Chapter 5 #2
The front door swings open with the kind of rattle and flair that only belongs to one person in the family.
“Ho ho ho!” a voice booms from the entryway. “Santa brought your gift early this year!”
There’s a collective gasp from the table as boots thud across the hardwood. Miller groans. My mom’s already half out of her chair, her hand flying to her chest like she’s hearing a ghost.
“Oh my God,” she says. “Ridge?”
“In the flesh,” he calls back, and then he’s there—filling the kitchen like he always does.
He’s all broad shoulders and bronzed skin, the wild curl of his brown hair poking out beneath his hat, and that cocky smile that’s probably been getting him out of trouble since he was six.
He looks like he just stepped off a billboard for Montana’s Most Eligible Rodeo Stars.
Hudson leaps from the table. “Uncle Ridge!”
“What’d I tell you about growing without my permission?”
“You were late!” Hudson grins.
“Fair enough,” Ridge says, giving him a hug as he pats him on the back. “I’ll allow it this time.”
Mom hugs him next, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming!”
“You know how I like a dramatic entrance,” he says with a wink. “Got some time off the circuit for a while so I can be home for the holidays.”
When his eyes land on me, he lights up like he’s just found his favorite person in the room—which, let’s be real, he has. “There’s my sis!”
I don’t even get a word out before his arms are around me, pulling me in with that familiar mix of aftershave and whatever cologne he never runs out of. It’s the same scent I remember from every holiday and late-night pickup. Comforting in a way I never say out loud.
“You’ve been working out more or just throwing bulls around for the hell of it?” I mumble into his shoulder.
He pulls back, grinning. “Little of both. Gotta stay sharp. Word on the street is your secret brownie stash might be making a comeback.”
I roll my eyes, but the smile’s still there. It always is with him.
Ridge is…well, Ridge. Overconfident to the point of art form. A little too proud of the fact that his jeans still fit like he’s in a country music video. But he’s also my little brother. And somehow, he’s always been the one who made it easier to be myself.
With Ridge, I never felt like I had to smooth the edges. He’s never flinched at the bluntness, the overthinking, the allergy card I’ve been handing over since I was born. He just took me as I was—no edits, no disclaimers. Like being Wren was never something to work around. It was already enough.
That’s always been his gift. Making people feel okay in their own skin without ever making a big deal about it.
Ridge turns his attention to Miller, who’s now pouring more wine into her glass with one perfectly manicured hand.
“Millie!” he grins, wide and unapologetic. “Didn’t know you’d be gracing us with your presence tonight.”
“Yeah, well,” Miller says, finally turning to face him, one eyebrow arched. “We were having a perfectly nice evening until five seconds ago.”
Ridge steps farther into the kitchen, all cowboy swagger and cocky grin. “So, you missed me?”
Miller lifts her chin, her sleek dark hair brushing against her collarbone. “I’ve had root canals I missed more than you.”
He laughs—quiet and low, the kind that slips out when someone says exactly what you expected them to. There’s something about the way he looks at her, like he enjoys her more when she’s mean to him. And honestly, with Ridge, that checks out.
He drops into the seat next to her like it’s the most casual thing in the world, his leg bumping hers as he sits. Barely a glance. No acknowledgment.
But I notice. Because it’s never nothing with the two of them. It never has been.
It’s always like this—proximity that feels intentional, arguments that go nowhere, glances that last just long enough to mean something. It’s exhausting to watch.
I bite into a carrot stick just to keep my mouth busy, because what I want to say is that they should stop pretending there’s nothing going on.
Drop the act. All of it. The bickering, the sideways comments, the weird tension that drags everyone else into it.
They want each other. That much is obvious.
Or at the very least, Ridge does. Which—yes—makes me want to gouge out my own eyes, because thinking about your brother having sex is a level of trauma I’m not emotionally equipped to process.
“You’re looking good, little bro. You bulking up or something?” Boone asks Ridge, who—of course—is wearing a sweatshirt rolled up to the elbows, showing off arms that probably make the Pbr merch team weep with joy.
Ridge shrugs like it’s nothing. “Gotta keep the abs nice and shiny for the magazine covers.”
Miller scoffs into her wine glass. “You should consider developing a personality to go with them.”
He just grins. “Sounds like someone’s been staring at my abs.”
