8. Luna
Chapter 8
Luna
Shay fusses with my hair like it's a national emergency, her reflection hovering behind mine in the antique vanity mirror that's been in the ranch house since before either of us was born.
“You're not nervous,” she says, pinning a stubborn curl behind my ear with the practiced precision of someone who's spent their life corralling unruly things. “You're just under-caffeinated.”
“I’ve had two cookies and a coffee the size of my head,” I mutter, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon light streaming through the lace curtains.
“Exactly. Barely a baseline.” Shay adjusts the wildflowers she's been weaving into my hair for the past thirty minutes—delicate blue cornflowers and white daisies gathered from the meadow at dawn. “Deep breath. You look beautiful.”
The dress I’m wearing is my newest purchase from town yesterday. It’s simple, with lace along the sleeves and soft ivory that catches the light like candle smoke. It fits like it was made for me, snug through the bodice and flowing from the waist down in a way that’s understated yet graceful. Nothing flashy. No frills. Just something clean and real like the promises I'll make today.
I stand, letting Shay help me into it, the fabric cool against my skin as it settles into place. The wooden floorboards creak beneath my bare feet as I turn to face the mirror.
“Perfect,” Shay whispers, her hands steady on my shoulders
Shay insisted on a touch of makeup—“just enough to stun your silent cowboy into using full sentences”—along with wildflowers braided into my hair.
“He won't know what hit him.” Shay steps back, hands on her hips, and gives me an appraising once-over. “You look like a woman who’s about to make three Sutton men cry and one pretend he has allergies.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And which one is Tom?”
“Oh, Tom’s already crying.” She grins. “He started when I plugged in the fairy lights.”
I laugh. And it startles me a little. Not the sound but how easy it is to make. How natural it feels here.
Then, before I can stop myself, my thoughts drift to my soon-to-be husband.
Growing up in the system, I learned to read men like they came with secret warning labels. The smooth talkers, with their practiced smiles and eyes that followed me when I turned away. But Angus doesn't try to impress me. He doesn’t fill the silence with empty flattery. His blunt words and awkward pauses show me he's not playing a role—it’s who he is: rough-edged, uncomfortable, genuine.
Something about him puts the frantic bird in my chest at ease. His gruffness isn't something to fear; it's the surface of a man who doesn't know how to pretend to be anything but himself.
And it’s something I like about him. Very much. More than I should, considering this is supposed to be a marriage of convenience. Only now, I’m having feelings that are very inconvenient.
Especially after last night in the stables. I shiver as I remember Angus’s hand fisting in my hair like he didn’t want to let go. The way his mouth moved against mine—slow at first, then rougher, like he’d been holding back for too long. He kissed and touched me like he needed it. Needed me . The woman who’s never been anyone’s first choice.
I remember the thrust of his tongue between my legs, hot and wet and devastating. The way I shattered—boneless and breathless—into hands that didn’t simply take but gave me something I didn’t know I was starving for.
And after, when my body was still trembling, he redressed me with those big, calloused hands and held me. Like I mattered.
Which is the part I can’t stop circling back to.
We’re getting married today. On paper. For the land. For the clause in Ruth Sutton’s will. But marriage is more than paperwork. It means I’ll wake up in this house every morning. It means sharing a name, a roof, and a life.
And if I’m staying for real, shouldn’t I stop pretending this is only a transaction?
Because something about Angus Sutton doesn’t feel temporary. Something about him makes me want to dig in my heels and fight for this place. For him. For us.
Even if I don’t know what “us” looks like yet.
Even if I’m scared it’s all one-sided.
Maybe the real risk isn’t to the land Angus is trying to protect but to my heart.
Because somewhere between the paperwork and the vows we haven’t spoken yet, I started wanting more than I was ever supposed to ask for.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts, and Ben Sutton stands on the threshold, hat in hand.
Shay touches my arm. “I’ll give you a minute.”
She slips out, and Ben steps in.
“I figured,” he starts, voice low and scratchy, “if you’re marrying my son under my roof, I ought to say something.”
My mouth goes dry. “Okay.”
