Chapter 62 Wren
Wren
It’s Friday night and Reese shoots me a knowing look from my porch swing, one dark brow arched and a smirk playing on her glossed lips. She’s already made herself comfortable—crisp white wine in hand, cozy throw draped across her legs, and Atticus curled up beside her with a stack of library books.
“You sure he’s not a romance novel come to life?” she asks as a freshly washed white pickup rolls into my driveway, sunlight catching on the chrome bumper like a wink.
My heart flutters. I try to play it cool.
“I’m not even convinced he’s real,” I say.
Hunter steps out of his truck, and I swear the man’s been plucked from a small-town thirst trap calendar.
Non-ripped dark jeans. Polished boots the color of sawdust. A red plaid button-down so crisp it probably saw an iron this morning.
And cologne. Actual cologne. Not tractor grease, not sun-warmed sweat—cologne.
And somehow, his eyes are extra blue tonight.
He moves toward us with long, purposeful strides, and once he gets close, his eyes drag the length of me as a pleasant expression sweeps over his face.
I chose this dress just for tonight—one that hugs in all the right places yet still leaves enough to the imagination.
And I spent an hour putting curls in my hair, brushing and smoothing them out until I achieved perfect date-night waves.
“You look stunning,” he says before stealing a kiss, slipping his hand in mine, and making me twirl.
Reese shoots me a bitten grin, giving her stamp of approval without saying a word.
“You must be Reese,” he says, offering his hand.
She takes it, all charm and finesse. “And you must be the one making my best friend swoon like it’s her full-time job.”
Hunter chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling just enough to make my insides somersault.
“Atticus, you be good, okay?” I say, ruffling his hair.
“Aunt Reese and I are gonna build a pillow fort,” he tells me, like this is the most serious of life’s pursuits. “A big, huge one.”
“Just make sure it’s still standing when I get back,” I say, my voice light as I descend the steps.
Hunter opens the truck door for me, and I swear, if he’s not trying to kill me with his dashing good looks, he’s trying to kill me with his old-fashioned manners. “Evening, Wren.”
“Evening, McCrae.”
He leans in once I’m buckled and kisses me—soft but full of intention. Like he’s trying to say something without words. And he does. I feel it in every part of me.
“So. Where are we going?” I ask, unable to contain my excitement.
Normally I hate surprises. I’m a planner.
But handing over the reins to Hunter felt like second nature.
When he told me he was taking me on a date and he’d pick me up at seven, I resisted the urge to ask any questions.
I’ve never met a man who led. Who planned.
Who took control. So far, Hunter’s been doing all of that and more without an ounce of my help—and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t the sexiest thing in the world.
He pulls onto the road, his hand resting casually on the gearshift. “Got a few things planned. Dinner. A drive through the countryside. Maybe some stargazing.”
I melt into my seat. The man just said the word stargazing like it wasn’t the most romantic damn thing on earth.
Like I told Reese before, I’m not sure he’s even real.
If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up.
The sun dips lower as we drive, casting long shadows across the rolling fields.
He takes me to a quiet little steak house off a gravel road where we grill our own steaks, where no one knows our names, and no one’s watching.
We talk and laugh over candlelight, and for the first time in years, I feel like a woman—not just a mother or an author or someone who got left behind or abandoned.
I feel chosen.
After dinner, he drives with the windows cracked enough to let the summer night breeze slip in, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for mine. For several endless miles, we pass silos and sleeping cattle and distant porch lights, and I don’t want the night to end.
But eventually it does.
It’s after ten when he pulls into my drive and kills the engine, but before he can say good night, I turn to him.
“Can I show you something?” I ask.
He nods, squinting and curious. “Lead the way.”
We walk hand in hand to the back of the property, the moon lighting our path until we reach the riverbank. The air is soft. Still. The water, dark and reflective while bullfrogs and crickets create an evening symphony.
“It’s not blooming yet,” I say, stopping beside a small, fenced-off patch of soil, “but I planted a sunflower patch here. For you.”
Hunter blinks. “For me?”
“It’s a place where you can come and remember Ben. Honor his legacy. A living memorial.”
His throat works around the emotion I can see creeping up on him.
“You’ve never said it outright,” I continue, “but I know you carry that loss like a stone in your pocket. Always there. Always heavy. I figured you’re a man of the land, so I wanted to speak your language. Give you something that grows. Something alive.”
Hunter’s quiet for a long moment. Then he says, voice thick, “Growing up, sunflowers were my mom’s favorite.
Ben and I used to plant them in random places for her.
Behind the barn. Beside the driveway. Middle of fields.
Around the gazebo. We’d tell her they were wild, like they just showed up one day.
She’d always act surprised, but as I got older, I realized she probably knew the entire time.
She probably got more enjoyment out of us seeing her happy than the actual flowers. I guess that’s a mother’s love.”
I laugh softly. “Love is really something, isn’t it? Sometimes it grows wild, in places you least expect. And sometimes we plant it, hoping that with the right care and conditions, it might just bloom.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says, voice gravel-soft.
“I know. I wanted to.” I drag in a slow breath as I drink him in. “Sunflowers are resilient. Stubborn. Always turning their faces to the sun no matter how heavy their heads get. I thought maybe this could be something beautiful rising in a place where things went dark.”
He pulls me to him then, arms wrapped tight around my waist, and rests his forehead to mine. “You always know what to say.”
I sniff a laugh. “Words are kind of what I do for a living . . .”
He presses his lips against the side of my cheek, and I deduce that I’ve rendered him speechless.
“I know this land means something to you,” I add. “Which is why I’ve decided—I want to sell it to you.”
He jerks back like I slapped him. “No. Absolutely not. This is your home. Yours and Atticus’s. I won’t put you out.”
“You’re not. I just need some time to find us a new place. But this land? This property? It was always meant to be yours. And you made a promise to your mother. Now you can finally fulfill it.”
“Wren,” he says, tone unflinching. “You are not selling me this place. End of discussion.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off.
“Because I’m not letting you go anywhere. I want you close to me at all times.”
The air stills between us.
“I love you,” he says. Just like that. Simple. Raw. Effortless. Like it’d been dancing on the tip of his tongue all night—or maybe longer. “I know it’s soon, and I know it’s fast. But when you find what you’ve been looking for your whole life, why hold back?”
I don’t speak. I can’t.
Because I’ve never been looked at the way he’s looking at me now.
Like I’m his obsession and his sanctuary and his entire world at the same time.
And for the first time in my life . . . everything feels exactly right.
“I love you too,” I say.
And I mean it.
I wish I could say I’ve loved him from the moment I first laid eyes on him, but I don’t think I did—I think I knew I was going to.
And that’s even better.