Chapter 15 #2
I square my shoulders. It’s time to face the music. Time to tell my family I’m marrying a man who looks like the leading man in every cowboy movie that’s ever existed.
Totally normal. Definitely fine.
Sawyer finally reaches me, his boots scuffing against the packed dirt. Which is saying something, because he still somehow manages to walk like a man who isn’t about to voluntarily throw himself into the Wilding family lion’s den.
“You hiding out over here?” he asks with a small smile.
“Definitely,” I say without hesitation.
He laughs, but there’s a nervous edge to it. Like he’s trying to play it cool, but his body didn’t get the memo. I get it. I’m the one who came up with this whole insane plan, and I still feel like I might black out.
I glance toward the main house and feel my stomach twist. God help him.
The poor man’s about to be marched into my family’s house—where at least one of my brothers is guaranteed to threaten him, Loretta might interrogate him like we’re at a murder trial, and my mom will probably offer him food and ask if we’re sleeping together all in the same breath.
And then tomorrow, I get to do the same thing with his family. Perfect.
Sawyer follows my gaze. “You ready?”
“No,” I say. “But we have to do it anyway.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans and take a breath.
“Okay, so let me do the talking. I mean, obviously you’ll talk too, but just let me start, because I don’t want it to get confusing.
They’re gonna have a lot of questions—mostly why on earth you’d agree to something like this—but I’ll try to keep it focused, and just kind of lay out the basics without making it sound like I’ve completely lost my mind, which is, you know, going to be difficult, because I absolutely have, and maybe I should’ve made a PowerPoint or something—”
“Wren,” he says gently.
I keep going. “—or at least printed out a bullet point list so I don’t forget anything, like the water rights part, or how it’s temporary and not a real marriage—”
“Wren.”
“—and maybe we should’ve coordinated outfits so it looks like we’re on the same page or something, or maybe not because that would be too much—”
“Wren.”
That one finally breaks through. I blink up at him. He’s looking at me with this steady, amused expression, like he’s watching a runaway train and gently considering stepping in front of it.
I inhale slowly. Exhale even slower. “Sorry. It’s just…I’m nervous.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just lets the silence stretch out between us long enough for my heart rate to return to something that doesn’t feel like I’m about to go skydiving.
Then he tilts his head and nods toward the house. “You ready now?”
I swallow. “Absolutely not.”
He cracks a small smile. “Good. Me neither.”
Sawyer takes a step forward like we’re about to start walking toward the house—toward the ambush, toward the chaos, toward the hellfire that is telling my entire family I’m getting married out of convenience—and then pauses.
“I need to give you something first,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a tiny blue velvet box.
Oh God.
Oh God. Oh God oh God.
The ring. This is the shit that makes it real.
I thought I’d been clear: “Get something cheap.” And I meant it—scroll-stopper plastic, one of those ten-dollar rings you’d find beside the beef jerky at the gas station.
I said it because none of this was supposed to be real—not the ring or the meaning behind it.
Just a prop. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it token in the story we’re telling this town.
But then he opens the box, and for a moment, the world shrinks down to what’s inside it.
The dark blue velvet halves and the box is lined in deep navy velvet, catching the light in quiet waves.
Inside it, the ring doesn’t sit—it settles.
Centered in the middle is an oval-cut diamond, large enough to command attention but not so big it feels performative.
The setting is fine, high-polished gold that curves like it was shaped for someone specific.
Along the band, a row of diamonds fans outward in both directions—smaller, brighter, meticulously placed.
It’s not simple. Not modest. Not something he picked up without giving it some real thought.
This is not a placeholder.
It’s elegant. Sophisticated. A little showy, even. The kind of ring people will notice and ask about.
And it definitely doesn’t look like something meant for pretend.
Sawyer takes the ring out of the box and holds out his hand.
I just stare at it.
“Do you like it?” he asks, voice quieter now.
I glance up at him, then back at the ring, then slowly extend my hand—because what else am I supposed to do? Run? It’s a little late for that.
His big fingers wrap around mine, warm and solid, and he slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly. Of course it does.
I stare down at it, stunned.
“Like it?” I echo, still staring at it with wide eyes. “I love it.”
I look at the ring. Then at him.
“This is fake, right?”
Sawyer lifts a brow. “Does it look fake?”
I look down at my hand again. At the way the light catches on the stone, soft and gold and impossibly real. At how delicate the band is, how it hugs my finger like it’s always belonged there.
“No,” I murmur, raising my brow. “Which is exactly why I’m asking.”
“Oh. Good,” he says, completely unbothered. “Because no. It’s not.”
I blink. “What?”
My stomach flips.
He shrugs like we’re talking about socks and not the very expensive thing now sitting on my hand. “I can’t have my fake wife walking around with a fake ring. What would that say about me?”
“That you listened to me when I said get something from the gas station? ” I shoot back.
“I did listen,” he says. “And then I ignored you.”
I drop my face into my hands. “Oh my God.”
