Chapter 2 Ruger #3
Wrenley twists her fingers. I already feel bad you’re missing part of camp season because of me, she says quietly.
I lean against the door frame. It’s not a big deal.
I know you said you could pick up shifts at your other job, whatever that is…
Conservation officer.
Right. That. She wipes beneath one eye quickly. But Remi said you love guiding rich people through the woods so they don’t accidentally die.
I huff out a laugh. That’s one way to describe it.
Her mouth twitches slightly.
The three of us agreed this made the most sense, I remind her. Really, it’s fine.
But then I notice her eyes starting to shine.
Ah, hell.
You’re being so nice about all of this, she says softly.
You went through a lot, I tell her, because it’s true. Compared to everything that’s on the line for you, my contribution’s pretty minimal.
Her lip trembles before she suddenly folds in on herself, full-body sobs shaking through her.
Panic flashes through me.
Hey, I say quickly. No, don’t cry. Which is probably the least effective thing anyone has ever said to a crying person.
Unsurprisingly, it only makes things worse.
I sit next to her on the couch and hesitate for half a second before scooting closer and wrapping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her gently into my chest. Her curls brush my chin as I smooth a hand down her back because I have no idea what else to do.
And maybe because some part of me hates the thought of her crying alone.
Slowly, her breathing starts evening out, and with it, her realization that I’m holding her.
She pulls away fast, blinking up at me with watery eyes. Sorry. That was weird.
It’s okay, I say quietly. It’s a big change.
It’s not just the move, she admits, swiping at her cheeks. It’s everything.
Her voice cracks slightly.
And then you said your contribution was minimal, which it’s not, and I don’t know. It just hit me all at once.
There’s still a tear on her cheek. I could wipe it away. I want to. But I keep my hands to myself and pretend I don’t notice.
She sniffles, then finally meets my gaze. You said something about food?
Remi was right. Wrenley is a mess. But she’s a beautiful, fascinating, off-kilter kind of mess.
I nod. I’ve got some moose steaks thawed.
Her brows shoot up. Moose steaks? As in… moose?
Uh, yeah. Hence the name.
She gives me a skeptical look. Like, a real moose? She holds her hands to her head in a makeshift antler pose.
Yes. One I hunted last season.
Her eyes go wide. You killed it?
Yes, I say slowly. Didn’t Remi tell you we’re a hunting family?
She’s a vegetarian.
I smirk. Doesn’t change her upbringing.
She mulls that over. Then, with a little shrug: When in Alaska.
Wrenley looks at the slab of meat on her plate.
She picks up her fork slowly, like she’s trying to decide if she is going to attempt to put any of it in her mouth.
You okay? I ask, watching her.
Wrenley gives me a too-bright smile. Yeah. Sorry. I just… She twirls her fork between her fingers. I’ve never had wild game before.
I can sense the uncertainty in her voice.
It’s leaner, I say. You’ll notice a difference, but not too much.
She still looks wary.
I nudge her plate closer to her. Remi told me what you ate today. There’s no way you’re not hungry. Eat.
Her throat bobs. She takes a bite, slow at first… then another, faster.
I look away and pretend not to notice the way her whole body relaxes after the third forkful.
The small moans Wrenley makes while she chews hit me low, sharp, hot, and entirely unwelcome.
It’s just dinner. Just steak. But the way her lips part, the way her lashes flutter as she hums with pleasure…
Jesus. I wish she’d eat faster. Ask me where she’s sleeping.
Then I can point, carry her suitcases up the stairs, because I’m a gentleman, and get the hell out of there before I start fantasizing about how she’d sound if she… weren’t eating moose.
I expected I’d like her, at least enough to live together.
I figured we’d easily be able to settle into a comfortable, friendly routine.
Remi said she was a quiet homebody, a creative like her, but also not like her.
I didn’t look into it much further. Remi was focused on getting her here, and I just figured I was along for the ride.
Liking her? That tracks.
What doesn’t track is the way my pulse stumbles every time she makes a sound, like I’ve never heard someone enjoy food before.
I shouldn’t be noticing that. But I am.
Wrenley licks her lips—slowly, like it’s intentional. Jesus. Then she drops her utensils and lets out one last satisfied sigh.
That was so good, she says.
Glad you liked it. I try not to grit my teeth when I say it.
