Page 32 of Wild Then Wed
Dean keeps talking, something about the county commission and how he’d like to “string Cassidy up by his suspenders,” but my focus drifts.
Just past his shoulder, a flash of shiny red hair catches my eye.
It’s instinctual, really. There aren’t many redheads around here—especially not ones that stop me in my tracks like she does. I shift my weight and lean just slightly to the left.
Wren Wilding. She’s in leggings, sneakers that don’t look made for snow, and a jacket three sizes too big, one you wear when comfort wins over everything else. She’s standing on her tiptoes, fingers brushing the edge of a feed bag just out of reach, cursing under her breath. Her ponytail swings with every frustrated tug, and the way her brow knits together makes me want to laugh. Or maybe just watch her struggle a little longer.
I glance back at Dean, who’s still going on about well permits and bureaucratic bullshit.
Damn. I’m torn. Wren doesn’t seem like the type who likes being rescued. She’s got that stubborn streak to her. But still—she’s going to pull something if she keeps stretching like that.
“Dean, it was good talking to you,” I say, cutting him off mid-sentence with a polite nod. “Sorry, man—gotta take care of something.”
Before he can respond, I’m already stepping around him and heading her way.
I step up behind her, close enough that my shadow spills over her. “Need a hand?”
She whirls, spinning around so fast her ponytail hits her cheek. “Holy fuck—”
Her sneaker catches on a pallet, and she lurches forward. I catch her elbow before she can hit the ground.
For a heartbeat, she’s frozen, her free hand braced against my chest. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks are flushed, pink either from the cold or the fact that she nearly ate concrete. Maybe both. There’s a smudge of gloss on her lips—pink, shiny, a little bit sticky-looking. It smells like strawberries.
I shouldn’t notice that, but I do. I notice a lot of things about Wren Wilding these days that I probably shouldn’t.
She jerks her hand back like I burned her.
“You,” she hisses, shooting me a glare, “are an actual menace. What the hell are you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”
I can’t help the chuckle that escapes me. “Just trying to be helpful.”
Wren straightens her jacket with sharp, irritated tugs. “I’m fine,” she grumbles, turning back to the shelf with renewed determination.
I set down my own fifty-pound bag of cubes and lean against the rack, crossing my arms. The way she stretches on her toes, her fingers barely grazing the bottom of the feed bag, would be comical if she wasn’t so damn stubborn.
“You don’t have something better to do?” she asks without turning around.
“Not really,” I say, scratching at my stubble. “This is the most entertainment I’ve had all week.”
Her glare could melt my skin off. “How pathetic for you.”
“Tragic,” I agree, pushing off the rack. “Wren, let me just—”
Before she can protest, I reach up and snag the bag one-handed, holding it between us. The muscle in her jaw ticks as she crosses her arms.
“Fine.”
I wink. “You’re welcome.”
“I would’ve gotten it eventually,” she insists, chin jutting out.
“Yeah. Around closing time. Maybe.”
Wren snatches the feed bag from me, but the weight immediately tips her forward again. I catch it before it can drag her to the ground, hefting both bags onto my shoulders with ease.
She glares up at me again. “I said I’ve got it!”
I adjust my grip, unfazed. “That’s not what it looked like to me.”
