Chapter 31
SAWYER
THE RECEPTION HAD barely started, and I had already become deeply committed to holding a glass of champagne the rest of the night, even though I had no intention of drinking it.
It just gave me something to do with my hands instead of fidget and tug at my cuffs, or check my phone, which had finally finished charging in the groom’s lounge.
Although that didn’t really stop me from looking at the ballroom doors every three seconds like Beckett might walk back through them if I wanted it bad enough, but I didn’t know anything that could help that.
“Sawyer,” Hudson said as he passed behind me, “you’re staring at the door.”
Dammit. “I’m…admiring the fine craftsmanship.”
“It’s a door.”
“A very nice, well-constructed door.” When he arched a brow, I shooed him off and took a sip of champagne just to prove I was totally fine.
That only proved I wasn’t, because my stomach did not want champagne. It wanted answers, coffee, or to be left alone in a dark room for the next eight to ten business days. Maybe all three.
The ballroom was buzzing with the kind of joy the day deserved, and for that, at least, I was grateful. My moms were being pulled in for one hug after another, and God, they were glowing. They had so many people in this room who loved them, and today, they knew it.
Everything was beautiful and happy…and slightly off-kilter because Beckett wasn’t there.
I hated that. How could I be surrounded by my entire family and still feel the empty place where he’d been all week?
Beside me with his hand on my lower back and close enough that I could feel the heat of him through his shirt.
He was the calm, steady presence I’d gotten used to way too fast, and without it, I felt… bereft.
It was strange, the difference in the way I felt his absence compared to Peter’s. One had been a two-year relationship that ended out of the blue, but that I could look back on and realize maybe I should’ve seen the end coming. I definitely knew now that I deserved more.
And then with Beckett…I thought my eyes had been completely open. There was an instant connection with him that I’d never had with anyone. I could feel him on my skin, always felt tethered, even when we were apart.
Like at the ceremony, I’d felt him before I even let myself look.
I’d known where he was, in the far back, giving me distance, and the way he looked at me wasn’t in a way that was asking for forgiveness.
He wasn’t trying to make me feel guilty, even though I could see the regret clearly in his eyes.
Somehow that made it even harder, though, because his being so careful and considerate made me want to throw something at a wall.
Or kiss him.
Or maybe both, though not in that order. Probably.
Across the room, Peter stood near the bar with Alec, and when I saw him I felt…
nothing. Nothing gut-stabbing, anyway, and not with the pull he’d exerted over me for so long.
I could look at him now as just a man in a suit beside someone else, someone from my past that I’d moved on from.
I was more bothered by the fact that Beckett had told me he was leaving than by Peter’s being only a few feet away with another man.
That was wild.
I’d told Beckett I needed space, but that hadn’t meant “go back to the cabin, pack your shit, and call a car.” Knowing him, he thought leaving quietly was somehow noble or that disappearing was what I wanted him to do. Why, then, did it hurt just as bad as the lie?
I took another sip of the champagne without meaning to, forgot my stomach was rioting, and grimaced.
“Honey, the champagne didn’t do anything to deserve that expression,” Mama said, shaking her head as she and Mom made their way over, finally free of the long line of huggers.
“You’re right. I should apologize.”
“Or I’ll just take it off your hands.” Mom plucked the glass from my fingers and took a long sip.
“I’m feeling some déjà vu,” I said, not sure now what to do with my hands and tugging at my sleeve.
“If you’re referring to my margarita that we caught you sipping when you were eighteen, you’d be right,” Mom said.
“Uh, legal drinking age in Europe is eighteen.”
“Manhattan is not in Europe.”
“Well, we’d just gotten back from France. You can’t just change the rules that fast.”
“Sweetheart.” Mama reached for my hands, holding them in hers, and for a moment I was grateful she’d given my fingers a purpose…until I looked at her. She was smiling softly, but her eyes were far too knowing and I felt my stomach drop. She gave my hands a squeeze. “Your brothers told us.”