He laughs—a low, rough sound that somehow makes the whole situation worse. Or better. I haven’t decided yet.
“It’s fine,” he says easily. “I liked picking it out.”
I peek at him through my fingers. “You liked picking it out?”
He nods. “Seemed like you.”
“It is,” I say quietly.
We stand there for another beat, just staring at each other. Like we’ve forgotten why we’re here. Or what comes next.
He tilts his head toward the house. “You ready?”
I swallow. “Hell no.”
His grin is quick, crooked, and stupidly charming. “Me neither.”
And then we start walking. Toward the house, toward the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done in my entire life.
And apparently, toward whatever the hell this is.
* * *
By the time we’re close to the main house, I’m a full ten steps ahead of Sawyer.
It’s not intentional. My legs are just trying to keep up with the pace of my brain, which is currently spiraling through every possible way this could and will go wrong.
When the house finally comes into view, the first thing I notice is Boone’s truck in the driveway.
Oh, hell.
A tightness curls in my stomach, sharp and unwelcome. Boone’s the most protective of all of us. And he’s the oldest, which he thinks gives him some kind of moral authority over the rest of our decisions. Especially my decisions. Especially when they involve men.
I pause at the porch steps and inhale a deep breath, one that’s supposed to ground me but mostly just makes my stomach flip. I look back at Sawyer.
He meets my eyes but doesn’t say a word. Just gives a short nod.
He looks visibly ill.
Fuck me.
When I push open the door, the first thing that hits me is the smell.
Something sweet and warm—maybe lemon muffins—and underneath it, the distinct scent of citrus cleaner.
Which means Mom’s stress-cleaning. Which also means she knows something is coming.
She always had a sixth sense for this kind of thing.
Sawyer follows me in, quiet as a shadow. His shoulder brushes mine for a second, and I hate how steady it makes me feel. I shouldn’t want that from him. I shouldn’t want that from anyone.
From the kitchen, I hear the twins before I see them—Jack and Lainey, chattering and stomping like tiny tornadoes. Someone is definitely climbing something they shouldn’t be.
Hudson’s at the kitchen table, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at whatever is in his baseball magazine. Fourteen going on forty. He looks more like Boone every day—same strong build, same wild, dark curls, same resting scowl.
Sage is at the counter next to Boone with a bowl of oranges.
Boone’s eyes lift over the rim of his coffee cup toward the door when it opens.
His jaw tenses. Sage blinks. They both raise their eyebrows and look at each other.
Mom turns from the oven, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron, eyes lighting up when she sees me.
They widen slightly when she sees Sawyer.
“Hey, guys,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear like it might somehow buy me an extra few seconds of sanity. “I’m glad you’re all here.”
And just like that, the room goes silent.
Sage’s gaze cuts from me to Sawyer, and then back again.
Boone’s coffee cup hovers in midair, halfway to his mouth.
Sawyer steps in behind me. Quiet. Calm.
No one says a word.
And suddenly I really, really wish I’d brought some sort of distraction. A pie. A puppy. A grenade. Anything.
I glance at Sawyer, who gives me the smallest nod, as if we’re teammates on a battlefield. Then I turn back to my family and take the leap.
“We, uh…” I clear my throat, already regretting every choice I’ve ever made. “Well. I just thought we should tell you all…we’re getting married.”
The silence is immediate. Dense. Unforgiving.
Sage’s jaw drops so far to the ground I’m not sure she’ll ever be able to pick it back up. Boone goes completely still except for the way his grip tightens on his coffee mug. My mom just blinks like she’s watching a car crash in slow motion.
I tug at a loose strand of hair and lift my left hand.
“Surprise?” I say, aiming for confident but landing somewhere closer to someone being held hostage.
Sawyer clears his throat. “We know you probably have a lot of questions—”
Boone slams his mug down hard enough that it splashes. “Damn right I have questions.”
“Boone Jameson,” my mom snaps, her tone sharp enough to make anyone stop in their tracks. It’s the voice she used when we were kids and we knew we were in deep shit.
He mutters something under his breath. Sage still hasn’t closed her mouth.
My mom steps forward, gently wiping her hands on the front of her apron. “Wren, honey. What’s going on?”
“Let’s just sit,” I say quickly, motioning toward the table. “We’ll explain everything, I promise.”
Right then, Ridge appears at the top of the stairs in a hoodie and sweatpants, looking like he just woke up from a nap he started three years ago.
“Explain what?” he asks, yawning as he descends.
“Wren’s getting married,” Sage says, still in a daze.
Ridge laughs—an actual laugh, full-bodied and loud. “Good one.”
No one else laughs.
His smile fades. “Oh, fuck. For real?”
I walk to the dining room table and everyone else follows—Boone reluctantly, Sage still stunned, Ridge trying to catch up. My mom sinks into the chair quickly, her eyes wide.
Sawyer gives me a quick glance, like he’s bracing for impact.
And honestly? He should.
Because we’re about to detonate the biggest bomb this family’s ever seen.