Page 50 of Wild Then Wed
Lark makes a humming noise that’s suspiciously knowing. “A little birdie told me you’ve been spending time at the Hart Ranch.”
Boone. Can’t keep his mouth shut for shit.
“I’m not ‘spending time,’ there,” I say, reaching for the popcorn. “I’mworking.There’s a difference.”
Sage peeks out from under her blanket. “Since when do you work for the Harts?”
“Their trainer dipped out,” I say, shrugging. “I’m just helping until they find someone else.”
Miller leans in like she’s sniffing out blood. “And?”
“And what?” I say, popping a piece of popcorn into my mouth, even though my throat suddenly feels a little dry.
“There’s, like, ten million Harts,” Miller says, waving her wine glass around. “You’re telling me not a single one hit the genetic jackpot?”
Lark grins over the rim of her glass, wiggling her eyebrows. “Sawyer’s not bad looking.”
I scoff, tossing a kernel at her that bounces off her knee. “You’re insane.”
Miller narrows her eyes at me, slow and suspicious. “You totally like him.”
“What the hell?” I say, laughing. “I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” Miller says, sitting up straighter like she’s cracked some unsolvable case. “I can tell.”
“What does he even look like?” Sage asks, stretching her legs out from under the blanket.
Lark sets her glass down, getting serious about it. “Imagine taking both Hemsworth brothers and smashing them together into one person. Then making him taller and broodier.”
Miller lets out a low whistle. “Jesus Christ.”
“He definitely takes care of himself,” Lark adds, like she’s sharing insider information. “Like…you can tell. That body belongs in a museum somewhere. Oh,andhe’s a veterinarian.”
Miller turns on me, eyes wide. “Okay, and you’re not hopping on this because…?”
I lean back against the couch, stalling. Because the truth is, I don’t exactly have a track record that inspires a lot of self-confidence. I’ve only ever had one real boyfriend. Ethan. Met him at the Lucky Devil one night when I was twenty-three, when Sage dragged me out after work and swore I needed to “loosen up.”
He asked for my number, smiled like he actually found me interesting instead of hard to read. And for a while, I believed it. Believed that maybe I wasn’t too blunt, too closed off, too much. He worked at a bank downtown. Made decent money. Had retirement accounts and a five-year life plan that he wasn’t shy about mentioning.
At first, he said he loved how honest I was. He said it was refreshing. Then, little by little, the cracks started showing. He’d joke about how I could “scare people off” if I wasn’t careful. Suggest maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to say exactly what I wasthinking. Maybe I should dress “softer.” Maybe I should smile more. Maybe I should just shrink a little. Take the edge off.
And I tried.
For a while, I tried so hard I barely recognized myself. Our sex life had the same kind of slow erosion. Mediocre from the start—mechanical, polite, at best. By the end, it was practically non-existent. Every time he touched me, it felt like he was grading me on some invisible scale.
Too quiet. Too still. Too detached.
I’d lie there thinking about howImust be the problem, how maybe if I were different—softer, sweeter—he’d want me more. Maybe if I were someone else entirely.
I stayed longer than I should have. Wanting to be loved can make you stick around long after the love is gone.
When I’d finally ended it, he said he hoped I’d “find someone who could handle me.” Like I was a job. A chore. And the worst part is, a small, broken part of me believed him.
It’s why I keep people at arm’s length now. Why I talk too sharp and move too fast and make sure no one gets the idea that I’m easy to hold onto. Because being wanted is nice—until you realize they don’t wantyou. They want the version of you they can manage.
Trimmed down. Polished up. Easier.
Before I can spiral any further, Miller snaps her fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Wren.”
