Chapter 20
WREN
I shouldn’t be this nervous. We’re only here to sign a piece of paper, hand it to someone behind a desk, and cross another thing off the to-do list. That’s all.
It isn’t the wedding—there’s no music playing, no aisle to walk down, no vows to stumble through.
No flowers, no teary-eyed aunts or grandparents.
Just the two of us and a form that makes it official.
But still, my stomach’s in knots and my palms are sweating.
I wipe them on the thighs of my jeans, shift in my seat, and glance at the time again—even though I already know I’m on time. Fifteen minutes early, to be exact.
The courthouse parking lot is mostly empty except for a few trucks and one old station wagon that’s been here for as long as I’ve lived in this town.
It’s one of those winter days that tricks you—bright sun, clear skies, air just warm enough to pretend like it’s not still technically freezing.
Montana gives you these days once every few weeks to make you forget the snow will be back tomorrow.
I’m in a white hoodie and a mauve-colored puffer vest, the one that always smells faintly like the barn no matter how many times I wash it.
My jeans are stiff from air drying and my sneakers are scuffed at the toes.
I didn’t think too hard about what I wore this morning, but now that I’m sitting here, I can’t stop wondering if people dress up for this.
Do people wear nice shoes to file for a marriage license?
There are four days until the wedding. Four days until I stand in front of half the town and fake my way through a ceremony with a man who doesn’t even know my middle name.
Between me, my mom, Loretta, and Estelle, the whole thing has been planned down to the last detail—a decorated venue, custom gluten-free cupcakes from Estelle’s cousin’s bakery in Missoula, a carefully arranged playlist with exactly zero line-dance songs per my request. It’s all happening. It’s all done.
And yet, somehow, this— this stupid little appointment—is the part that makes it feel real.
Maybe because there’s no distraction here. No hay bales or cake tastings. No dresses or florists or layers of planning to hide behind. Just a form, a signature, a legally binding agreement that says we’re going to play house for the next twelve months.
Just as I start talking myself out of everything, a sleek black Audi SUV pulls into the spot beside me.
Sawyer. Of course he’s perfectly on time. Of course he looks handsome and put together and completely unaffected, like this is just another Tuesday and not the part where we make this thing official enough that undoing it later will still leave a mark.
I take a breath and push open my door.
The courthouse is nestled right in the middle of town, as if someone placed it there on purpose—like the centerpiece of a snow globe.
It’s only a block down from the bakery that always smells like cinnamon and butter, and it sits directly across from the hardware store with the squeaky front door and the window display that hasn’t changed in at least a decade, except now there’s a plastic reindeer perched on a paint can.
Summit Springs has gone all in on December, like it always does.
Wreaths hang neatly from every lamppost, garlands twist around the porch railings of shops, and white lights run along the eaves of every roof like the careful piping on a gingerbread house—straight and delicate and almost too pretty to touch.
At the center of it all, a towering pine tree stands in the square, strung with fat red bows and mismatched ornaments.
The bottom branches are already thinning—bare in spots where little hands have reached and tugged, rearranged, pulled one too many candy canes free.
But it still looks magical in that imperfect way small towns always manage.
The sidewalks are busier than usual—people are heading toward the Winterfaire with paper cups of cider, parents wrangling toddlers in puffy coats, couples taking photos in front of the big sleigh display.
It looks like a postcard but feels real.
I always forget how much I like this time of year until I’m standing in the middle of it.
Sawyer gets out of his SUV just as I close my door. And—
Shit.
He looks nice. Really nice.
His camel-colored coat is folded over one arm, a soft cream sweater layered over a collared shirt, paired with crisp pants that fit him too well for my comfort. Sunglasses, watch, a clean-shaven jaw, the whole thing. He looks like someone who owns a vacation home in Aspen.
I glance down at myself again—hoodie, vest, sneakers. Comfortable, casual. Fine. Until now.
I guess people do dress up for this sort of thing.
He walks over, all steady confidence, and flashes me a smile that’s too easy—charming, relaxed, like we’re two friends meeting for coffee instead of….this. “You ready for this?”
I huff out a breath and look up at the courthouse steps. “Absolutely not.”
He chuckles like he expected that answer.
I quickly glance around. It’s not busy, but it’s not empty either. Just enough people milling around that I can feel the nerves buzzing at the base of my spine. We’ve never been out in public together. Not as a…whatever we’re pretending to be.
