Chapter 6 Wrenley #2
Okay, Remi says, clearly unconvinced.
I grab my wine. I’m just thinking about how there’s a whole man in your life I know almost nothing about outside of what you do together.
Nice recovery.
Remi still eyes me suspiciously before relenting. Not much to say, she says. He’s Ruger’s friend. From Montana. Tall. Handsome. Twenty-six.
I gasp dramatically. Remington Seale. You cougar.
We’re both adults. She grabs a knife and cuts through radishes harder than she needs to.
I put my hands up. I’m not judging.
She shakes her head. I’m sorry, I just… She exhales sharply. I’m worried for the day people find out and start judging me.
I shrug. Well, it won’t be me.
It just drives me crazy! she says, hands flying wildly with the knife, causing me to step back. A sixty-year-old man can date a thirty-year-old, and nobody cares, but I can’t have a casual thing with someone ten years younger than me without having to worry it’s a scandal. It’s just a little fun.
I reach over and catch the flailing hand that’s not wielding a weapon, and the touch is enough to help calm her.
Okay, I say carefully, trying not to laugh. Now who’s being judgmental?
Her shoulders slump. Fair.
I let go of her hand and turn to the cutting board, slicing tomatoes while she quietly adds radishes to the bowl. I don’t have time for a relationship with my writing schedule. I want to enjoy this for what it is.
I get that, I say. And are you?
She looks over at me. Yeah. A grin slowly pulls at her mouth. I mean, the sex is really good. Like, alarmingly good.
I snort. Well, that settles that, then. I add the tomato I’ve cut to the salad. As someone who spent way too long pretending sex didn’t matter in a relationship, I’m not about to tell you to give up something good just because it doesn’t look conventional.
Her expression softens slightly.
I smile at her. Especially if it’s just for fun.
She nudges me gently. Thanks.
No problem.
We finish making the salad, and Remi slides it into the fridge as I lean against the counter with my wine.
Okay, Remi says, clapping her hands once. We should probably talk wedding.
At that exact moment, Ruger reappears in the kitchen and stops dead. I came back at the wrong time.
No, Remi says brightly. You came back at the perfect time.
Ruger looks suspicious.
I’ve started collecting ideas, Remi announces.
She yanks open a drawer, rummages around for a second, then slaps a spiral notebook onto the counter like she’s launching a military operation.
I blink at the colour-coded tabs. Remi, I say slowly. How did you—when did you—
Sleep is for the weak.
At least if you have a breakdown, we’ll know why, Ruger says dryly.
Remi points at him without looking up. Negativity has no place in my war room. She opens the notebook. Now, she says. We have limited time to pull off an unexpected wedding.
I flip through the pages in both admiration and horror.
Venues.
Decorations.
Guest lists.
Flowers.
She even has a section labelled Ruger Aesthetic.
You did this in a week?
I process stress through organization.
You process stress through terrifying intensity, Ruger says.
And yet things get done. She flips to another page. Okay. We already accidentally told Beryl the colours, so we’re committed there. But if we’re doing an Alpine Harbor wedding, we should at least make it believable.
Isn’t believable just legally married? I ask weakly.
Not here it isn’t.
Watching Remi right now is honestly a little frightening.
She’s pacing the kitchen, scribbling, blowing her bangs out of her eyes like she’s truly planning a battle instead of a fake wedding designed to trick the town and immigration.
I think we need antlers, she says.
Ruger stares at her. Why?
For ambiance, she says, deadpan. Ruger shakes his head at her as she says, Because a Ruger Seale wedding would have antlers, obviously.
A Ruger Seale wedding would just have Ruger Seale showing up.
Remi ignores him and turns to another page.
We should approach the Cultural Center. They have those ridiculous oversized lanterns, she says. I heard a rumour… okay, I called Bonnie, and Drew is now running events there. And he and I had three-second sex when we were twenty, so he owes me.
Ruger makes a face, and I try to stifle a laugh. I’m not sure if she’s serious, but sign me up to be there when she tries to get a discount for that.
Remi flips another page. Oh! Soup’s cake is non-negotiable.
Who’s Soup? I ask.
You’ll meet him.
A non-answer if I ever heard one.
And we need to think about your dress, she continues, now looking directly at me. I’m thinking maybe winter romantic? Lace sleeves? Fur wrap?
My stomach drops.
Talking about a dress suddenly makes this feel too real.
Wedding dresses are the pinnacle of the event.
I had fully planned on showing up to a courthouse in a simple white dress I made forever ago while teaching myself how to draft vintage-style collars.
It’s nothing spectacular. Just soft cotton with a silhouette inspired by old movies like Mary Poppins.
It holds nothing to a real wedding dress designed and meticulously created.
But it’s free, and with this giant production suddenly forming around me, free sounds like just the right price.
We should do a trip to Anchorage, Remi says, scribbling another note. The fabric selection alone would be worth it.
Ruger blinks slowly. I’m going to set the table outside.
He grabs plates and slips out through the back door.
Coward.
Rem, I say. I genuinely don’t think I can afford the wedding you’re planning.
Her expression softens. I already told you not to worry about that. She sets the notebook down. I can figure out the financial side of this and get kickbacks from around the town.
That makes my chest tighten worse. Everyone keeps giving, and I keep taking. Remi paid for more than half the immigration process, and now, apparently, the entire town is about to donate something to a fake wedding.
This was supposed to be simple.
Remi leans against the counter across from me, her energy finally calming. I know.
I thought we’d sign papers, eat grocery store cake, and move on.
Me too, she says. That trip to get the marriage license changed everything.
I groan and cover my face.