Chapter 20 #2
She doesn’t mean it rudely, but she’s not wrong either.
I manage a tight smile. “Yeah. Guess it was all a little…sudden.”
She hums and starts typing, the clack of her keyboard echoing in the quiet. “Both born in Montana, correct?”
We nod.
“Any previous marriages?”
I shake my head automatically. “No.”
But at the exact same time, Sawyer says, “Yes.”
I turn to look at him so fast my neck twinges in pain. I school my face into something neutral—no wide eyes, no flared brows—but inside, everything slams to a halt. Like my brain just yanked the emergency brake and forgot to warn the rest of me.
Yes? Is that what I just heard him say?
What the actual hell?
Dana doesn’t seem phased. She just types away and keeps going. “Okay, Mr. Hart, we’ll need the date of dissolution or divorce decree.”
“Almost five years ago. December twenty-fourth.”
I stare at him for a second longer, then force my eyes back to Dana’s desk, pretending to be absorbed in the slightly dusty bowl of candy canes sitting by the stapler.
He was married. Married . And never said anything.
Which—fine. I know this whole thing is fake. We’re not in a real relationship. He doesn’t owe me details about his past, and I’m not his therapist or his best friend. But still.
Still.
We’re getting legally married in four days. And no, I don’t live with him yet. I don’t know how he takes his coffee or what kind of toothpaste he uses or any of that shit, but I thought I had a general sense of him. Enough to know if he’d been married before.
Apparently not.
Which means one of two things: it either didn’t matter enough to mention…or it mattered too much.
Dana keeps working through the questions like clockwork. Maiden name, social security numbers, birthdays, mailing address. I answer on autopilot, trying not to look at Sawyer again, trying not to let my face show that the wind’s been knocked out of me a little.
Not because I care. Not because I’m jealous. But because I don’t understand why he wouldn’t tell me.
Unless…
Maybe it ended badly. Maybe he’s still not over it. Maybe she broke his heart and now he’s got it boxed up somewhere he doesn’t let anyone near.
Not even me. Especially not me.
“Alright,” Dana says, printing something and sliding it toward us. “Double-check your information here, and sign at the bottom. Full names. Both of you.”
We lean over the counter to read, and I scribble my name first, handing him the pen when I’m done. Sawyer signs without hesitation. His signature is neat. Sharp. Like he’s done this before.
Of course he has.
Dana stamps the top of the form with a heavy thunk. “Okay. You’re all set. This will be recorded today, and the license will be valid through the end of next year. Just be sure to file the certificate with us after the ceremony.”
She says it all matter-of-factly, like it’s no big deal. Like she didn’t just press a rubber stamp down on something that’s going to bind us together in the eyes of the law. Like it didn’t shake something loose in me that I wasn’t expecting.
We thank her and start walking toward the door.
The cold air hits me like a slap—dry and biting, scraping down my throat as I breathe it in.
I don’t stop walking. Don’t bother looking around to see if anyone’s watching.
Our breath curls in the air between us, but I barely notice.
I just want to get to the car. Slide into the driver’s seat.
Shut the door. And pretend this day never happened.
“Wren.”
I stop without meaning to. His voice is gentle, not sharp or defensive. Just cautious.
I turn, not all the way, but enough to meet his eyes. “Yeah?”
He’s standing a few feet behind me, his hand dragging across his jaw like he’s trying to find the right words and not loving any of the ones coming to mind.
“I know that was probably…not what you expected to hear in there.”
There’s a beat, and then I laugh. It’s dry, humorless. “Yeah. No shit, Sawyer.”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t push back. He looks like he might try to explain, so I lift a hand, stopping him before he can.
“Look. You don’t owe me anything,” I say. “This isn’t real. You don’t have to tell me about your past. That’s not the deal here.”
I mean it. Mostly. But also not at all.
While it’s true—he doesn’t owe me details—I think what stings is that I thought maybe he trusted me enough to offer them anyway. I thought we were building something , even if it was only temporary. Something honest.
He nods once, slowly. Then looks down at the sidewalk before glancing back up at me.
“I still should’ve told you,” he says, quieter this time. “Or at least given you a heads-up. I’m sorry.”
His hand drifts to the back of his neck. He looks…off. Out of sorts in a way I haven’t seen before. Usually he’s calm, a little amused, always somewhere between smirking and polite. But right now he looks unsettled, like he wants to crawl out of his own skin.
And something about that makes my chest ache a little.
