Chapter 11 #2
I chew the inside of my cheek, thinking fast.
“Okay, okay,” I mumble to myself. “Pros of telling them—one, fewer chances of someone slipping and making it obvious we’re faking it.
Two, they can help sell it if anyone asks weird questions.
Three—” I cut myself off, because the third thought comes in like a gut punch.
“Oh, shit. Your family’s going to hate me, aren’t they? ”
Sawyer’s mouth twitches like he’s trying to hold it in, but then he lets out a low laugh, quick and rough.
“What?” I demand, planting my hands on my hips. “It’s true! They’re going to think I’m some kind of water rights gold-digger.”
He shakes his head, still grinning. “They won’t hate you. We’ll come up with something.”
I stare at him, fully incredulous.
“How are you standing there all calm and collected?” I ask, voice climbing higher than I want it to. “Why aren’t you freaking out more?”
Because I am. I’m freaking out. A part of me—a very big part of me—did not think he’d agree to this. I was sure he’d tell me I was a psycho and chase me out of his house and call the police.
And I don’t usually panic. But if there were ever a time to panic, getting married to a stranger to save a ranch definitely qualifies.
Sawyer looks like he’s trying not to laugh again. Which, frankly, feels rude given the current situation.
“What’s funny?” I demand, throwing my hands up. “Please. Enlighten me. I could use a laugh or two right about now.”
He drags a hand over his jaw, trying to wipe the grin off his face, but it doesn’t work.
“I’m calm,” he says, “because you’re doing enough freaking out for both of us.”
I open my mouth to argue but realize I can’t because…fair.
“And,” he adds, voice steady, “because legally, we only have to be married for a year.”
I frown, trying to remember everything Boone grumbled about at dinner that one night when the water rights issue first came up.
“Under the county regs, shared water access agreements have to be tied to a household for a minimum of twelve months. After that, even if the situation changes…” he shrugs, “grandfathered in.”
Meaning even if we divorced after a year, the Wilding Ranch would still have water.
“We stay married for a year,” I say slowly, piecing it together. “Then we split. Pretend it never happened.”
He nods.
I let out a breath. A shaky, half-crazy one. “What the hell do we do now?”
Before he can answer, I sink down onto the floor next to Hank, my legs giving up on standing. The second I sit, Hank lifts his head and drops it squarely into my lap, letting out a low, happy groan. I start petting his head, running my fingers through his fur, grounding myself in the simple rhythm.
“Why Hank?” I blurt out. “Why did you name your dog Hank?”
Sawyer blinks, caught off guard. “Come again?”
I scratch behind Hank’s ear, not looking up. “I mean, I’m not just moving in with you. I’m moving in with your dog, too. I deserve to know what kind of psychopath names a dog Hank.”
He laughs, loud and real this time, his head tipping back slightly like he can’t even help it. And damn it, it’s unfair how good he looks doing it.
“Really?” he says, still smiling. “That’s what you want to talk about right now?”
“Yes,” I say seriously, because it’s easier than thinking about the life-altering decision we’re actively making. “This feels important.”
He shakes his head, still grinning, the dimple in his right cheek popping out. I want to drown in that dimple.
“Honestly?” he says. “I Googled dog names. Hank popped up first and it felt right.”
I look down at Hank, at his big, blocky head and too-earnest brown eyes.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It does.”
I can feel Sawyer’s eyes on me even as I keep petting Hank’s head. That heavy, patient stare of his that makes it feel like he’s seeing way more than I want him to.
I finally look up, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear because it gives my hands something to do.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice lower now. “You don’t even know me, Sawyer.”
Sawyer holds my gaze without flinching.
“I know enough,” he says simply. “And like you said—when the year’s up, we split. Nothing has to change except you moving in. Besides, I had worse roommates in college. After them, I can survive anything for a year.”
I narrow my eyes. “Oh, wow. Thanks. So glad I’m not as bad as your college roommates who probably pissed in Gatorade bottles and left them under their beds.”
He laughs again, low and rough, the sound curling straight through me.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says, still smiling. “I meant…we both need this. We both get something out of it. It’s not one-sided.”
I let that sink in for a second. And then—before I can think about it too much—I stand up.
And I move closer to him. Closer than I usually let myself get to anyone.
Close enough that I can smell him—something clean and sharp and somehow exactly like him—and it drives me a little bit insane. In a good way.
I hold up my pinky between us.
“We have to pinky promise,” I say, serious. “That we won’t make this weird. That we’ll still be friends after. That we won’t do anything to screw that up.”
Because as far as friends go, I don’t have many. And somehow, without meaning to, Sawyer Hart has become one of the good ones.
His eyes soften, a shift you’d miss if you weren’t paying attention. He glances from my eyes to my pinky, then back to my eyes again.
And slowly, he hooks his pinky around mine.
“I promise,” he says.
The roughness in his voice does something dangerous to the air between us.
The space feels tighter. Warmer. Thicker. I swallow hard and push forward anyway, because if I stop now, I’ll never get the words out.
“We also have to promise,” I say, “that we’ll be on each other’s side. Like a team.”
I force myself to keep holding his gaze.
“If people start talking shit—and they might—you have to have my back. And I’ll have yours.”
He squeezes his pinky lightly around mine.
“I promise to always have your back, Wren,” he says again, steady and sure.
The way he’s looking at me—like he’s already decided that I’m his to stand next to—makes my chest feel too small.
I break the pinky promise first, pulling my hand back fast, my cheeks burning.
“As far as wedding vows go,” I mumble, reaching for my thermos, “that’s about as good as it’s gonna get from me.”
When I glance up, Sawyer’s smiling. That slow, crooked smile that belongs to someone who’s decided he’s in—no conditions, no second thoughts.
“I’d expect nothing less coming from you,” he says, his voice warm, the words catching somewhere between humor and something heavier.
And somehow, that’s the part that almost undoes me.
Not the proposal. Not the deal. Not the fact that my whole life is about to be tied to his with a few strokes of ink and a town full of witnesses.
It’s the way he says it—like he already knows exactly who I am.
And he’s not afraid to stay anyway.