Chapter 25 #2
“Vegan. Gluten-free.” I nod toward the cookbook open on the counter. “Found it at the bookstore in Bozeman. Thought I’d try not to poison you for once.”
She crouches down immediately to greet Hank, who’s nearly vibrating with joy now that she’s home. His tail slaps the floor like a drumline, and I swear he lets out a sigh of pure relief.
He’s been like that lately—mopey when she’s gone, extra clingy when she’s back. Which is concerning, because I don’t know what the hell he’s going to do when she’s not here anymore. When the year is up and she leaves and we go back to pretending none of this ever mattered.
Hell, I don’t know what I’m going to do either.
Wren scratches behind Hank’s ears, her voice soft. “Hey, bud. Miss me?”
He presses his head into her chest like the answer’s obvious.
She looks back up at me, smiling. “Shepherd’s pie, huh?”
I hold up the knife. “Don’t get excited yet. It’s mostly guesswork and lentils over here.”
Wren grins and stands, dusting her hands off on her thighs. “Sounds exactly like what I’d expect coming from you.”
She crosses to the counter, flips the cookbook shut, and tilts her head at the cover.
“Oh, I love her,” she says, flipping the cover back open. “Her last book had a lentil bolognese I lived on for, like, a year. I didn’t know she put another cookbook out.” She looks up at me, a brow arched. “Why’d you buy this?”
I try to play it cool and shrug, but it probably comes off more like a twitch. “I don’t know. Seemed like something I should have on hand. For when you eat things that don’t come in a takeout container.”
The look on her face says she’s not buying it for a second. I don’t blame her.
Jesus. Honestly, what is happening to me?
Why do I feel like a stupid sixteen year old boy all over again?
And why can I perform a tibial plateau leveling osteotomy on a hundred-pound golden retriever without batting an eye, but I can’t chop a goddamn carrot without suddenly questioning all my life choices?
Wren scoots in beside me, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine. She eyes the pile of carrots on the cutting board with a smirk. “Give me the knife, Hart.”
I hand it to her, handle first, and she holds it like someone who knows what she’s doing. With a few quick strokes, she slices a carrot into clean, even coins. Each one the exact same thickness.
“Hold it like this,” she says, adjusting her grip and exaggerating the motion for me. “And keep your fingers curled, like a claw.”
She points to the zucchini next. “Try that one.”
I raise the knife, but before I can start, her hand wraps around mine. She doesn’t say anything—just guides my fingers, presses my knuckles into position, keeps her palm over mine as I follow her lead. And I should probably be focused on the vegetable in front of me, but I’m not.
I’m thinking about how small her hand is over mine. How steady she is. How my heartbeat is suddenly a hell of a lot louder than the knife hitting the cutting board.
I look down at her instead of the zucchini.
Her face is calm, focused. There’s a scar on her cheek—small, near her jaw.
Faint enough that you might miss it unless you’re standing this close.
I catch myself wondering how she got it, whether it hurt, if they said sorry.
Her freckles are scattered like someone shook them out of a jar.
Her cheekbones are sharp. Her nose tips up at the end in a way that doesn’t match how serious she usually looks, which somehow makes it even better.
We finish the zucchini, or she does—I’m just following along. I grab something else from the counter. A bell pepper. Bright red, smooth, slightly dented on one side. I barely get the knife into it when she turns to step away.
I catch her wrist, gently, and put her hand back over mine.
She looks up at me—just for a second—through lashes that are a little damp, probably from snow flurries still spinning out in the dark beyond the window. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Just lets her hand stay there, steadying mine as we chop up the bell pepper together.
“How’d you get so good at this?” I ask.
She smirks—barely. “Years of unpaid child labor.”
I laugh. She shrugs.
“My mom’s always had a garden. Still does, actually. Tomatoes, zucchini, squash in the summer. She’d drag all of us out there to pick stuff, and then we’d end up chopping half of it before dinner. Ridge used to pretend he couldn’t cut anything for shit so he could get out of it.”
She adjusts my grip on the knife, more automatic now, like we’re just doing something we’ve always done.
