Chapter 19 #2
Her mouth quirks up like she knows something the rest of them don’t. “You have a sister. And a mother. You’ve definitely seen The Notebook. And you’re way too polite to tell a group of drunk women no. The yoga class is the lie.”
I smile. “She’s right.”
Laughter erupts around the table—some groaning in mock outrage, others already trying to pry more details out of me about the bachelorette party story. It’s a loud, familiar chaos that fills every corner of the room and doesn’t leave space for anything too serious.
Boone jabs a finger in Wren’s direction, grinning. “Of course she got it. She’s secretly terrifying.”
Wren just lifts one shoulder in a shrug, the edge of her mouth curving like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And maybe she does.
The moment lands harder than I expect it to. Sharp, quiet. A breath caught in my ribs.
It’s just a game. Nothing more. But somehow, she always manages to look a little too closely. To see through me in ways I haven’t quite figured out how to guard against.
And part of me wonders if she knows it.
Boone leans back, stretching one arm behind Lark’s chair as he nods toward the far end of the table. “All right, Miller. Your turn.”
Miller taps her nails against her wineglass, her mouth pulled into that half-smile she’s had all night.
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s see.” She takes a slow sip, then sets the glass down with a soft clink.
“One—I once broke into my ex’s house and put glitter on all his ceiling fans.
Two—I got mistaken for a celebrity at a bar and signed a guy’s neck.
Three—I went home with a guy once and left after we hooked up because his dog wouldn’t stop humping my leg. ”
Everyone starts laughing before she even finishes the third one.
Hudson wheezes. “They’re all too good to be true.”
Before anyone else can guess, Lark leans forward with a grin that tells me she’s not guessing at all. “The neck signing is the lie. I helped break into your ex’s house, remember? Glitter bombed the fans. We had to climb through his insanely high window to get in. It was beautiful.”
Miller doesn’t deny it. Just starts cracking up, covering her mouth like she’s re-living the moment in real time.
“And Chase,” Lark adds, laughing harder now. “The guy with the weirdly human dog who also stared at you the whole time? She texted him the next day and said, ‘I just feel like your dog was judging us.’”
Miller loses it, full-on laughing now, nodding. “That dog was not okay. Like, full eye contact. The entire time. I had to leave.”
Boone just shakes his head like this is nothing new. “You two are feral.”
No one disagrees.
Across the table, Ridge’s hand is curled tight around his beer, jaw flexing in that quiet, tell-tale way guys do when they’re trying not to react. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at her. But he also hasn’t blinked since she said the words hooked up.
Even Sage is laughing now, her head resting on her hand, eyes wide. “Okay but seriously—glitter on the fans?”
“ Ceiling fans,” Miller corrects, regaining composure. “Strategically timed for maximum damage.”
Wren is laughing softly beside me, her hand brushing her mouth, her body warm with the ease that only comes when she forgets to guard it.
Ridge still hasn’t said a word. His beer bottle is clenched tight in one hand, the label halfway shredded under his thumb.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“We get it,” he mutters, too casually to be anything but pointed. “You’ve got a thing for guys with weird dogs and commitment issues, Miller.”
Miller. I hadn’t heard him call her Miller once since I’ve gotten here. Mills or Millie, but never Miller.
A few heads turn, half-curious by the shift in the air. Miller, unfazed, reaches for her wineglass with all the grace of someone who’s had years of practice brushing off Ridge Wilding.
She takes a slow sip, shrugs one shoulder. “Weird dogs and great forearms. What can I say? I’m a woman of simple tastes.”
The table cracks up. Ridge doesn’t.
His mouth twitches like he wants to say something else. But he doesn’t. Just tears off another piece of the beer label and drops it on the table without looking at her again.
Sage finally says, “Well, that wasn’t fair, Lark. You’ve known her forever.”
“She’s fun,” Lark says, shrugging.
“She’s deeply concerning,” Boone adds.
“She’s iconic,” Wren says beside me.
I glance over at her, and she doesn’t look at me—just sips from her glass, her eyes still on Miller, who’s now basking in her moment.
The thing that catches me off guard most isn’t the laughter or the warmth of the house or the fact that Miller and Lark have apparently committed actual crimes together.
It’s how easy it is to be here.
Wren’s family is loud—but in a way that makes room for you, not in a way that drowns you out. There’s a rhythm to it. People talking over each other, sure, but never not listening. No one’s performing. No one’s pretending. It’s just messy, honest comfort.