She leans back, hands over her stomach, still humming softly like she’s entirely content to be right here, in my kitchen, eating moose steak like it’s fine dining.
There’s something weirdly… endearing about that. The way she lets herself enjoy it fully, like she’s not worried about me judging how much she eats. She just is.
Can I get you anything else?
She shakes her head. No, thank you.
I nod and gather our plates. I try to focus on the sink instead of the sound of that last sigh.
So… you really shot that moose? she asks again. Probably the fifth time tonight.
Mhm.
Like, you went out and hunted it?
That’s what hunting is. I glance over my shoulder, lips twitching.
But how do you find a moose?
I turn and press my back against the counter. You call it.
Her eyes narrow. How?
I cup my hands around my mouth, plug my nose with my fingers, and let out a low, moaning sound. Wrenley bursts out laughing, and something eases in my chest.
Her laugh is huge. Loud. Free. It fills the room like sunlight and settles into places in my body I didn’t know were tense.
How is that appealing to a moose? she wheezes.
I didn’t sound desperate to get laid?
She holds up a hand, serious now. Wait. Are you saying… you lure moose into thinking it’s gonna have sex and then kill it?
I blink. I mean… yeah?
How would you feel if you thought you were about to get lucky and ended up with a bullet to the face?
I’d die thinking I was going out on a high note, so… I shrug.
She rolls her eyes. That doesn’t sound very humane.
And just like that, the ease vanishes.
I tense. I’ve had this conversation before with people who don’t get it. Who think meat just magically appears in plastic packages, bloodless and guilt-free.
You think grocery store meat is better?
There are standards, she says, a little defensively.
I raise a brow. You know most of that meat? It’s babies. Calves. Piglets. Chicks. You’re eating baby animals.
Her whole face scrunches. What? No. Veal is a baby. That’s it.
They’re all babies, I say, gesturing at nothing in particular. Pumped full of hormones to grow fast. Killed before they really live. The moose I hunted? He lived a full life. Mature, wild, protected by the law until the season opened. I used every part I could.
She stares at me, lips parted, eyes wide.
I should stop talking.
Instead, I keep going.
Meat fed me and some folks in town. Bones went to my neighbour, who carves. I gave the hide and sinew to one of the elders in town—a First Nations man who tans everything by hand. It’s tradition up here. You don’t waste what you take off the land.
Wrenley doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Her shoulders soften.
Oh my God, she whispers. I’ve been eating baby animals.
The edge in me breaks. She’s not judging. She’s just shocked and processing. I came in defensively, assumed she wouldn’t care to understand. But maybe I was wrong.
Not anymore, I say, gentler now. Now you live with a guy who doesn’t trust store-bought meat and have a best friend who dry heaves if you say the word cutlet out loud.
She blinks. I eat babies.
Her voice cracks. Is she about to cry again?
She pushes back from the table and stands. Well. That was a lovely first day. I nearly got eaten by bats, sobbed like a child because my best friend dared to have a life, and now I’ve discovered I’m a baby-murdering carnivore.
I maybe wouldn’t say that last thing out loud—
I’d like to go to bed now, she says sternly, and I can tell by the look in her eyes that any lightness in the conversation is now gone.
I swallow. Okay, I’ll take you to my room.
She lifts a brow.
I mean, your room. I’ll show you.
She sighs and heads toward the hallway, pausing at her suitcases.
Just up there. I gesture to the stairs. She glances down at her bags, then up the stairs again. I’ll get them, I offer, moving past her.
She starts up, and I follow. I do my best not to look at her legs. Or her hips. Or the dip of her waist beneath her too-thin T-shirt. But God help me, I notice everything.
She stops at the top of the stairs, and I flip the hallway light on. It’s dim and narrow up here, just three doors.
Left is my room. Right’s yours. Straight ahead is the bathroom. Sorry to say it’s the only one.
She nods. Okay. She rolls her suitcases down the hall and stops at her door. Good night.
Night.
The door clicks shut behind her, and I exhale hard, leaning against the wall.
Ninety days to get married.
After that comes the adjustment-of-status paperwork, interviews, more paperwork, and, according to Remi’s optimistic research, hopefully only a few more months before Wrenley gets her green card.
That is, assuming nothing goes wrong.
And what are the chances of that?