Chapter 8
eight
“SONGBIRD” — FLEETWOOD MAC
Tavey
The venue is… a lot.
Not in a bad way. Just… a lot.
It has a big country-chic main building where the reception is happening—white siding, black trim, definitely an upcharge for “rustic elegance.” Then there’s a sprawling house off to the side where the wedding party is staying, which looks like it belongs in a Nancy Meyers movie.
And then there are the barndominiums.
Thirty of them, scattered across the property like someone took a handful of tiny houses and just… tossed them across the Texas Hill Country.
“They’re kind of adorable,” I say, craning my neck to take it all in as Miller parks.
“They’re sheds,” he says.
“They are not sheds.”
“They’re dressed-up sheds.”
I gasp. “How dare you. These are aesthetic dwellings.”
He glances at me, deadpan. “You’re going to use that phrase again this weekend, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, and I feel absurdly proud of myself.
We check in, get our keys, and—yes—confirm again that we have separate rooms, which is only mildly awkward this time instead of soul-leaving-my-body levels of awkward.
Progress.
My barndominium is… actually perfect. Small, but cozy. Light wood, soft linens, a little porch with two chairs that I will absolutely not use because I will be too busy spiraling internally about Miller.
Speaking of spiraling.
I am now standing in front of the mirror, doing my hair for the third time.
Because apparently I’ve decided that today is the day I become a person who knows how to do hair.
Spoiler alert: I am not that person.
But I am trying.
The dress—the dress—is hanging on the back of the bathroom door like it knows it’s about to change my entire life.
Or, you know.
At least dramatically alter my emotional stability.
As I put it on, I give the dress a stern talking to about our expectations for the evening. This is a dress designed to inspire lust and confidence. It’s doing a lot of heavy lifting.
It’s inspired by Daenerys Targaryen’s blue Grecian dress—flowy, soft, with a draped neckline and long trailing scarves that are, in hindsight, a tripping hazard waiting to happen.
My hair is pinned back with little dragon clips I am deeply obsessed with. I have a dragon-shaped clutch. I may or may not have gone a little overboard.
Okay, I definitely went overboard.
But I never get to do this.
At work, I’m “the girl in oversized sweaters who hoards markers.” In real life, I’m… also that girl but also with yarn.
So if I have an excuse to go full fantasy heroine?
I’m taking it.
I smooth my hands down the fabric of the dress, staring at myself in the mirror.
“Okay,” I tell my reflection. “This is fine. This is normal. You are a normal person who definitely isn’t using a themed wedding as a litmus test for your romantic future.”
Because that’s the thing.
This is a test.
If Miller opens the door, takes one look at me, and makes fun of me—really makes fun of me, not his dry, gentle teasing—then… that’s it.
Crush over.
Squashed.
Buried.
Emotionally composted.
But if he doesn’t…
If he likes it…
If he—
There’s a knock at the door.
My heart immediately tries to escape my body.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. This is happening.”
I grab my clutch, take a step toward the door—
—and immediately trip over one of the long trailing scarves.
“Oh—!”
There is a horrifying, slow-motion moment where I realize I am about to eat shit in the most dramatic outfit I have ever worn.
And then the door is open and I’m falling forward—
—and suddenly there are hands on me.
Strong hands.
Catching me.
Steadying me.
I land against something solid and warm, my palms braced instinctively—
on bare skin.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh.
I blink up at Miller.
And for a second, my brain just… stops working.
Because Miller—
Miller—
—is shirtless.
Like.
Fully.
Broad chest. Defined muscles. Skin warm under my hands. A leather vest hanging open like it’s barely doing its job of being clothing.
I jerk back as if I’ve been electrocuted.
“I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I tripped and then there were scarves and—”
Words. So many words. None of them helpful.
He’s still holding on to my arms, steadying me, his grip firm but careful.
“You okay?” he asks, voice low.
“I—yes—no—I mean, physically yes, emotionally—” I stop. Abort. Abort mission. “I’m fine.”
He releases me slowly, like he’s not entirely convinced.
And that’s when I really see him.
The leather vest. The loose pants. The boots. The arm wraps.
The whole—
“You’re a Dothraki,” I breathe.
He shifts, just slightly, like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” I repeat, because what?
“I figured… it’s a themed wedding.” He shrugs, but there’s a tension in his shoulders I don’t usually see. “You said you were dressing up.”
Oh.
Oh.
He dressed up.
For me.
That realization hits me like a freight train straight to the heart.
“You hate costumes,” I say, because this is a known fact. “You didn’t even know what Game of Thrones was two weeks ago.”
“I did some research.”
“Did some—” I gesture at him. “This is not ‘some research,’ Miller. This is… commitment.”
His mouth twitches. “Seemed like the right move.”
The right move.
I am going to pass out.
I drag my gaze—reluctantly—back up to his face. “You’re aware that you look… extremely… like that, right?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Like what?”
I wave a hand helplessly. “Like a very intimidating, extremely attractive warlord who could probably conquer small nations but chooses not to because he’s busy writing code.”
He huffs a laugh.
A real one.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is absolutely a compliment.”
There’s a beat.
And then his gaze shifts—slowly—over me.
From my hair.
To the dragon clips.
To the dress.
To the trailing scarves that almost killed me.
And for a split second, I brace.
This is it.
This is the moment.
He’s going to make a joke.
He’s going to say something dry and devastating like ‘that’s… a lot’ and I will simply evaporate into a fine mist and drift away into the Texas Hill Country.
But he doesn’t.
His expression… changes. Softens. His eyes darken slightly.
“You look…” He pauses, like he’s choosing his words carefully. Then, quieter, “You look incredible.”
Oh.
Oh no.
This is worse.
This is so much worse.
Because now my crush is not only alive—it is thriving. It is doing jumping jacks. It is applying for a mortgage.
“Thank you,” I say, and I am so proud of myself for not immediately following that with twelve additional sentences.
I last approximately two seconds.
“I was a little worried it might be too much,” I add quickly. “I mean, it is a lot. Objectively. There are scarves. Multiple scarves. That’s never a subtle choice.”
His gaze flicks to the trailing fabric, then back to me. “I like it.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
Simple.
Certain.
And something in my chest just… clicks into place.
This.
This is the beginning.
I can feel it.
“Good,” I say, trying—and probably failing—to sound casual. “Because I fully intend to commit to the bit.”
“I can see that.”
“Also, if I fall again, I’m going to need you to catch me in a slightly less… chest-focused way.”
His mouth curves. “No promises.”
I swallow.
“That’s… concerning.”
“You’re the one wearing a tripping hazard.”
“Fashion is pain, Miller.”
“Pretty sure falling face first into the floor is more pain.”
“Wow. So unsupportive.”
He steps back slightly, gesturing toward the door. “You ready?”
I nod, grabbing my clutch. “Ready.”
We step out into the warm Texas evening together.
And as we walk toward the main building, I sneak a glance at him.
At the leather. The muscle. The fact that he did this—for me.
Yeah.
I am in so much trouble.