Page 94 of Wild Then Wed
“Thank you, Loretta,” comes the overlapping reply from pretty much everyone as chairs start to scrape back and silverware clinks.
Miller brushes past me, bumping her hip against mine as she passes. “How’s the fake wedding circus coming along?” she asks under her breath, a quick wink following.
I scoff. “Thrilling. Romantic. Everything I imagined it’d be.”
“At least you’ve got a sexy wedding dress to make up for it.”
Lark nods in agreement as she lifts Jack up onto the counter beside the sink, his little cowboy boots knocking together whileshe gently scrubs his hands. “Seriously. I’ve never seen you wear anything like that. You should more often. You’ve got the body for it and it’s hot.”
Miller raises a brow. “It’sveryhot. Sawyer’s eyes are going to pop out of his skull. Andthatreaction definitely won’t be fake.”
Behind us, Ridge gags dramatically. “Can we stop talking about how hot Wren is now? Some of us are trying to keep our lunch down.”
He wedges himself between Miller and Lark to reach the sink, rinsing his hands with way more enthusiasm than necessary.
Miller rolls her eyes, washes her hands quickly after Ridge and disappears back toward the dining room. Lark calls out, “Hudson, your turn. Come wash your hands.”
“I already did,” he calls from the hallway.
“With soap?”
There’s a pause. Then the sound of a long, teenage sigh before Hudson trudges into the kitchen, pushing up his sleeves.
I turn to grab another towel and feel a small tug on the leg of my jeans.
Lainey stands there with her blue eyes wide and solemn, her blonde curls falling loose from the crooked pigtails Lark probably wrangled in with bribery and desperation. She doesn’t say anything—just lifts her arms toward me like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I bend down and scoop her up, settling her against my hip. “What’s up, bug?”
She rests her head on my shoulder for a second, all warm cheeks and sticky fingers. Then she peeks up at me while holding up both hands covered in frosting and says, “Dirty.”
“Yeah?” I ask, bringing her over to the sink. “You been sneaking dessert?”
She nods solemnly. “Cake.”
“Of course.”
I hold her steady against my hip with one arm and reach to turn on the water. Her legs kick gently against my side, and she hums a little under her breath—a tune only she seems to know. I guide her small hands under the stream, and she lets out a delighted squeal as the warm water hits her fingers. She blinks up at me, then sticks her wet fingers in her mouth.
“Great,” I laugh, gently pulling them back out. “We worked so hard for those to be clean.”
I lather a bit of soap between her palms, moving her hands together in soft circles. She giggles—this bubbly, hiccupy sound that lives somewhere deep in her belly—and then leans her head on my shoulder again like the effort of handwashing has simply wiped her out.
“Think you can make it through dinner without covering everything in mashed potatoes?”
She claps once, then smacks a soapy hand against my cheek. I laugh, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She smells like baby shampoo and dinner rolls and that indescribable sweetness that babies seem to carry in their skin.
I dry her hands, then just…stand there with her.
Lainey settles against me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her cheek tucked under my collarbone, warm and soft and wholly trusting. I sway a little, rocking her on my hip without thinking about it. The weight of her—small and solid—feels both grounding and sharp at the same time.
I breathe her in. That honey-sweet smell of toddler hair and graham cracker crumbs. And I try not to let it hurt.
But it does.
That quiet pang in the hollow of my chest. The one I keep buried most days, beneath work and routine and realism. The one that whispers:this won’t ever be yours.
Not like this.
