Chapter 14 #3
The words settle between us, quiet and unpretentious.
I lean back a little, arms crossed loosely. “Grief’s weird like that. It’s not something you get over. It just…becomes something you learn how to carry without dropping everything else.”
That catches her off guard. She lets out a soft laugh—surprised, but not mocking. “That was oddly poetic coming from you.”
I shrug. “I contain multitudes.”
She smiles and pushes herself back to her feet. “I didn’t mean to unload all of that on you.”
“You can unload on me anytime. It’s good to talk about it. Get it out there.”
She raises a brow. “Is that your professional advice as a vet or your personal advice as my fake fiancé?”
“Both,” I say. “Though I feel like that’s a slippery slope, professionally speaking.”
“Oh, great. Now I’ve jeopardized your entire career,” she deadpans. “Guess I’ll have to marry you out of guilt instead of convenience.”
I grin. “Hey, guilt’s gotten me worse deals.”
“Oh, totally. At least with this we’ll get access to water rights and unsolicited emotional support. Sign me up.”
She pauses, tilts her head. “Wait—do I get your health insurance, too?”
I laugh. “You’d marry me for the health insurance and not for my sparkling personality and incredible upper body strength?”
She cocks her head. “Well, I figured if I have to fake a marriage, I might as well get a good deductible out of it.”
“Wow,” I say, hand to my chest. “Betrayed by my own fiancée. Gonna make a hell of a story for the fake grandkids.”
She just grins, and it hits me again—how easy this is when we stop pretending it’s not.
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out my phone. “Actually, I wanted to show you something.”
Her brows lift in suspicion.
I smirk and pull up the website, then hand her the phone. “It’s a venue. Just outside of town. I figured we should lock something down before Summit Springs collectively implodes over our engagement.”
She takes the phone and starts scrolling, and immediately her jaw drops. “Are you freaking kidding me? This place is gorgeous.”
It is. High vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto a line of pine trees. Exposed beams, dark wood floors, soft string lights strung across the main room. It’s cozy. Romantic without being cheesy. And more importantly—indoors.
“There’s no way they weren’t booked,” she says, her eyes still scanning the screen.
“They were,” I say, leaning back against the stall wall. “But I know people.”
She lifts her head and narrows her eyes. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” I say slowly, “don’t worry about it.”
Her glare sharpens into something suspicious. “Sawyer.”
I grin. “Look, do you want it or not? I can get us a reservation for the first weekend in December.”
She scrolls through another photo of the reception space, all candlelight and long wooden tables with greenery draped down the center—and lets out a quiet breath. “It’s perfect.”
She hands the phone back and crosses her arms. “How much do I owe you?”
I arch a brow. “Owe me?”
“For the venue,” she says, gesturing toward the screen. “How much was it?”
I shake my head. “You’re not paying for it.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
“ Yes. I am.”
I laugh. “Is this gonna be the rest of our fake marriage? Because I have to admit, it’s going to be very entertaining.”
“Sawyer, I’m not letting you pay for that. It probably costs a shit ton.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, shrugging, “consider it an early wedding gift. From me to the both us. For making it through this whole thing without losing our damn minds.”
She opens her mouth, then shuts it, then opens it again—her expression somewhere between exasperated and panicked. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
She points at me. “Did you have to sleep with someone to secure this venue?”
I bark out a laugh. “What the hell? No!”
“Well, you’re being all vague about it! And people don’t just get this kind of place on a last minute’s notice. There’s always some shady backroom favor involved.”
“Okay, first of all, no one performed a shady backroom favor.”
“That’s exactly what someone who performed a shady backroom favor would say.”
I tilt my head. “Would it make you feel better or worse if I told you it was an old client who owed me a favor because I treated his daughter’s mini horse for a uterine infection at two in the morning when I was off the clock a few months ago?”
She stares at me for a long second. “Weirdly? Better.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I’m still paying for it,” she says, her chin tilting up a notch like she’s about to wrestle my wallet out of my pocket in the middle of the barn.
I let out a slow breath. “Wren…”
She crosses her arms. Stares me down.
I know that look. I’ve seen it in the round pen. It says: I am not letting this go, so save your energy.
“I don’t mind,” I tell her, quieter this time. “Really. It’s not a big deal for me.”
And it’s not. I make good money at the clinic—better than good, really—and I’ve made smart decisions with it.
My retirement’s in solid shape, I’ve got investments that have done well over the years, and I live pretty simply.
Plus, I still earn a decent side income helping out on the ranch when I can.
“That’s great,” she says, folding her arms tighter. “But I need to feel like I’m contributing. Otherwise, it just feels like I’m showing up empty-handed to my own wedding.”
I run a hand through my hair. “Fair enough,” I say finally. “What if I pay for half?”
She opens her mouth like she’s about to argue that too, and I cut her off before she gets a syllable out.
“I’m already being generous by letting you pay that much,” I say, deadpan. “There’s no way in hell you’re footing the whole thing, so take the win, Wilding.”
Her mouth shuts and her brow lifts. She sticks her hand out, full of fake professionalism. “Well,” she says. “It was nice doing business with you, Mr. Hart.”
I grin and take her hand, shaking it once. “Pleasure doing business with you, too.”
There’s a flicker of something in my chest—sharp, strange, warm. Like I want to keep doing things with her. More than this. Whatever this even is.
Christ. I need to get a fucking grip.
I clear my throat, try to shake the thought loose. “I should probably head out. Go check on Hank.”
She smirks. “Give him an extra dog biscuit for me.”
“I won’t.”
“Asshole.”
I laugh as I head for the door, but my chest is still a little too tight and my head’s suddenly full of thoughts I shouldn’t be having.
About her.
About this.
And about whatever comes next.