Chapter 23 #2
“They’re…they’re definitely doing pretty impressive work tonight,” I say. “Carrying the team. Really giving it their all.”
And they are.
They’re sitting high and proud in that dress, soft and full and fucking perfect.
Like they were made to be held. Bitten. Worshipped a little.
They’d fit perfectly in my hands. And all I can think about—stupidly, obsessively—is how good they’d look pressed up against the glass, her dress peeled down to her waist, my mouth on her while she tells me not to stop.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
She smiles and lets out a laugh—small, but easy.
“Thank you,” she says lightly. Then, with a glance at my face, “I knew you were looking at my boobs, Raymond.”
That catches me off guard. I laugh—once—and try not to choke on my own breath.
“I’m sorry—what did you just call me?”
“Your middle name,” she says, clearly pleased with herself. “It’s Raymond.”
“Yeah, and?”
“Just saying,” she shrugs, smug as hell. “It’s very…elderly.”
“Oh yeah? You wanna go there?” I nod toward her. “Your middle name is Margaret.”
She grins. “Raymond and Margaret. We sound like the couple that plays bridge every Thursday and drinks Metamucil before bed.”
I snort. “Speak for yourself. Raymond’s hot.”
“Oh, is it?”
“Absolutely. Margaret? Definitely grandma-ish.”
She narrows her eyes at me, then lifts her glass again, draining what’s left. “At least I’m a grandma with some fairly decent tits. So I’ll take it.”
That earns a full laugh out of me. No chance of swallowing it down.
“What are you doing out here, anyway?” I ask.
She exhales through her nose, then tilts her head toward me without fully looking.
She tips her head back toward the glass doors. “It was just a lot in there.”
I nod. “Yeah. Loud.”
“And I’m almost positive one of the kids stuck their fingers into the frosting before we even cut the cake.”
That makes me huff out a breath. “That checks out. I think that one with the cowlick also double-fisted cupcakes and body-checked Dom near the buffet.”
Her lips twitch. “I knew there was something off with that kid.”
I chuckle and she goes quiet for a beat, her eyes still out toward the dark.
“I know we planned this,” she says. “I know I signed up for it. But it’s kind of crazy, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
She gestures vaguely toward the venue, toward everything. “ This. I’m married. And I’ve never even been on a real date.”
That pulls me up short.
I glance over. “Seriously? I thought you dated someone for a year?”
She nods, slowly. “But we kind of just…started out as friends with benefits, and then it turned into a thing, and all our ‘dates’ were always with his friends. Group dinners. Games. Whatever. I don’t think he ever made a reservation just for me.”
I don’t say anything. Mostly because I’m trying not to say something I’ll regret. Like, who the fuck wouldn’t take Wren Wilding out on a real goddamn date?
She runs a hand through her hair and pulls it over one shoulder, and something about the movement—slow, absentminded—makes my brain stall out.
Her neck’s bare now, the skin smooth and exposed. There are a few red strands stuck along the curve of it, tangled from the wind and it takes everything in me not to reach out and brush them away.
I don’t. But I want to. God, do I want to.
She’s quiet now. Still. And there’s something about the way she looks—barefoot, hair falling loose, the night catching on her skin—that unravels me completely. Like she’s not trying to be anything, and somehow that’s everything.
She keeps talking, soft now. “I don’t know. I guess I thought this part of my life would feel more… earned . Do you know what I mean?”
I watch her for a second, but she’s not looking at me. Just out . Like if she’s quiet long enough, the night might offer her some kind of answer.
Whoever her ex was, I don’t think he ever really saw her. Not properly. He probably mistook her being quiet for simplicity. Mistook her independence for a lack of needs, and then used that as an excuse to give her nothing.
What a fucking idiot.
The sky is dark enough that it almost looks soft.
No stars, no moon—just a velvet stretch of navy blue.
The air is cold enough to bite, but not enough to send you running.
A rare mercy in Montana this time of year.
I breathe it in and it settles something in me.
Or maybe it just distracts me from the way everything else doesn’t feel settled at all.
Behind us, through the glass doors, I can still hear the music. Unchained Melody is playing.
Our first dance song.
Wait for me, I’ll be coming home. Oh, my love, my darling.
We’re supposed to be in there right now. Dancing. Pretending we’re swept up in each other instead of hiding out on a cold balcony. A love story sealed up in white linen and cake frosting.
