Chapter 6
SIX
Rowan
I wake up the next morning feeling like someone has put my life in a snow globe and shaken it until everything lands differently.
I’m getting married today.
To a man I’ve known for… what? Not even forty-eight hours?
I don’t know if I’m brave, insane, or in the middle of an emotional free-fall, but when I look at the packed boxes sitting neatly by my bedroom door, Grant’s big hands taping them closed last night while I watched, I know one thing for certain.
I’m not scared. Not of him. Not of us. Not even of the future.
I’m nervous, sure. My stomach is a whole carnival of nerves. But there’s a strange comfort in knowing that Grant is steady. Solid. Unshakable. Like some part of him has already decided I’m his and he’s not letting me fall, no matter what.
We spent all last night packing my things. Well, he packed, and I mostly fluttered around uselessly before telling Cathy that I was moving out. Her eyes got huge when she saw Grant behind me, arms crossed over his massive chest.
“Is he your boyfriend?” she asked, her eyes already gleaming with the prospect of fresh gossip.
“Her husband,” Grant corrected, even though we weren’t married yet.
He didn’t even flinch when I elbowed him.
“Okay,” Cathy muttered, eyebrows rising. “Congrats, I guess.”
Grant carried all my boxes down three flights of stairs like they weighed nothing, loaded them into his truck, and drove them straight to his place. He didn’t ask me where I wanted things. Didn’t hesitate. He just… handled it. Like it was natural to take responsibility for me.
Like it was easy.
Now, as we drive toward Vegas with my backpack at my feet and my hands curled around a travel mug he filled before we left, I feel his presence everywhere: the warmth of him beside me, the way he keeps glancing at me like he’s making sure I’m still here, the soft touches on my thigh whenever we hit a stoplight.
He talks to me for most of the drive, telling me about his life—not in one long monologue, but in pieces. In small, quiet admissions that feel far more intimate than any long story.
He grew up in Virginia; both of his parents were in the Army, and his dad still is.
They got divorced when he was sixteen. He bounced back and forth between their houses until his mom got orders to Korea, then he lived mostly with his dad.
But he’s not close to either of them. He talks about it without venom but with a detachment that makes my heart hurt for the boy he must have been.
He tells me about being shot twice in the chest and once through the neck, like it’s simply a fact. Just something that happened. He says it quietly. Calmly. But when I look at him, really look, I see something deep in his eyes.
He survived when he shouldn’t have, and he doesn’t know what to do with the aftermath.
We stop for lunch at a tiny diner off the highway, one with baby-blue booths and servers who call everyone “hon.” Grant orders enough food for three people and watches me eat like he’s making sure I’m getting enough.
“I hated being in Colorado,” he says almost offhandedly once we’re back in the truck, driving through the sprawling desert.
My chest tightens. “Oh.”
“But”—he glances at me, eyes softening—“it’s growing on me.”
Something warm blooms in my stomach. He doesn’t say “because of you,” but he doesn’t have to.
By the time we reach Vegas, the sun is setting, casting gold across the Strip. Lights flicker on, as if someone flipped a switch, illuminating the skyline in pinks, blues, and a neon glow.
Grant parks the truck in the hotel garage and helps me out, keeping his hand on my lower back as we walk inside.
The hotel is huge—glass and metal and marble floors reflecting thousands of tiny lights.
The air smells like perfume and espresso and that fresh, cold scent every big hotel seems to have.
He checks in at the desk while I try not to stare at how stupidly handsome he looks with his dog tags glinting under the lights.
Our room is on one of the upper floors, and when he opens the door and steps aside to let me in, I freeze.
The room is beautiful. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the strip. A huge king bed with crisp white linens. Soft carpet under my shoes. The city stretching out in glittering lights beneath us.
“Oh,” I whisper.
He watches me take it in, and I swear he looks… proud. Like giving me nice things is something he wants to do. Needs to do.
He wheels in my small suitcase and his duffel and sets them by the bed.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I nod. “It’s just… a lot.”
“Too much?” he asks immediately, stepping toward me as if he’ll turn around and drive me home this second if I say yes.
“No,” I say quickly. “Not too much. Just… big.”
He relaxes instantly. His hand brushes mine. Warm. Steady. Everything about him is steady.
We change for the ceremony, me in the tiny bathroom, him in the main room, and when I step out in my old thrift-store tea-length white dress, I instantly regret it.
It shows too much of my arms. Too much of my hips. Too much of everything. It’s outdated. Cheap.
I smooth my hands over the skirt, heart pounding.
“What do you think?” I start, then realize he’s staring at me.
No, not staring.
Devouring.
Slowly, he crosses the room. His large hands slide around my waist, tugging me close.
“Rowan,” he says, voice low. Rough. Almost reverent. “You look gorgeous.”
My eyes burn. “Really?”
“Yes.” His fingers brush my jaw, gentle but firm. “You’re perfect.”
He takes my hand—and doesn’t let go.
Not as he leads me to the elevator. Not as we walk out onto the street. Not as we head toward the small white chapel tucked between two giant hotels.
I’m trembling so much that he pulls me against his side, letting his warmth settle around me.
“Suri’s going to kill me for not being here,” I mumble, thinking about my best friend. She begged her supervisor to switch shifts, but they were short-staffed. She’s texted me ten times since we left, sending excited emojis and telling me to take photos.
“She’ll meet me soon,” Grant says easily. “We’ll go out to dinner when she has time.”
We.
Not me.
We.
My heart somersaults.
When we walk into the chapel, I expect tacky décor, cheap lights, maybe an Elvis impersonator. Instead, it’s simple. Clean. Soft music plays overhead. Twinkling lights hang behind the altar, casting a warm glow over everything.
My throat tightens.
Grant guides me forward, his hand never once leaving mine.
The officiant smiles at us, handing Grant a small velvet box I didn’t know he had provided.
He thought of rings. Of course he did. My eyes sting again. He always thinks ahead. Always plans. Always protects.
The ceremony feels like it happens in slow motion. The officiant speaks. Grant turns to face me fully, taking my hands in his. His thumbs brush over my knuckles in slow circles. My heart races.
“Do you, Grant Bennett—”
“I do,” he says immediately, voice steady as steel.
I laugh breathlessly. Then the officiant turns to me.
“And do you, Rowan Turner—”
“I do,” I whisper.
Grant exhales softly, like he’s been holding his breath for days.
He slides a ring onto my finger—simple, elegant, and silver with a tiny stone. It fits perfectly.
My hand shakes as I slide his band onto his—thick silver that looks right on his strong, scarred hand.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Grant steps closer. Slowly. Purposefully. His hand cups the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair, and he leans in, brushing his forehead to mine for a moment.
Then he kisses me.
Soft.
Certain.
Mine.
When we walk back out onto the street, hand in hand, the city lights seem brighter. The air feels lighter.
And for the first time in years, maybe ever, I feel like my life is starting instead of surviving.
I glance up at him. He squeezes my hand.
“We’re married,” I whisper.
His mouth curves. “Yeah, Ro. We are.”
And somehow…
It feels right.