It’s quieter than my house, and somehow, that makes it louder in my head. My family’s chaos always comes with an edge—too many people trying to talk over my grief without naming it. Too much effort. Here, everything just is.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not counting the minutes until I can leave.
Across the table, Wren suddenly stands and heads toward what looks like the kitchen. No announcement. Just quietly slips out.
I hover in the dining room, half-listening to the laughter around me, half-staring at the doorway she just slipped through.
For a second, I consider staying put. Giving her space.
But then my chair scrapes softly against the wood floor, and I follow.
She’s at the counter, standing in front of the cheesecake like she forgot what she came in here for. One hand braced against the edge, the other hovering over the knife. When she hears my footsteps, she glances up, her expression smoothing out just enough to pass as casual.
“Oh—sorry.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, not quite meeting my eyes. “You didn’t have to stop playing.”
I shrug one shoulder, leaning my hip against the counter. “It’s okay. Just wanted to check on you.”
She gives a quick nod, her gaze dropping to the plate she pulls from the stack. “You want some dairy-free cheesecake?”
That pulls a quiet laugh from me. “Why the hell not.”
She slices two pieces, sets one in my hands, then pivots—bypassing the dining room entirely. I follow as she heads for the living room, where the fire’s still going, low and steady. Orange light dances across the stone hearth, the room quieter than the rest of the house.
I follow.
“Sick of the party already?” I ask, tilting my head toward the dining room, where the hum of conversation still drifts in under the clink of glasses.
She laughs under her breath and sinks into the couch, curling against the armrest like her body’s finally given permission to let go. One leg drapes over the other, bare toes peeking out from the frayed edge of a throw blanket.
“Sometimes my social battery just dies,” she says, pressing her temple to the cushion. “No warning. One minute I’m fine, the next I want to crawl out a window.”
She nudges the empty space beside her with her foot. “Sit.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not sitting next to your nasty feet.”
She gasps, mock-offended, eyes wide. “My feet are not nasty.”
I grin. “I believe you. I grew up with five brothers. Their feet could end entire civilizations.”
She laughs again, softer this time, and I drop onto the cushion beside her. Before I can talk myself out of it, I reach for her legs and pull them into my lap. She stills—not dramatically, just a subtle pause, like I caught her off guard.
I almost move. Almost apologize. But then she shifts, just enough to settle back in. Like this is fine. Like this is familiar.
I stare at the fire and try not to think too hard about how natural this feels. Or how fucking nice it is to have something feel easy for once.
She slices off a small piece of cheesecake with her fork and eyes it like it might betray her.
When I do the same, she glances over and says, “Okay, we have to taste it at the same time.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Why?”
The corner of her mouth twitches. “Because even though this was done with very good intentions”—she lifts her fork slightly—“there’s a solid chance this tastes like shit.”
I glance down at the cheesecake again. It’s neatly plated, garnished with a single raspberry like it’s trying to distract me from the truth.
Dairy-free cheesecake.
The words alone feel like a lie.
The more I think about it, the more I realize she’s probably right. What the hell even is dairy-free cheesecake? Is that even a real thing or just unique marketing?
She catches the look on my face and laughs. “See? Now you’re scared, too.”
I grimace. “A little bit.”
She holds out her fork. “Cheers.”
I clink mine against hers.
We take the bite at the same time.
And—somehow—it’s good.
Like actually good. Rich. Sweet. Not aggressively fake or plasticky like I was expecting.
Wren chews and nods once. “Okay, Hart. That’s actually decent. Rare win.”
I swallow and lean back into the couch. “Yeah. I’m a little shocked.”
She smiles, and something in my chest goes stupidly still.
The firelight dances across her face, warm and golden, catching on the high sweep of her cheekbones and the freckles dusted across her skin like cinnamon.
Her hair glows auburn in the low light, the loose strands around her face lit up like a halo.
She looks soft. Unarmored. Like the version of herself she only lets surface when no one’s asking anything of her.
“Is that ever hard?” I ask, clearing my throat and nodding toward the plate in her lap. “Like…eating out at restaurants and stuff.”
She tips her head side to side, like the answer isn’t black and white. “Sometimes,” she says. “It’s mostly hard when I have to ask for something to be made different. Not because I want to be annoying, just because I can’t eat it the way it comes.”