Chapter 8
SAWYER
The second we walk through the door, it all hits—chaos, heat, and something that smells like fried potatoes and brisket so tender it probably melts in your mouth.
Riley’s voice booms before we’re even fully inside. “I swear to Christ, Crew, if you mess with my truck again—”
“Nobody’s messing with your goddamn truck,” Crew fires back from somewhere down the hall.
I step inside and Wren follows, her boots thudding softly on the worn hardwood. The house is warm. Loud. Lived-in. It’s been this way my whole life.
The twins, Emily and Nathan, are at the kitchen island helping Mom—who’s rattling off instructions with that thick Texan drawl that makes everything sound nicer than it is.
She’s pointing at pans, stirring something with one hand, and correcting Emily’s slicing technique with the other.
It smells like garlic, onion, and my mom’s buttermilk biscuits the closer we get to the kitchen.
My stomach growls loud enough that I’m pretty sure Wren hears it.
Riley spots us first, leaning against the dining room doorway with a beer in hand. It’s not even noon.
“Well, shit,” he drawls, grinning like the asshole he is. “Sawyer brought a date. A pretty one, too.”
Wren goes stiff beside me. I see it—the way her shoulders lock up, the way her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag.
Her expression is caught somewhere between amusement and discomfort.
Her cheeks are tinged pink, but she’s doing her best to look unbothered.
I don’t think anyone else notices, but I do.
She’s in a room full of strangers, all of them talking loud, moving fast, with zero concept of personal space. This is probably her worst nightmare.
I shove Riley hard enough he sloshes beer on his shirt. “Shut the hell up.”
He just laughs, wiping at the stain. “What? I’m just being friendly, you dick. I liked this shirt.”
I playfully grab him in a headlock before he can keep digging his grave. “You’re being a shit-starter.”
“Ma!” Riley yells, flailing like a toddler. “Sawyer’s trying to murder me again!”
From the kitchen, Mom doesn’t even look up from the stove. “Then die quietly, baby. And grab some plates if you’re gonna keep yappin’.”
Wren’s standing there, arms crossed tight over her chest, but I catch the way her mouth quirks up into a half-smile.
I lean down a little, my voice low and just for her. “It gets better once they’re fed. I promise.”
She lets out a chuckle. “That’s how it usually goes.”
I grin before I can stop myself. Any laugh I can pull from her feels like a win.
Wren Wilding doesn’t hand out smiles and laughs like party favors. You earn them. You work for them. And I kind of like that about her—that she’s real. That she doesn’t fake it to make anyone else comfortable.
Her laugh surprises me though. For someone who moves through the world like she’s waiting for the ground to give out beneath her, it’s…
soft. Feminine in a way that feels at odds with how tightly she holds herself together.
Her voice, when she speaks, when she laughs—it’s warmer than she probably realizes.
And shit, if that doesn’t hit somewhere it shouldn’t.
I liked Julia’s laugh, too. Loved it.
Bright and untamed, one that could pull me out of my own head without even trying. She’d tip her head back when she really got going, lose herself in it, and it made you want to laugh too—just because she was.
The weight of that memory presses in, slow and mean. My stomach knots, and just like that, I can feel the wall going back up.
Automatic. Like breathing.
Whatever this thing is—this pull toward Wren—it’s not supposed to be happening. It’s not fair to Julia. It’s not fair to Wren either.
I straighten up, roll my shoulders back, and clear my throat like it’ll shove the thoughts down where they belong.
“Come on,” I say, keeping my voice easy. “Before they eat everything and leave us with the scraps.”
Wren falls into step beside me, still quiet but keeping pace like she’s preparing herself for whatever fresh hell the Hart house has to offer.
We round the corner into the kitchen, where Mom’s already in full command mode, sliding a casserole out of the oven and trying to toss salad in a huge wooden bowl at the same time.
Her light brown hair is twisted up, neat and elegant even with flour dusting the front of her shirt.
When she turns and spots us, her blue eyes crinkle into a smile so big it practically lights up the damn room.
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” she says, beaming. “Would you look at that! A lunch guest!”
I hear Wren stifle a laugh beside me.
Mom wipes her hands on a dish towel and crosses the kitchen to hold one out to Wren. “Estelle Hart. So glad to have you, honey.”
Wren shifts her bag higher on her shoulder and takes her hand, giving one of those small, polite smiles that you’d miss if you blinked. “Wren Wilding.”
At that, Mom’s face lights up even more. “A Wilding!” she crows like Wren’s some celebrity who just wandered into our kitchen. “Well, shoot, we’re mighty honored.”