He shifts in his boots, eyes drifting to the window like he's more comfortable talking to trees than people. “You’re not Ruth.”
I blink. “I—no, sir.”
“And that’s a good thing.” He looks at me then, steady and clear. “You’re not here to replace her. You’re here to build something new. With him.”
Ben clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with emotional monologues. “He’s a quiet one, my Angus. Always has been. Ruth used to say he was born serious—came out scowling and didn’t stop.”
“I’ve noticed,” I say, and he huffs a breath that might be a laugh.
“But he loves hard. Deep. Won’t say it out loud, not unless you back him into a corner. But if he looks at you like you’re the horizon he never thought he’d see again… you’ll know.”
My chest tightens.
Ben shifts again, thumb tapping absently on the brim of his hat. Then his gaze cuts sideways. “Can I ask you something? You sure about this? It's not too late to run.”
“I’m sure,” I say. “But… can I ask you something too?”
He raises a brow. “Fair’s fair.”
“How did Ruth manage to put all that stuff in the will without you knowing?”
Ben’s face twitches—something between exasperation and pride. “Because she was smarter than me. And sneakier. I thought we were settling the paperwork for the boys’ inheritances. Turns out, she was setting up a matchmaking ambush with a legal contract and three ticking time bombs.”
I laugh, startled. “And you didn’t know?”
“Not ‘til after,” he says. “I opened that envelope and damn near choked on my coffee. But then I read it again, and I knew exactly what she was doing.”
“Which was?”
Ben looks at me, eyes gentling. “She was making damn sure the people she loved wouldn’t go through life alone.” He chuckles. “My Ruth would’ve liked you.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you.”
He tips his head. “Don’t thank me yet. This family turns everything into a competition—chores, chili, who can avoid feelings the longest.”
I grin. “I’ll brace myself.”
Clearing his throat, he glances toward the stairs. “Listen, I know this ain’t traditional. You don’t have people here. But if you let me, I’d be honored to give you away.”
I blink. That does it. The tears sting hot behind my eyes as I nod. “I would love that.”
Ben’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Good. Then let’s go get you married.”
* * *
The living room looks like a Pinterest board lost its mind. Wildflowers in mismatched vases on every windowsill. Strings of white lights zigzagging across the exposed beams. A quilt draped over the mantle like a banner, corners pinned with sprigs of sage and lavender. And the makeshift aisle running down the middle of the living area, marked by mason jars filled with fairy lights and tied with simple white ribbons.
My gaze lands on Shay first as I descend the stairs with Ben. She’s glowing. Not just from pregnancy hormones or victory over Tom’s attempted prank when he tried to hot-glue googly eyes to the ring boxes, but from sheer joy.
Henry is by her side, calm as always. He gives me a nod as I descend the stairs with Ben, and something unspoken passes between us.
You’re one of us now.
It makes my eyes sting because, for the first time in my life, I’m being chosen.
Tom’s face brightens as soon as he sees me. “There she is,” he calls. “You made it! Good thing, too. I had a backup goat on standby just in case.”
Shay groans. “Tom.”
“What? Cheese Puff would’ve looked adorable in a veil.”
Henry smacks him on the shoulder, but he’s grinning too.
And just like that, the last of my nerves settle. Because if this is what chaos looks like, I can live with it.
Then I see him, and a swarm of butterflies erupts in my stomach.
Angus.
Standing at the end of the makeshift “aisle” in a clean flannel, blue eyes locked on me like I just stepped out of some dream he didn’t know he had permission to want.
He doesn’t smile or speak, but something eases in his posture as if the ground has steadied under him.
And suddenly, everything else disappears. The laughter, the fairy lights, the goat jokes all fade into static as his gaze holds mine. Intense. Sharp. Quiet and unflinching as if he’s really seeing me.
My breath catches. Because this man—this gruff, wounded man—is looking at me like I’m wanted . Not just for today, and not just to fix a problem.
And for a girl who’s always been waiting for the other shoe to drop, that look feels like everything I’ve ever dared to hope for.
“All right, who am I marrying today?”
My gaze is pulled to the minister standing beside Angus—a wiry man with a beard who looks older than the church he came from.