Miller rolls her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of her head. And even though the whole room is laughing, the two of them don’t break eye contact.
They continue like that all night, circling each other with witty jab after witty jab. It’s like foreplay made of sarcasm and mild hostility. It’s unbearable. Someone really ought to just lock them in the pantry and be done with it.
Lark, who’s been quietly smirking into her water glass, finally speaks up. “Well, I saw you in 8 Seconds magazine last month. Sucking face with Brighton Brooks.”
Hudson lets out an exaggerated groan. “Mom, seriously? Sucking face?”
Lark just giggles, pleased with herself.
Across the table, the twins are long gone from their high chairs.
One’s probably in the pantry and the other’s probably trying to climb the stairs but no one moves to check.
Elvis, ever the opportunist, has re-located to Sage’s side, his chin resting on her thigh while she slips him a scrap of something under the table.
Sage’s eyes light up like Christmas. “Wait—Brighton Brooks? You made out with freaking Brighton Brooks?”
A flush creeps up Ridge’s neck as he drags a hand through his hair, which, no doubt, was lightened up quite a bit by the sun this summer. “It wasn’t—okay, first of all, you don’t know what you saw—”
Miller makes a show of scrunching her nose in disgust and shifts her chair a few inches away from him. Deliberate. And effective. He glances at her through his peripheral.
Mom stares at Ridge like he’s just confessed to arson. “You’re making out with girls in magazines now? Nationally? For the whole country to see? My son?”
“It was a candid,” Ridge mutters, looking down at his hands.
Mom stands with a shake of her head. “I raised you better, Ridge Harrison Wilding. Now, I’m going to help Loretta check on the twins before someone ends up eating something they’re not supposed to.”
Hudson looks between Sage and Ridge as Mom disappears, confused. “Who’s Brighton Brooks?”
“No one,” Ridge mutters again.
“She’s one of the top barrel racers in the country,” Sage answers immediately, like she’s been waiting her whole life to flex that knowledge. Then she turns to Lark. “Isn’t that what you used to do?”
Lark smiles, soft and self-deprecating. “Once upon a time. But Brighton’s the real deal. I was just the small-town, watered down version.”
“She’s not—” Ridge starts, then shakes his head. “Look, it wasn’t even a thing, okay? The photo made it look like more than it was.”
Miller takes a sip of wine, batting her long, thick lashes. “Please, do tell us more about your rodeo whore, Ridge. I’m riveted.”
Boone nearly loses it, covering a laugh with the back of his hand and turning it into a cough that fools no one. Sage’s eyes go wide. I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from laughing and glance over at Hudson, whose eyebrows are pushed up to his hairline.
Ridge smirks. “What’s the matter, Millie? You jealous?”
She tilts her head and examines her nails like they’re far more interesting than this conversation. “I don’t get jealous. That would require me waking up suddenly lobotomized.”
Then she tosses him a slow, sweet smile that doesn’t touch her eyes. “But I do hope you enjoyed dry humping your reputation into the ground. Very on brand for you.”
Boone snorts. Lark presses a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh. Hudson makes a gagging noise.
Ridge rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. And then—in one smooth, entirely Ridge move—he reaches for the edge of Miller’s chair and yanks it back toward him.
It scrapes across the floor, loud and obnoxious. Miller’s head snaps toward him, her green eyes narrowing like she’s calculating the fastest way to dispose of a body without leaving any evidence.
She abruptly stands up, gathers her wine glass, and pivots for the door. “I’m going to go play with the twins.”
Lark raises a brow. “You hate children.”
Miller tosses a wink over her shoulder, perfectly timed. “Only that one,” she says, her eyes flicking to Ridge.
The room erupts again, and Ridge throws his arms up like he’s been personally victimized. I shake my head, chewing the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. God help us all.
Boone lets out a low whistle and leans back in his chair, arms folded. “Good luck with that one, brother.”
Ridge mutters something under his breath—something that sounds a lot like wasn’t asking for your commentary —but his gaze shifts to the doorway Miller just walked through.
He doesn’t laugh, not like he usually does.
No smirk, no sharp-edged reply ready to fire back.
Just silence. He sits there, watching the space she left behind like maybe she took something with her when she walked out.
The usual bravado slips, just a little. And for a second—barely that—I think he might actually follow her. But then he shifts in his seat, leans back like it’s nothing, and stays where he is.