I glance at Wren. She’s not moving. Not saying anything either. Just standing there like she forgot the rest of the night exists.
She’s quiet in that way she gets sometimes, like her mind’s folded in on itself and she hasn’t decided if she wants to come back out. I’ve started to realize she doesn’t always want rescuing from that place. Sometimes she just wants space to sit in it.
Still, I watch her. I always watch her.
“Do you wanna dance?” I ask.
Her eyes flick toward the sound of the song, the glow of the reception spilling through the doors. “In there?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Out here.”
That gets her attention. She turns to look at me, full-on this time. “Here?”
I glance around us. “Yeah. Why not?”
She looks back at the doors. “Everyone’s probably wondering where we are.”
“They might be.”
A beat. Then another.
“Do you care?” I ask.
Her mouth curves into a small smile. “Not really.”
“Me neither.”
I hold out my hand.
She hesitates, just for a second. Then she slides her hand into mine.
She steps in close, and it hits me how small she is compared to me.
She’s close enough now that I can feel the lean, coiled strength in her body, all that power from years in the saddle, from a life built on muscle memory and grit.
My hand settles against the small of her back, just above where the fabric dips.
Her skin is warm there, even in the cold, and I’m half convinced I could keep my palm there forever without needing anything else.
She smells like spring. Not flowers, not perfume—something cleaner than that. Like fresh laundry and honeysuckle and earth after rain. Like someone bottled the feeling of windows open in April and somehow made it her.
She doesn’t look up at me. Just rests her hand lightly against my chest.
“You’re thinking,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t respond.
I press a little closer. “Tell me something good.”
Her brows pull together slightly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean tell me something,” I say. “Anything. Something that’s still good. That you still think about.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Her lips press together like she’s sorting through a filing cabinet of old memories and isn’t sure what’s still worth pulling out. We move slowly—barely dancing, more swaying, like the night itself has taken on a rhythm.
And then, softly, “Watermelon in the summers. With my dad. He’d slice it into big triangles and dump it into a bowl,” she says.
“Always sprinkled salt on top. Said it brought the sweetness out.” Her voice is quieter now, like she’s not sure she means to be sharing this out loud.
“We’d sit on the porch, our legs kicked up on the railing.
He’d eat like it was a sport. Wouldn’t let me spit the seeds—said a real Wilding swallows ‘em. He was so ridiculous sometimes.”
She laughs a little at that, then shakes her head.
“We’d play Rummy. He’d pretend not to keep score, but he always did. And if I won, it was mostly because he let me.”
I don’t say anything.
To me, Lane Wilding was all grit and leather. A man who made other men feel like boys. Respected. Feared. A cowboy in the oldest, truest sense of the word. And yet here she is, remembering the man who salted watermelon and let her win at cards.
I press my hand a little more firmly against her lower back, letting my fingers rest just at the edge of the zipper. She doesn’t move away. Doesn’t stiffen. If anything, she eases into it—like some part of her was waiting for it. Like maybe she needs the contact more than she wants to admit.
“Watching storms on the front porch,” she says quietly, like it just showed up in her mind and settled in without asking.
I glance down at her, but she’s not looking at me. Her head is tilted slightly, eyes somewhere past my shoulder. “Me and my dad used to sit out there. Always when the clouds were rolling in. He said a little thunder never hurt anybody. That lightning only comes for the ones who deserve it.”
I let out a soft breath through my nose, and she keeps going.
“I loved it. The smell of rain. That thick, earthy smell right before it starts—like the whole world’s about to break open.” She pauses. “I still love it. I think I always will.”
I nod, slow. My hand shifts slightly on her back, my fingers brushing skin where the dress dips.
“What’d you two talk about?” I ask, voice low. It feels too quiet out here to say anything any louder.
She shrugs gently, her cheek brushing the edge of my suit jacket.
“Everything. Animals, mostly. He knew all the signs. How to track a mule deer. How to listen for coyotes in the distance. Said rabbits were smarter than people thought, and cows remember who’s good to them.
Said animals don’t forget someone’s kindness. That stuck with me.”
I hum in response, and she leans in a little. Her hand slides from my shoulder to the back of my neck, her fingers brushing the edge of my hair.
“And sometimes,” she says, softer now, “we’d dance in the kitchen if there was music on the radio.”
I smile—can’t help it. “Let me guess. Molly and the Sunshiners ?”
She pulls back just enough to look up at me, brow lifted. “You know my mom’s band?”