grinning. “I can be a classy guy when the moment calls for it.”
“Right,” Sage says, dragging out the word. “Plastic cups or mason jars?”
Ridge lifts his brows. “Glassware, baby. Chill it with some ice and you’ll forget you’re in country bumpkin Montana.”
Sage grins. Boone grumbles. Molly starts making a list of things to we’ll need to do and Wren…Wren just leans back, glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and shakes her head like she’s already regretting all of this.
But she’s smiling. Barely. And I don’t miss it.
Not even a little.
Chapter 17
WREN
Loretta’s barking orders from the kitchen like we’re running a five-star restaurant, not making dinner for a handful of people who’ve eaten the same meal every fourth Thursday of November since birth. Mom’s nodding along but not really listening, too busy stirring something in a pot. And Sage is on her hands and knees in the hallway trying to scrub a muddy footprint out of the rug before Loretta sees it and threatens to “start lighting people on fire for less.”
Meanwhile, I’m elbow-deep in dishwater, rinsing pie crust bowls and pretending to care about the baseball trivia Hudson is spewing off behind me.
“And then Nolan Ryan threwsevenno-hitters, which is the most of anybody in Major League history—”
“Mmhmm,” I murmur, handing off a dripping baking sheet to dry on the rack.
“—and I’mthisclose to figuring out if Randy Johnson really did kill a bird with a fastball or if that’s just a YouTube lie—”
“I think the bird’s dead either way, Hud.”
He blinks at me, then shrugs like I’ve just offered a reasonable counterpoint and wanders off to chase the twins, who are currently running in circles around the kitchen island.Lark’s trying to wrangle them with one hand while nursing what looks like her third mug of coffee, and I honestly can’t tell if it’s helping or just keeping her upright at the moment.
Jack trips over Lainey and face-plants into the tile. He pops up laughing like it’s a game. Lark just closes her eyes and exhales through her nose.
“Everything okay?” I ask her, flicking water off my hands.
“Oh, just taking bets on whether I cry before or after the stuffing’s done.”
I pass her a towel and a small smile. “Put me down for ‘before.’ I like a sure thing.”
Outside, I can hear the distant hum of Boone and Ridge’s voices near the back barn. Probably checking heat lamps in the calf shelter or making sure the main water lines didn’t freeze overnight. It’s been a cold week, and the frost’s been biting at the fences harder than usual. Ridge mentioned yesterday they’d need to run the mineral blocks out to the winter pasture, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Boone’s found some poor excuse to “fix” a gate that doesn’t need fixing just so he can avoid the house.
He’s been quieter than usual since the wedding news. Not angry—just cold. That’s always been Boone’s way. When he doesn’t know what to do with his feelings, he turns them into hard edges.
Mom’s voice cuts through the clatter of the kitchen, soft and cheerful in that very specific tone she uses on holidays. “Wren, sweetie, did you make your pecan pie this year?”
“Already on the counter. Don’t touch it—it needs to cool.”
“Oh good,” she says, but her eyes are tight at the corners, like she’s holding something in. Probably a hundred somethings. Probably all of them aimed at me.
Loretta claps her hands once. “Alright, team. Time to set the table. This ain’t amateur hour, move your booties.”
The dining room has a long table stretched under the front windows, with mismatched chairs dragged in from every corner of the house. Mom’s set out her good plates, the ones with the little hand-painted pinecones around the rim that she only uses twice a year. Ridge calls them “the fragile-ass plates,” and he’s not wrong.
I dry my hands and follow Sage into the dining room, trying not to feel the prickle at the back of my neck. That low-level hum that always shows up during family gatherings—like no matter how hard I try, there’s still a version of me they’re waiting for that hasn’t arrived.
The one who didn’t decide to marry a Hart.