I glance over at Sawyer and see him do a quick scan of the crowd, his jaw ticking slightly. He’s thinking the same thing.
He clears his throat and checks his watch. “We’ve still got a couple minutes.”
I nod and cross my arms over my chest, stepping a little closer to him so I don’t have to talk as loudly. “Maybe we should set some…rules.”
He looks down at me, one eyebrow lifting. “Rules?”
“For when we’re out like this. You know. Selling it.” My voice is quiet, and it’s ridiculous how aware I suddenly am of how good he smells. Like musk and bergamot and something clean that I’ve started to recognize as just…him.
He nods slowly. “Okay. Rules. I can do rules.”
There’s a pause, like we’re both waiting for the other person to go first.
Finally, he says, “Hand-holding?”
I nod once. “Yes. That’s an easy yes.”
“Public kissing?”
I scrunch my nose. “Only if we absolutely have to.”
He raises an eyebrow again. “We’ll have to eventually, Wilding.”
“Only if someone’s watching. Or if it would be weirder not to.”
“Got it. Emergency kisses only.”
“Exactly.”
He hums like he’s thinking it through. “What about nicknames? In public.”
I tilt my head. “Like what? Babe? Sweetheart? Darling? Love of my life?”
“Just wondering where the line is.”
I give him a look.
He laughs. “Noted. So…Wren it is.”
“That’s safe.” I pause. “Maybe the occasional ‘sweetheart’ if it’s in front of someone old enough to still say something like that.”
He nods. “Got it. Only strategic endearments.”
“Yep.”
He shifts slightly, coat still over his arm, the sun catching on the edges of his sunglasses. “Anything else?”
I shake my head. “Just…don’t be weird, okay?”
He laughs. “I’ll do my best.”
We step inside, and the warmth hits first. Dry heat that lives in old radiators and makes your skin feel tight.
The Summit Springs courthouse is small but proud, built a hundred years ago and has barely been updated since.
There’s polished wood trim along the walls, dusty crown molding, and framed black-and-white photos of old mayors and county judges staring down from above the water fountain.
The whole place smells faintly like lemon cleaner.
A few people linger near the clerk’s desk. A man in overalls flips through a manila folder. A young woman holds a crying baby on her hip. An older couple stands by the bulletin board, coats unzipped, talking softly.
And then they all notice us.
It’s not necessarily dramatic—just a beat of stillness, like everything shifts ever so slightly as their eyes catch us walking in together. I watch it happen in real time: a glance, a blink, and then the quick double take.
Because we’re not just two people. We’re a Wilding and a Hart.
Together.
Who would’ve thought?
Sawyer, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch. He walks like this is completely normal. His coat’s still folded neatly over his arm, his sleeves pushed up just enough to show his leather watch and the veins on his forearms, and somehow he looks like he belongs here more than I do.
I, meanwhile, feel like I’ve shrunk two inches. Like my clothes suddenly fit all wrong and my shoes are too squeaky.
An older couple near the back leans in close, their eyes tracking us as we move toward the front. The woman whispers something to her husband, who grunts and raises his bushy gray eyebrows.
Sawyer leans down as we pass the receptionist window, his mouth close enough to my ear to make my stomach tighten. “You’re going to want to look a little less like you’re being held hostage.”
I blink, then glance down at myself.
Oh.
My arms are locked across my chest like I’m expecting someone to hurl tomatoes at me.
“Right.” I let them fall awkwardly to my sides.
We round the corner toward the clerk’s desk, where Dana Hansen—longtime Summit Springs fixture, wearer of too much blush—is already watching us.
“Well, well, well,” she says, her voice bright and polite in a way that immediately puts me on edge. “Sawyer Hart. I haven’t seen you in here since your last building permit.”
Sawyer smiles, easy and warm. “Good to see you again, Dana.”
“And Wren.” Her tone softens just slightly. “How’s your mother?”
“She’s good, thanks.”
Dana looks between us, and I swear I see her trying to piece it all together. Her eyes linger on the paperwork Sawyer slides across the counter like she’s expecting it to explode. I’d given him all of my documents just a couple days before so we’d have everything in one place.
She taps her red acrylic nails once on the edge. “Marriage license application, huh?”
Sawyer nods. “Yes, ma’am.”
There’s a beat. She blinks. Glances at me. Then at him again.
“Well, oh my,” she says, drawing the word out. “That’s quite the surprise.”