Of course they had, the traitors.
“How much?” I asked.
“Enough,” Mom said.
I waited for the inevitable questions. Why didn’t you tell us? Why did you hire someone? Sawyer Montgomery, have you lost your ever-lovin’ mind? And, to be honest, yes, clearly I had lost my head several times over.
But neither of them asked, and Mama still held my hands while Mom reached up to straighten my boutonniere.
“You look so handsome,” she said.
I narrowed my eyes. “That feels suspicious.”
“Telling my son he looks nice on our wedding day?”
“What are you buttering me up for?”
She and Mama exchanged glances—damn that whole reading-each-other’s-minds thing—and then they slipped their arms through mine and walked us away from the crowd.
“Where’s Beckett?” Mom asked.
“He went back to the cabin.”
“To pack?”
Good grief, I couldn’t even give them the lie that he wasn’t feeling well. My brothers really had given them details.
“I’m going to drown them in the mud pit,” I said.
“You’ll do no such thing. We’ve already paid for their dinners.”
I cracked a smile at that, but it quickly faded. “He’s giving me space.”
“You asked him to leave?” Mama said.
“Well…no.”
“Did you want him to?”
I felt the need to fidget, to run my hand through my hair, but they both still had hold of my arms.
“Sawyer?”
I blew out a breath and looked toward the door again. “No. I didn’t want him to leave.”
Mama gave my arm a squeeze. “Honey, your brothers told us enough for us to know he hurt you.” I nodded, and she continued, “And enough to know Beckett didn’t come here intending to become important to you.”
I bit my lip and looked down, because that part was what kept tripping me up. Beckett could’ve walked away at the hotel. Or when I’d picked him up in the city. Or after the first night or after the hot tub, or literally any moment, but he hadn’t. He’d chosen to stay.
Not because he had to or because a fake-boyfriend contract said so. He’d chosen me.
The memory came out of nowhere—during our ride, Beckett and I had talked about family, about being chosen, about how much that mattered. At the time, I thought I was the one telling him something.
But…
“He lied,” I said.
Mama nodded, listening but saying nothing.
“How do I know if I can trust him?”
“That’s nothing you’ll find out in this ballroom,” Mom said.
I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means…today reminded me of something I already knew: love doesn’t mean never making mistakes. It’s what you do after you make them that matters.”
Mama rubbed my arm, nodding along as Mom continued.
“Beckett gave you space because you asked for it, but if his leaving feels wrong, then maybe you should go tell him before he does.”
I was surprised at how simple a choice she made it sound.
I looked between them both, my moms, who had just stood up in front of everyone and chosen each other again with no guarantees except the ones they kept making.
My parents, who had built our family not because they had to, but because they wanted us—chose us, loved us through every messy, dramatic, ridiculous version of ourselves.
Including this one, apparently.
“What if…” I licked my lips and tried again. “What if I find him and I still don’t know what to say?”
Mama gave me a gentle nudge. “You’ve never let that stop you before.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to hold back a laugh.
“I’m scared,” I admitted.
“Because you care,” Mama said.
“What if I can’t get past it?”
“You’re giving a bunch of what-ifs right now,” Mom said. “But if you can’t get past it, then you’ll know. But you don’t know yet.”
She was right. They both were. I didn’t know.
But I did know the room felt wrong without him in it.
I knew seeing him at the ceremony had hurt because I’d wanted him near me, not because I wanted him gone.
Hell, I knew Peter was across the room and I barely cared, while Beckett was probably packing his bags and my heart was trying to claw its way out of my chest.
“I need to find him,” I said.
Mama leaned in and kissed my cheek. “Go, sweetheart.”
Mom nodded and shot me a good-luck wink, and I headed for the nearest door before I could talk myself out of it.
I didn’t know what would happen when I walked out those doors, if I would even find him or if he’d already left. But I did know one thing: Beckett may not have been the man I hired, but he was the man I wanted to find.