“Are we doing a group ceremony?” he asks with a wink. “Should I just line up Sutton men and start blessing?”
Tom raises a hand. “Put me down for June.”
“Lord help her,” Ben says as we reach the bottom of the stairs.
The minister grins, unbothered. “I swear, between this family and the livestock, I’ve officiated more vows under this roof than in my chapel.” He looks at me as Ben walks me down the “aisle,” and his eyes soften. “And you must be the one with enough grit to marry this particular Sutton.”
I smile. “And questionable judgment, apparently.”
There’s laughter. Easy and familiar, as if I’ve been here for years instead of a week.
Angus doesn’t say much. Of course he doesn’t. But when he looks at me, something in his expression hits harder than any vow.
It’s not simply admiration. It’s recognition. As if he sees me not only as the woman who showed up, but as the woman who stayed.
Shay tugs me gently into place beside him, then slips into her spot between Henry and Tom. Ben lingers behind them, arms crossed, mouth twitching like he’s proud and trying hard not to show it.
The minister opens his book. “We gather here today to witness the union of two people who, by all accounts”—his mouth twitches as he glances at Tom—“have exchanged roughly seven words between them since they met.”
Laughter again.
“Now, I’ve married a lot of couples,” the minister continues. “Some couldn’t stop kissing. Some couldn’t stop fighting. But every now and then, I meet a pair who don’t need all the noise. Who show up for each other quietly,” His gaze moves meaningfully between Angus and me. “The way real love does if you allow it to grow.”
Tom clears his throat loudly. “So what you’re saying is, their love language is intense eye contact and ominous silences?”
The others chuckle. Even Angus huffs something that might be a laugh.
I glance up at him, and he’s already looking at me. Still quiet. Still steady. Giving me that intense eye contact and ominous silence Tom joked about—but it’s not a joke now. It’s a tether. A promise. A gravity that pulls at something buried deep in my chest.
I don’t know what it means yet. But I know I’d follow it anywhere.
“I’m guessing neither of you wrote vows?” the minister asks, breaking the spell.
I bite my lip and shake my head.
Angus shifts uncomfortably. “Nope.”
“Didn’t think so.” The minister closes the book. “Then let’s keep it simple.”
He turns to Angus first. “Do you, Angus Sutton, take Luna Monroe to be your wife, your partner, your equal, your thorn when needed, and your rose when it matters most?”
Angus raises an eyebrow at the minister’s poetic language, but his “I do” is firm and clear.
The minister turns to me. “And do you, Luna Monroe, take Angus Sutton to be your husband, your daily dose of stubborn, your unsmiling cowboy, and your safe place to land?”
I smile through the heat in my eyes. “I do.”
Shay presses the ring into my hand—a simple gold band from the antique store in town, picked out two days ago when she dragged me dress shopping. I take Angus’s hand—rough, solid, and steady—and slip it onto his finger.
Angus takes mine from Tom and does the same. It’s beautiful in its simplicity. A matte-finished white gold ring, simple and solid, with a tiny engraving on the inside I can’t make out before he slides it into place.
No flourish. No speech. But his thumb brushes the inside of my wrist before he lets go. It feels like a promise.
The minister raises his hands. “By the power vested in me—by the church, the state, and the enduring memory of Ruth Sutton—I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Tom whoops. Shay wipes a tear. Ben claps exactly once, then walks outside like he definitely isn’t about to cry.
Angus looks at me.
I look at him.
Then I lean up and kiss him—soft and sure and not just for show.
His hand comes to the small of my back, pulling me in.
And at that moment, everything else fades.
It’s just him. Just us.
And that’s enough.
* * *
After changing into less formal clothes, we eat the famous Ben Sutton chili out of Ruth’s best China, dusted off for the occasion, and pass cornbread around the table like communion.
Tom jokes about how the hot chili will make everyone fart and earn them a one-way ticket to sleeping in the barn with the goats.
Shay rolls her eyes. “No one weaponizes farts like you, Tom Sutton. If you Dutch oven me one more time, I swear I’ll lock you in the barn with Biscuit during rutting season.”