Behind us, the back door bangs open, and Mason comes barreling in, his hair messy, jacket half off, snow still clinging to his boots. The noise level picks up like someone turned up the volume on the whole damn house—Riley and Crew still arguing from the living room, someone pounding up the stairs.
Mom just waves a hand toward the chaos. “Don’t mind the zoo. We’re all used to this by now.”
Emily breezes past Mason, rolling her eyes hard. She flips her brown hair over her shoulder and leans in like she’s letting Wren in on some big secret. “It’s always like this.”
Wren laughs—a real, honest laugh—and damn if that sound doesn’t land somewhere low in my chest.
“I believe it,” she says.
Nathan elbows his twin, grinning. “Don’t act like you’re not the craziest one in this house, Em.”
Emily snorts, grabbing a handful of carrots from the counter and tossing one at his head. “Says the guy who tried to sled off the roof last winter.”
“It would’ve worked if you hadn’t snitched.”
“Be glad I did or you would’ve ended up in a ditch somewhere.”
Mom’s shaking her head as she turns toward Wren, smiling like she’s just been waiting for an excuse to mother her a little. “Can I get you something, sweetie? We’ve got water, sweet tea, hot chocolate, lemonade…probably a dozen other things I’m forgetting.”
Wren’s mouth tips up at the corners, polite but guarded. “Water would be great, thank you.”
Mom moves to fill a glass with some ice, her southern drawl thick as ever. “Vaughn was tellin’ me you’re working with one of the new horses. Said we’re lucky you agreed to come out here.”
She sets the glass of ice water down in front of Wren with a little clink. Wren nods, one hand curling loosely around it.
“That’s right,” she says. “He’s a bay. A little skittish. There’s a lot of work left to do, but he’s smart.”
I lean my elbows on the counter next to her without thinking, knocking my knuckles lightly against the wood. “It’s pretty damn impressive, watching her with him.”
Wren turns pink again. Not full-on red—just a soft flush that creeps up her neck and hits her cheeks.
And Jesus, I like that. Something about knowing I can get that reaction out of her, when she’s usually so buttoned-up and unreadable, scratches an itch I didn’t even know I had.
I shake the thought off, forcing myself to re-focus.
She shifts like she doesn’t know where to look, shoulders pulling tight for half a second before she says, careful and formal, “That’s very kind, thank you.”
It hits me again—the way she folds in on herself at the first hint of kindness. Like she’s not sure what the hell to do with it.
And I don’t know why.
People must tell her she’s good at what she does, right? She’s gotta hear it all the time.
But maybe not. Maybe nobody tells her enough?
And even though I shouldn’t, even though I know better—I find myself wanting to be the one who does.
Before I can think any more about that, Emily materializes out of nowhere, grinning and reaching for a strand of Wren’s hair. Wren flinches like she’s been stung.
Emily jerks her hand back. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to spook you.”
Wren just nods her head quickly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite make it to her eyes. “It’s okay.”
“That’s your real color?” Emily asks, studying her hair like she’s something rare.
Wren tucks it behind her ear. “It is.”
Emily beams. “It’s so pretty. You’re like, a true redhead.”
“In the flesh,” Wren says. There’s the hint of a smile there, tucked just under the surface.
Riley breezes past, tossing a wink over his shoulder. “Heard redheads are a little spicy.”
Wren smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Riley barks out a laugh and hands her a plate.
I head toward the counter where Mom’s laid everything out—there’s a big dish of roasted root vegetables, buttermilk biscuits piled high in a basket, a heaping green salad tossed with something that smells sharp and fresh, and a massive casserole dish that’s probably packed with enough carbs and cheese to kill a grown man happy.
I glance sideways at Wren, who’s hovering a little stiffly by the counter, her mouth pulled tight like she’s weighing every option. She ends up scooping a tiny bit of salad onto her plate. A few roasted carrots and sweet potatoes.
That’s it.
That’s it?
That’s all she’s going to eat?
My stomach grumbles loud enough to make me wince. I pile my plate high with everything in sight—casserole, biscuits, salad, a ridiculous helping of vegetables because Mom will give me hell if I don’t.
Wren follows the others toward the dining room, plate practically empty, while I lag behind, loading up like it’s my last meal on earth.
I skipped breakfast to run to the clinic this morning—helped an old heeler with a torn ligament who needed a quick bandage change—and now I’m half-starving. The smell of warm bread, butter, and roasted garlic practically drags me by the nose.