Chapter 17 #2
Lark drops into the chair beside me with a groan that sounds like it’s coming from deep inside of her soul.
Mom, ever tuned in, looks up from the casserole dish she’s garnishing. “Feeling okay, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” Lark breathes, lifting a hand. “Just tired. Always tired.”
Mom gestures toward the hallway. “The guest room is all made up. Why don’t you go lay down, honey? I’ll watch the twins.”
Lark smiles, reaches for her water, and shakes her head. “Normally I’d take you up on that. But honestly? I’m starving. And everything looks amazing.”
And she’s right.
The table is basically sinking under the weight of it all—carved turkey at one end, a glazed ham at the other.
Sage’s cranberry-orange sauce in a little glass dish with a silver spoon.
Roasted carrots and brussels sprouts with maple and thyme.
Green bean casserole with the crispy onions, cornbread stuffing with bits of apple and sausage.
Sweet potato casserole with the marshmallows toasted just past the edge of reason.
There’s also an entire extra section at the end of the table that Mom made just for me: dairy-free mashed potatoes with oat milk and roasted garlic, a pan of stuffing made with gluten-free bread she orders special from Bozeman, and an apple pie I saw her making this morning with coconut oil instead of butter, even though I know it drives her crazy to bake like that.
I swallow the lump in my throat and clear it with a laugh instead. “Honestly, the pie smells so good I might just skip dinner entirely.”
Loretta snaps a towel at me from the kitchen. “Touch dessert before dinner and I will put you in a headlock.”
Hudson nods solemnly. “She means it.”
I lift one hand in surrender and back away slowly, the plate of brownies still firmly in my grip.
Then the front door swings open and Miller’s voice carries down the hall like it’s been rehearsed. “I come bearing gifts, everyone!”
Everyone turns just in time to watch her sweep into the dining room, black boots clicking over the hardwood. In her hands—balanced precariously—is a massive cake box and a small bouquet of helium balloons that the twins instantly make a beeline for as if they’ve been summoned by magic.
The cake is obnoxiously beautiful. Smooth white frosting with thick swirls of buttercream and tiny metallic sprinkles. Across the top, written in loopy, vaguely aggressive pink cursive, are the words: Happy Birthday To Our Favorite Hot Mom.
Lainey gasps like she’s just seen a unicorn. Jack yells, “CAKE!” with all the reverence of a child who’s never been disappointed by dessert. Lark covers her mouth with her hand and laughs so hard she nearly tips over in her chair.
Miller carefully sets the box down on the table, then takes a step back and fans herself like the whole delivery was physically exhausting. “She’s classy, she’s festive, and she’s deeply on brand,” she says, gesturing at the cake like she’s unveiling a sculpture.
For as long as I can remember, we’ve always celebrated Lark’s birthday at Thanksgiving.
It’s just the way it’s always been—her birthday falls on the sixteenth, but no one wants to squeeze in another gathering between calving season and holiday prep, so it just sort of got folded in.
One big meal, one extra dessert, a birthday song, and a candle or two wedged into the cake Mom baked that year.
But this year, with wedding plans eating every spare moment of Mom’s calendar and brain space, Miller volunteered herself for cake duty.
No one argued. And maybe that’s the biggest gift of all: not the cake itself, but the showing up.
In the only way Miller knows how—loud, inappropriate, and absolutely perfect.
Lark’s still laughing, cheeks pink as she stares at the cake like she can’t quite believe it. “Hot mom, huh?”
Miller shrugs, unbothered. “Don’t act like it’s not accurate.”
Lark shakes her head, grinning. “I’m gonna pee my pants.”
“Not on the chair,” Loretta warns.
Miller steps around the table and wraps both arms loosely around Lark’s shoulders, planting a quick kiss on the top of her head. “Only the best for my Scorpio queen.”
Lark rolls her eyes but doesn’t move away.
I look down at the napkin in my hand, twisting it between my fingers until the seams don’t line up anymore.
It’s not that I’m not happy for them. They’ve got one of those ride-or-die friendships people write rom-coms about—sarcastic, shameless, unshakeable. And I love both of them. But sometimes, when I see moments like that—moments that seem so effortless—I feel it in the tightest part of my chest.
I’ve never had that kind of friendship.
I have Sage, and I love Sage. But being best friends with your sister is different.
It’s tethered and baked-in, not chosen across state lines or breakups or job changes.
Lark and Miller picked each other a long time ago, and they keep picking each other.