I nearly choke on my cornbread. Ben snorts into his beer. Henry shakes his head with a long-suffering sigh.
Angus mutters, “I knew I should’ve eaten outside.”
But no one moves. No one leaves.
Shay toasts us with sweet tea and insists I’ll regret not eloping with someone less emotionally constipated.
Angus doesn’t argue. He just watches me with a look that says: You’re not going anywhere. And neither am I.
“Beer?” Tom offers, holding out a bottle toward me.
I shake my head. “No thanks. Never found a beer a like.”
“Remind me to take you to The Honey Pot,” Angus says. “Never met anyone who doesn’t like their beer. Brewed on the premises using some secret family recipe.”
“Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Sutton,” I tease.
His blue eyes darken. “Figure since you’re stuck with me, I might as well make it interesting.”
Shay hands me a slice of pie the size of my head before I can reply, insisting it’s tradition. Henry warns her the baby can’t taste it as she tucks into her own head-sized piece. She tells him the baby enjoys the sugar rush spiritually.
Tom tapes a paper sign over the doorway that reads “Just Hitched” in black marker and goat stickers.
Laughter ripples around the table, easy and full, and for a second, the whole world feels like it fits inside this kitchen.
* * *
When we finally head to bed that night, Angus leans against my door frame for a moment like he’s unsure if he should come in. He doesn’t move. He watches me like he’s waiting for something—permission, maybe. Or for me to vanish.
So I reach out, palm open. And just like that, he crosses the room
Angus takes my hand and sits on the edge of the bed, his thumb grazing over my palm like he’s memorizing the shape of it. The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp and the distant sound of frogs singing somewhere past the fields.
Neither of us speaks. We don’t need to. Because the silence between us tonight isn’t heavy or awkward—it’s full of potential. Full of want .
Everything changed last night in the barn and making it legal today only cements what I already know. What began as an arrangement on paper has turned into something else entirely. Something quiet and steady and impossible to ignore.
He cups my cheek, his thumb rough against my skin where it lingers beneath my eye. His voice is low, a little hoarse. “You’re not just doing this to fix my mess, are you?”
I shake my head slowly. “I’m doing this because I want you. All of you. Even the hard parts.”
Still, he watches me, waitinglike he’s been left before and half-expects it to happen again.
So I close the gap.
And I kiss him.
Soft at first—tentative, tasting, a question wrapped in heat. But when his hand slides to the back of my neck and he groans low in his throat, everything tilts. The room. My heart. My whole lonely life.
His mouth claims mine with something more than hunger. It’s need . Deep and aching and years in the making, even if we’ve only known each other a week.
I thread my fingers into his hair and tug gently. He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against mine with purpose as if he’s memorizing me from the inside out.
The quilt cushions me as he presses me onto the bed, his body braced above mine, solid and warm. I reach for the buttons on his shirt and tug them loose one by one, revealing scarred skin and muscles that move like a promise of pleasure to come beneath my hands.
My fingers pause over one puckered scar that looks like a bullet wound beneath his collarbone.
I want to ask: What happened? Did it hurt? Are there more?
But I don’t.
Because something about the way he watches me—tense, waiting—tells me he’s not ready to speak those memories out loud.
So instead, I let my hand move over the scar without question. Not ignoring it. Accepting it.
All of him.
“You’re beautiful,” I whisper because he is.
His eyes darken, jaw tight. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
I cup his jaw, relishing the scrape of his stubble against my palm. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”
The air shifts again. Thicker now. Charged. And when he lowers himself to kiss down my throat, my breath stutters.
“I don’t know how to do this gently,” he mutters against my skin.
“Then don’t.”
And he doesn’t.
He worships instead.
With every kiss. Every touch. Every shuddering breath. He undresses me like I’m something holy, like he’s not simply undressing a body but a history. A woman who’s only ever known how to survive.
But tonight, with him, I get to feel .
Because it’s not just about sex. It’s not even about comfort or heat.
It’s about being wanted. Chosen. Seen.
And in his arms, with his mouth at my shoulder and his breath against my throat, I start to believe it might be real.
That this— us —was always going to be more than a contract. More than survival.
It feels like home.