Chapter 26 #4
She’s quiet for a second, then says, “I always thought if I had a girl one day, I’d name her Ruthie.”
“Ruthie? Why?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I went through a Seventh Heaven phase when I was, like, eight and just got irrationally attached to the name Ruthie. I named everything Ruthie after that. Dolls, imaginary friends, this beat-up stuffed elephant I dragged around for years. It just…stuck, I guess.”
I glance at her again, at the way she’s turned slightly toward the window but not enough that she’s hiding. “It’s a pretty name.”
She snorts. “Do you actually mean that? Or are you just giving me shit?”
“I mean it,” I say, and I do. It sounds like her somehow. Elegant but not frilly. Sophisticated. Understated.
She looks at me, holding my gaze for a beat longer than normal. Then, her voice drops, casual in a way that’s not casual at all. “It doesn’t really matter, anyway. I won’t get to use it since they gutted me like a fish and took my uterus out.”
I jerk slightly, eyes flicking to her in horror. “Fuck, Wren!”
She laughs. “It’s fine. You can laugh. I use dark humor to cope.”
“You’re sick in the head,” I mutter, shaking mine, but I’m laughing too.
I look at her again, and she meets my gaze. There’s humor there, yeah—but something else, too. Something old and bruised, tucked underneath the smirk. And I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I want to reach over and thread my fingers through hers, just to let her know she’s not alone.
Just then, my phone rings.
I flinch at the sound, dragging my gaze away from her, and I swear I’ve never been more grateful for a distraction in my life. It’s probably better this way. If I stare at her for another second, I’m going to do something reckless—like reach for her hand, or worse, kiss her. Again.
Dom flashes across the screen. Shit.
I answer. “What the hell do you want?”
He chuckles, that smug, gravelly laugh of his. “Relax, lover boy. Was just calling because I was supposed to kick your ass at the gym. But as it turns out—you’re not here.”
“Fuck.” I drag a hand over my jaw. “It’s Friday.”
“Ding ding diiiiiiiing.” He draws it out. “Which, if I remember correctly, is our regular scheduled programming of me showing you how to bench twice your weight.”
I blow out a breath, trying not to look at Wren again, who’s thankfully gone back to reading. “I’ve got a work thing. Fundraiser. Vet stuff.”
“Mhm.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Or you just wanted to stay home and fuck your fake wife. It’s okay, man. Just say that.”
I grit my teeth. “That’s not it, Dom.”
“Bullshit. I’ve been telling you for years—you need to get laid. Regularly. You’d be less of a moody bastard. Hell, you might even be, dare I say it, likable .”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“And you want that, don’t you?” he says, too fast. “Admit it. You want her. I saw the way you looked at her in that dress at the wedding. You were one slow song away from bending her over and—”
“Finish that sentence and I’ll break your nose the next time I see you.”
“Okay!” he says, laughing. “Touchy, touchy. But before you murder me, you should know…I did…a thing.”
I instantly hate the tone in his voice. “What did you do?”
“You can’t tell anyone, okay?”
That’s never a good start.
I straighten a little in my seat. “Tell me.”
“You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to anymore.”
“Dom, spit it out.”
He lets out a dramatic sigh, and then—“I…may or may not have hooked up with your fake wife’s hot sister at the wedding.”
Silence follows. Absolute, deafening silence. My brain short-circuits, thoughts screeching to a halt like a car slamming into a brick wall.
“You’re lying,” I say, the words coming out low and quiet. “Tell me you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“Fuck.” I scrub a hand down my face.
The man couldn’t keep his dick in his pants for more than two goddamn seconds.
“Look, I didn’t plan on it—”
“Where?” I ask flatly. “Where did that even happen?”
“I told you, man. At the wedding.”
“I gathered that, jackass. I mean where? ”
He laughs under his breath, like this is some fond memory he’s gonna tell his grandkids. “ Oh. A storage closet, I think. Or maybe it was, like, a supply room or something? There were shelves. A bucket was involved. I’m ninety percent sure we broke a Swiffer.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. It was kind of a blur,” he says.
I glance at Wren. She’s still reading, blissfully unaware that my best friend is confessing to defiling her sister in what was probably the venue’s janitorial supply.
Thank fuck.
He laughs. “It was honestly kind of impressive. There wasn’t a lot of room, but we made it work.”
“Dom.”
“I’m just saying. A lot of spatial awareness and critical thinking skills were required. Flexibility, too.”
I groan.
“Ten outta ten. Top five life experiences. She didn’t even know who I was or that I boxed, which was really hot.” Then quieter, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, “But not just that—I think I actually…liked her.”
I blink. “You liked her? You never like anyone.”
“I mean—yeah.” He exhales, like the admission costs him.
“I don’t know. She was actually cool. Like, smart.
Kind of weird in a hot way. Didn’t pretend to know shit about boxing, which I respect.
Just said what was on her mind. Kept me on my toes.
Oh, and she didn’t look at me like I was a walking paycheck, which was a breath of fresh air. ”
For a second, I actually feel a little bad for him.
Then he says, “Anyway. She also had really nice legs. Like, Olympic-level legs. Just throwing that out there.”
And just like that, the sympathy vanishes. “Dominic.”
“I know, I know. I’m not proud of it.”
“Yes, you are.”
He snorts. “Okay, I am, what can I say? I’m a man of many talents. No shame in that. But seriously, you can’t tell anyone. Especially not Wren. No offense, but your fake wife scares me a little. And I like my limbs where they are.”
“No promises if she finds out on her own and kills you.”
“Fair. But if I die, make sure they use a good photo at the funeral. One that accentuates my fantastic jawline.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I don’t need this sort of judgment from a man clearly in love with his fake wife.”
I grit my teeth. “We’re not—”
“Save it. You’re pussy whipped and we all know it. See you next week, lover boy. And tell Hank that Uncle Dom said hi.”
Click.
I shove my phone back in my pocket and drag a hand down my face, resisting the urge to slam my forehead against the steering wheel.
From the passenger seat, Wren doesn’t even glance up from her book. “That sounded entertaining.”
I side-eye her. “You have no idea.”
She turns a page. “Was that the boxer friend? The one who sounds like he gets hit in the head for a living?”
I huff out a laugh. “Yeah. That’s him.”
“That makes sense now.”
I glance over at her again. Her eyes are still on the book, but there’s the faintest pull at the corner of her mouth.
“He’s not always that much of an idiot,” I say.
She lifts a brow, still not looking at me. “No?”
I shrug. “Sometimes he’s worse.”
She laughs then—a small one.
The snow is still coming down, but slower now—less hurried, more certain.
It clings to the fence posts and road signs, coating everything in a light dusting that makes it all look softer, quieter, touched by something gentle.
The sky has shifted to a pale gray-blue, the kind that blurs the edges of things and makes the whole world feel hushed.
Montana feels different in this light. Calmer. Like it’s finally exhaled.
Wren tucks one leg under the other and flips a page in her book. There’s this small crease between her brows like she’s really into whatever she’s reading.
And I don’t know. For a minute, it all feels…quiet in a way I haven’t had in a long time. Sitting next to her like this, not saying anything, not needing to—it does something to me. I feel full in a way I forgot I could.
Like maybe I don’t have to keep trying so hard to outrun the ache in my chest.
Like maybe, when she’s here, I don’t have to run at all.