I think some part of me has always wanted that—wanted someone who saw all the rough edges and still decided to come back anyway.
Maybe I’m just not built for that kind of a thing.
Sage used to joke that I had a bad case of resting bitch face, and maybe she wasn’t wrong. I’ve never been great at being the person people feel instantly drawn to. Too blunt. Too closed off. Too something . Or maybe just not enough of the right things.
I try to smile now, just a little, as if the effort might soften whatever part of me always comes off too guarded.
Hudson looks up from the other end of the table and frowns. “What are you doing?”
I blink. “What?”
He tilts his head. “You’re making a weird face.”
Before I can respond, the back door creaks open and both Ridge and Boone step inside, boots tracking mud and cold air into the warmth of the dining room.
“Who’s making a weird face?” Ridge asks, shaking snow off his jacket.
Hudson doesn’t even pause. “Wren.”
Ridge narrows his blue eyes and leans in, completely serious. “Ah. That’s just her face, buddy. We’ve all been trying to be sensitive about it for years.”
Without thinking, I grab the nearest dish towel and launch it at his head. It hits him square in the shoulder and he just smirks.
Boone makes his way over to where Lark’s still sitting.
He leans down, says something low in her ear that makes her laugh, then presses two quick kisses to her neck before sliding into the chair beside her.
His hand finds her thigh under the table like it always does, as if her presence alone isn’t enough—he needs to be touching her, holding her.
Disgusting. Truly.
But also…I don’t know. Kind of sweet, I guess.
They’re gross in a domestic, we’ve-seen-each-other-naked-a-thousand-times way, and still, I find myself watching them too long.
Not in a jealous way, exactly. More like a…
hopeful one. Like maybe I’m allowed to want that sort of thing too.
Someday. If I can figure out how to be a little less emotionally constipated and fix the whole resting bitch face situation.
Across the room, Ridge’s eyes shift. I follow his gaze before he even moves his head. It’s instinct at this point—he’s too easy to read.
He’s watching Miller.
She’s fussing with the cake, rearranging platters and sliding bowls around like she’s Tetris-ing the table back into balance.
Her coat’s slung off now, revealing high-waisted, wide-leg espresso-colored trousers cinched with a gold-buckled belt, and a fitted black top that looks like it was designed specifically for her.
It’s an outfit that says she has a meeting at noon, a lawsuit to win at three, and a martini to sip by five.
Her hair’s glossy and short enough to graze her jaw but long enough to tuck behind her ears the way she always does when she’s feeling annoyed.
Her makeup, as always, is somehow both sharp and effortless—clean skin, winged liner, a perfect neutral lip.
Like a woman who knows how to command attention without ever raising her voice.
Ridge’s eyes trace her from the shoes up—slow, unhurried, maybe even a little reluctant—and then they land on her face. And stay there.
I can’t even blame him. Miller’s beautiful. Objectively. But it’s not just that. It’s the way she doesn’t care that she is. Or at least, pretends not to. She knows what she looks like. She just happens to know that she’s smart and terrifying and wildly capable, too.
She’s one of the best family lawyers in Summit Springs. Maybe in all of Redwood County. She runs her firm like it’s a courtroom empire, and she doesn’t take shit from anyone. Ever.
Ridge should probably be afraid of her. But he’s not. Which is exactly the problem.
If Ridge could stop fucking every other barrel racer on the circuit, maybe— maybe —he’d be worthy of a woman like Miller Ashford.
He steps closer, just a bit, like he’s testing the edge of a cliff. Miller doesn’t turn. Doesn’t shift. She just keeps fussing with a bowl of green beans. Either she doesn’t notice him or she’s pretending not to, which is honestly hard to tell with her.
Then he clears his throat and says, “Millie.”
She jumps—just slightly—and looks up at him. Briefly. Like a flick of sunlight through glass. Then her gaze drops back to the dishes as she says, “Ridge.”
His mouth curves. Barely. “Good to see you.”
She shrugs, placing a spoon next to the cranberry sauce. “Semi-decent to see you.”
I bite down on my lip to keep from laughing.
There’s been tension between them lately. More than usual. Ever since the Brighton Brooks Kissing Debacle , as Miller’s referred to it—once, and only once, but with enough venom to salt the whole earth. Ridge couldn’t have picked someone less famous to make out with publicly?
She’s been icy toward him ever since. All sharp smiles and clipped conversations. And Ridge, to his credit or his curse, has been following her around like a heartbroken golden retriever.
“I like your outfit. It’s very… you. ”