“And you didn’t?”
She shrugs again. “Nope. I’m the oldest daughter. I didn’t get the chance to get out of anything.”
I make a quiet sound in acknowledgment, trying to focus on the way she’s guiding the knife, the pressure of her hand over mine.
But I’m standing too close—my chest nearly brushing her back, the top of her head tucked under my chin if I looked down.
I can smell her, something warm and light.
Like honey and clean sheets. Something that fucks with my ability to think straight.
Her hips shift just slightly, adjusting for balance as she leans in.
And—Christ.
Her jeans are soft and worn in, hugging her in a way that makes it hard not to notice. She’s only a few inches away, and her ass is exactly where it shouldn’t be if I’m going to keep pretending I’m unaffected.
I try to look away. I try to be reasonable. But my body doesn’t seem interested in reasonable tonight.
I inhale through my nose. Long. Controlled. Try not to let it show on my face. Try not to shift or twitch or fucking die from how aware I am of every inch of her right now.
“Yeah,” I say, voice a little rougher than it should be. “I get that. I’m the oldest out of my siblings. My brothers got away with everything. Still do. But I was the one expected to keep shit together. Set the example or whatever.”
She glances over her shoulder, just enough to catch my expression. “And did you?”
I hold her gaze. “I tried to. Probably a little too hard, honestly.”
She nods, like she understands. And I think maybe she does.
We finish the last of the vegetables and her hand lingers on mine a beat longer than necessary before she finally lets go. She turns around slowly, her eyes flicking to mine before dropping to the empty cutting board.
“We’re done,” she says, clearing her throat. “That’s everything.”
My hand’s still planted on the counter behind her, and we’re officially in each other’s space now—too close to play it off, too aware to pretend it’s not happening. I nod, but I don’t move. She doesn’t either.
Her breath hitches—barely—and then her eyes are back on mine. Whatever’s between us isn’t new. It’s just louder now. Heavier. Like it’s been sitting there all along, waiting for one of us to finally do something about it.
She clears her throat again, softer this time. “You should, uh, probably keep reading the instructions. Make sure you don’t burn the house down or something.”
I nod—just barely. She hasn’t stepped back, and she’s close enough that I catch another tiny scar under her jaw, one I hadn’t seen before. Close enough that her scent’s still hanging in my lungs, like my body hasn’t decided if it wants to breathe her in or let her go.
“And I should pack,” she adds, glancing toward the hallway. “For tomorrow.”
I try to process the words. Try to make my brain care about instructions or packing or anything that isn’t her lips that are full, flushed like she’s been biting them.
Or like she’s been sucking on something cold, the color so pink and warm and impossible not to look at.
They part just slightly before she turns, and I nearly lose it.
She slips away, Hank trotting after her like he’s never loved anyone more. That traitorous bastard.
The second she’s gone, it’s like the air collapses. I look down at the cookbook—something about lentils and thyme and oven temperatures I’ll probably mess up—and none of it registers. Not a word. I can’t fucking breathe.
I know she felt it, too. I saw it on her face. In the way she didn’t pull away. In the way she looked at me like maybe she’s trying not to want something just as badly as I am.
And maybe I should be relieved she walked out when she did. Maybe I should remind myself of what she’s already told me— she’s not looking for love. Not now. Maybe not ever, as far as I’m concerned.
But that doesn’t stop the pull, doesn’t undo the gravity of whatever this is building between us. I’ve tried to bury it, God knows I have. I’ve told myself I’m imagining it, that maybe I’m lonely. That I’m just reading into things.
I’ve told myself I already got more than most people do.
That I loved someone so fully, so completely, I should be grateful just to have had it once.
That love like that doesn’t strike twice—not because it can’t, but because the world doesn’t work that way.
You don’t get to hold lightning in your hands and expect the sky to offer it up again just because you’re still standing there, still hoping.
I’ve told myself that was it—that what came after would always be smaller. Quieter. Less.
But Wren—she makes me wonder if maybe I’m wrong.
And I fucking hate it.
And I don’t want it to stop.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with any of it.