“Look, I get it,” I say, the words leaving softer than I expect. “You don’t have to explain anything. If it was bad…I understand why you’d want to keep it to yourself.”
He doesn’t say anything, just watches me like he’s not sure what he’s allowed to say. I shift slightly, then hold out my hand between us. My pinky extended.
“No more secrets,” I say.
His gaze drops to my hand, then lifts slowly to meet mine.
“I’m not asking for your life story. That’s not what this is,” I go on. “But if there’s something the other person should maybe know—like being previously married, or being a secret serial killer or something…”
That gets the corner of his mouth to twitch. Just barely. But it’s something. He reaches out and wraps his pinky around mine, his skin warm against the cold.
“Deal,” he says. “No more big secrets.”
And we just stand there like that for a second longer, fingers hooked together in the middle of a freezing parking lot.
Our hands drop after a beat and Sawyer jerks his chin toward Main Street, where cars are packed in tight and bundled-up bodies weave between them, steaming cups clutched in mittened hands. “You hitting up Winterfaire?”
“Obviously.”
His dark brows hitch. “Obviously?”
“Yeah,” I say, already seeing it—the glow of the rink under the winter sky, the crisp scrape of blades on ice. “They’ve got the rink up, and it’s supposed to stay clear tonight.”
Sawyer follows my gaze toward town like he’s trying to picture it, too. “You ice skate?”
“Please,” I say. “I don’t just skate. I dominate.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up, and damn if that smirk doesn’t do something stupid to my pulse.
“My dad used to take me when I was little,” I admit, the memory softening my voice.
“He’d hold my hands, skate backward, and let me believe I was doing it all by myself.
We went every year—even when it was so cold our faces went numb.
Then, when I got older, it turned into me trying to out-skate Boone and Ridge.
” A grin tugs at my lips. “Still do, when I get the chance.”
The rink unfolds in my mind—big and gleaming under strings of white lights, right in the middle of the square where the farmer’s market usually sits.
The wooden rails get slick by the end of the night, the speakers blare too much Bing Crosby, and the hot cocoa is cheap, but it’s magical.
For two weeks, this town becomes something else entirely.
Sawyer lets out a low chuckle. “That actually sounds…fun.”
“It is,” I say, holding his gaze.
He shifts his weight, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I don’t know how to skate.”
My mouth hangs open a little. “You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
“You’ve never ice skated? You live in Montana!”
He shakes his head, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “My parents weren’t exactly the Winterfaire type. Too many of us to keep track of.”
I squint at him. “Not once?”
“Not unless you count the time I ate shit on a frozen pond when I was twelve.”
“Wiping out isn’t exactly a skill set, the last time I checked.”
His grin is slow. “Maybe I just need a good teacher.”
“Let me teach you,” I say. “I taught Sage. I’m a fantastic teacher.”
He looks skeptical, which is fair. “And can Sage skate?”
“Now she can. It took her three days to stop gripping the rail like it was a matter of life or death, but she got there.”
Sawyer considers that for a second, and I can already see the gears turning.
“Come with me,” I say. “Just try it. One lap around the rink. You don’t even have to let go of the wall if you don’t want to.”
He gives me a look. “You think I’m going to be clinging to a wall?”
“I know you are.”
He laughs, the sound low and warm in the cold. “You’re kind of a menace.”
I smile.
He pauses, then nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll come.”
I glance back at him. “Wait, seriously?”
“Seriously. I’ll probably make a complete ass of myself, but yeah. I’m in.”
I grin. “Oh, you definitely will.”
Sawyer’s eyes glint, his voice dropping to that low, rough timbre that licks through me like a struck match. “Yeah, well, at least I’ll be an ass on accident. Unlike some people who just come by it so naturally.”
I swat at his arm, but he catches my wrist, his grip warm even through my sleeve.
And I don’t know why that settles something in me, but it does.
The way his thumb brushes absently over the inside of my wrist. The way he’s looking at me like he’s already planning his revenge for whatever humiliation awaits him on that rink.
Maybe this won’t be the worst fake marriage ever after all.
* * *
“This was a terrible idea.”
Sawyer is staring down at his skates like they’ve personally betrayed him.
I’m still lacing mine up on the bench, my gloves wedged under my thigh to keep them warm. “It’s not terrible,” I say, yanking the laces tight. “Entertaining? Absolutely. But not terrible.”
He doesn’t answer, just scowls at his feet as if his legs have forgotten how to function.