Page 152 of Wild Then Wed
“How’d you get so good at this?” I ask.
She smirks—barely. “Years of unpaid child labor.”
I laugh. She shrugs.
“My mom’s always had a garden. Still does, actually. Tomatoes, zucchini, squash in the summer. She’d drag all of us out there to pick stuff, and then we’d end up chopping half of it before dinner. Ridge used to pretend he couldn’t cut anything for shit so he could get out of it.”
She adjusts my grip on the knife, more automatic now, like we’re just doing something we’ve always done.
“And you didn’t?”
She shrugs again. “Nope. I’m the oldest daughter. I didn’t get the chance to get out of anything.”
I make a quiet sound in acknowledgment, trying to focus on the way she’s guiding the knife, the pressure of her hand overmine. But I’m standing too close—my chest nearly brushing her back, the top of her head tucked under my chin if I looked down. I can smell her, something warm and light. Like honey and clean sheets. Something that fucks with my ability to think straight.
Her hips shift just slightly, adjusting for balance as she leans in.
And—Christ.
Her jeans are soft and worn in, hugging her in a way that makes it hard not to notice. She’s only a few inches away, and her ass is exactly where itshouldn’tbe if I’m going to keep pretending I’m unaffected.
I try to look away. I try to be reasonable. But my body doesn’t seem interested in reasonable tonight.
I inhale through my nose. Long. Controlled. Try not to let it show on my face. Try not to shift or twitch or fucking die from how aware I am of every inch of her right now.
“Yeah,” I say, voice a little rougher than it should be. “I get that. I’m the oldest out of my siblings. My brothers got away with everything. Still do. But I was the one expected to keep shit together. Set the example or whatever.”
She glances over her shoulder, just enough to catch my expression. “And did you?”
I hold her gaze. “I tried to. Probably a little too hard, honestly.”
She nods, like she understands. And I think maybe she does.
We finish the last of the vegetables and her hand lingers on mine a beat longer than necessary before she finally lets go. She turns around slowly, her eyes flicking to mine before dropping to the empty cutting board.
“We’re done,” she says, clearing her throat. “That’s everything.”
My hand’s still planted on the counter behind her, and we’re officially in each other’s space now—too close to play it off, tooaware to pretend it’s not happening. I nod, but I don’t move. She doesn’t either.
Her breath hitches—barely—and then her eyes are back on mine. Whatever’s between us isn’t new. It’s just louder now. Heavier. Like it’s been sitting there all along, waiting for one of us to finally do something about it.
She clears her throat again, softer this time. “You should, uh, probably keep reading the instructions. Make sure you don’t burn the house down or something.”
I nod—just barely. She hasn’t stepped back, and she’s close enough that I catch another tiny scar under her jaw, one I hadn’t seen before. Close enough that her scent’s still hanging in my lungs, like my body hasn’t decided if it wants to breathe her in or let her go.
“And I should pack,” she adds, glancing toward the hallway. “For tomorrow.”
I try to process the words. Try to make my brain care about instructions or packing or anything that isn’t her lips that are full, flushed like she’s been biting them. Or like she’s been sucking on something cold, the color so pink and warm and impossible not to look at. They part just slightly before she turns, and I nearly lose it.
She slips away, Hank trotting after her like he’s never loved anyone more. That traitorous bastard.
The second she’s gone, it’s like the air collapses. I look down at the cookbook—something about lentils and thyme and oven temperatures I’ll probably mess up—and none of it registers. Not a word. I can’t fucking breathe.
I know she felt it, too. I saw it on her face. In the way she didn’t pull away. In the way she looked at me like maybe she’s trying not to want something just as badly as I am.
And maybe I should be relieved she walked out when she did. Maybe I should remind myself of what she’s already told me—she’s not looking for love. Not now. Maybe not ever, as far as I’m concerned.
But that doesn’t stop the pull, doesn’t undo the gravity of whatever this is building between us. I’ve tried to bury it, God knows I have. I’ve told myself I’m imagining it, that maybe I’m lonely. That I’m just reading into things.
