Page 92 of Wild Then Wed
Miller steps around the table and wraps both arms loosely around Lark’s shoulders, planting a quick kiss on the top of her head. “Only the best for my Scorpio queen.”
Lark rolls her eyes but doesn’t move away.
I look down at the napkin in my hand, twisting it between my fingers until the seams don’t line up anymore.
It’s not that I’m not happy for them. They’ve got one of those ride-or-die friendships people write rom-coms about—sarcastic, shameless, unshakeable. And I love both of them. But sometimes, when I see moments like that—moments that seem so effortless—I feel it in the tightest part of my chest.
I’ve never had that kind of friendship.
I have Sage, and I love Sage. But being best friends with your sister is different. It’s tethered and baked-in, not chosen across state lines or breakups or job changes. Lark and Miller picked each other a long time ago, and theykeeppicking each other. I think some part of me has always wanted that—wanted someone who saw all the rough edges and still decided to come back anyway.
Maybe I’m just not built for that kind of a thing.
Sage used to joke that I had a bad case of resting bitch face, and maybe she wasn’t wrong. I’ve never been great at being the person people feel instantly drawn to. Too blunt. Too closed off. Toosomething. Or maybe just not enough of the right things.
I try to smile now, just a little, as if the effort might soften whatever part of me always comes off too guarded.
Hudson looks up from the other end of the table and frowns. “What are you doing?”
I blink. “What?”
He tilts his head. “You’re making a weird face.”
Before I can respond, the back door creaks open and both Ridge and Boone step inside, boots tracking mud and cold air into the warmth of the dining room.
“Who’s making a weird face?” Ridge asks, shaking snow off his jacket.
Hudson doesn’t even pause. “Wren.”
Ridge narrows his blue eyes and leans in, completely serious. “Ah. That’s just her face, buddy. We’ve all been trying to be sensitive about it for years.”
Without thinking, I grab the nearest dish towel and launch it at his head. It hits him square in the shoulder and he just smirks.
Boone makes his way over to where Lark’s still sitting. He leans down, says something low in her ear that makes her laugh, then presses two quick kisses to her neck before sliding into the chair beside her. His hand finds her thigh under the table like it always does, as if her presence alone isn’t enough—he needs to be touching her, holding her.
Disgusting. Truly.
But also…I don’t know. Kind of sweet, I guess.
They’re gross in a domestic, we’ve-seen-each-other-naked-a-thousand-times way, and still, I find myself watching them too long. Not in a jealous way, exactly. More like a…hopeful one. Like maybe I’m allowed to want that sort of thing too. Someday. If I can figure out how to be a little less emotionally constipated and fix the whole resting bitch face situation.
Across the room, Ridge’s eyes shift. I follow his gaze before he even moves his head. It’s instinct at this point—he’s too easy to read.
He’s watching Miller.
She’s fussing with the cake, rearranging platters and sliding bowls around like she’s Tetris-ing the table back into balance. Her coat’s slung off now, revealing high-waisted, wide-leg espresso-colored trousers cinched with a gold-buckled belt, and a fitted black top that looks like it was designed specifically for her. It’s an outfit that says she has a meeting at noon, a lawsuit to win at three, and a martini to sip by five.
Her hair’s glossy and short enough to graze her jaw but long enough to tuck behind her ears the way she always does when she’s feeling annoyed. Her makeup, as always, is somehow both sharp and effortless—clean skin, winged liner, a perfect neutral lip. Like a woman who knows how to command attention without ever raising her voice.
Ridge’s eyes trace her from the shoes up—slow, unhurried, maybe even a little reluctant—and then they land on her face. And stay there.
I can’t even blame him. Miller’s beautiful. Objectively. But it’s not just that. It’s the way she doesn’tcarethat she is. Or at least, pretends not to. She knows what she looks like. She just happens to know that she’s smart and terrifying and wildly capable, too.
She’s one of the best family lawyers in Summit Springs. Maybe in all of Redwood County. She runs her firm like it’s a courtroom empire, and she doesn’t take shit from anyone. Ever.
Ridge should probably be afraid of her. But he’s not. Which is exactly the problem.
If Ridge could stop fucking every other barrel racer on the circuit, maybe—maybe—he’d be worthy of a woman like Miller Ashford.
