Chapter 22 #2
He holds his hand out for me, and I swallow hard. He’s watching me with that still, unreadable expression he’s so good at.
I take his left hand, and my stomach tightens. It’s warm. Rough. It’s built fences and driven cattle and saved animals. His fingers are long, knuckles pronounced, veins raised just enough that I feel my cheeks heat before I can stop them.
The band slides on easily. My fingers shake a little as I press it into place.
The pastor turns to Sawyer. “Now, place the ring on Wren’s finger.”
Sawyer reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out my ring—my ring and the band—and takes my left hand in his.
He slides the rings on one after the other—first the diamond, then the band that clicks gently into place beneath it. His hand lingers, thumb brushing once more across the back of mine.
“Sawyer Raymond Hart, do you take Wren Margaret Wilding to be your lawfully wedded wife—to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”
Sawyer doesn’t pause. His mouth lifts—not a full smile, just enough to make my stomach turn over—and he says, “I do.”
And somehow, it feels more intimate than anything he’s ever said to me.
Then the pastor turns to me.
“Wren Margaret Wilding, do you take Sawyer Raymond Hart to be your lawfully wedded husband—to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse, for as long as you both shall live?”
It takes me half a second longer than it should. But when I say it—when I hear myself say it—something inside me settles. “I do.”
And then he smiles again. Small. Crooked. Private.
The pastor clasps his hands together and says something about how beautiful the ceremony has been, how meaningful and heartfelt and rare it is to witness a love like this. I feel every cell in my body cringe at the word love.
Then, with a smile that feels far too knowing for my current mental state, he says, “By the power vested in me by the state of Montana, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Wife.
I’m somebody’s wife.
He turns to Sawyer. “You may now kiss your beautiful bride.”
Sawyer’s eyes flick to mine, and I swear my stomach drops straight through the floor.
Oh god.
Right. That part. The part where our mouths are supposed to touch in front of everyone we know. How did I forget about this part?
My brain goes into immediate triage mode. We’ve never kissed. Not once. We’ve been fake engaged and fake smiling and somehow this is the part that slipped through the cracks?
We probably should’ve practiced. Just once. Just so I’d know how it was going to go. What if I tilt my head the wrong way? What if I miscalculate the pressure? What if I…forget how to kiss entirely?
God, when was the last time I even kissed someone?
Would it have been weird to ask him to practice beforehand? Just a dry run? It could’ve been very professional, in my opinion. Not weird at all.
Before I can finish the five other thoughts trying to form in my head, Sawyer steps toward me.
My breath stalls. He’s close now, closer than I’ve ever let him get, and suddenly I can see the edge of nervousness in the way his jaw tightens. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
He’s nervous, too.
He doesn’t want to kiss me.
Of course he doesn’t. This isn’t real.
I think about stepping back. About saying something, anything, just to buy myself a second. But nothing comes out. My body’s stuck somewhere between panic and anticipation and my brain is offering me absolutely zero help.
He leans in, and before I can spiral any further—his lips are on mine.
They’re soft at first, barely there, like he’s trying not to startle me. But then I feel the shift, the quiet exhale against my mouth. The subtle change in pressure. The way his lips part slightly, like he’s testing the edges of this thing between us.
And suddenly it’s not careful anymore.
His hand slides from the side of my neck to cradle the back of my head, his fingers threading gently into my hair.
His other hand stays planted at my waist, firm and warm, pulling me just a fraction closer.
It’s not possessive. It’s not for show. It’s grounding, like he’s decided to be all in for this one moment.
I tilt my head slightly, and he meets the shift without missing a beat. His fingers flex gently at my waist. He brushes his bottom lip slowly over mine before catching it again, and my body answers before I can think.
My lips part. A breath. A heartbeat. And then I’m kissing him back.
One hand fists into the lapel of his jacket.
The other curls around the back of his shoulder.
I don’t even remember moving them there.
I’m not thinking. I’m just feeling—his lips, warm and coaxing, the quiet way he hums when I shift just slightly, the way his thumb traces the edge of my jaw in slow, maddening circles.
He tastes like mint toothpaste. Sharp at first, then soft. The kind that lingers at the back of your tongue, clean and cool. It blends with the cologne, with the heat of him, and now I can’t tell which part is knocking the breath out of me.
There’s noise—somewhere. Clapping. A low murmur from the crowd. It barely registers. The room has dropped away, and all I can feel is the way he’s kissing me.
Not cautiously. Not like it’s pretend.
He kisses me like he means it.
And the worst part—the best part—is that I don’t want it to stop. Not yet. Not when he’s still holding my mouth between his like it’s something worth keeping. Not when every slow pull and gentle press is telling me something I’ve been trying not to hear since this whole thing started.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch. His lips hover over mine, parted, his breath uneven. His hand is still in my hair. His thumb is still on my skin.
And when I open my eyes, he’s already looking at me.
The clapping registers in pieces, as if someone turned the volume up on the world all at once.
A hundred people on their feet. The creak of chairs.
A cheer from the back I’m pretending not to hear.
My brain tries to catch up, but I’m still stuck in the part where his mouth was on mine and it was… good.
No. Not just good.
It was the kind of kiss that makes you forget your name. Makes you forget this is a transaction. Makes you forget this is fake.
I’ve never had a kiss feel like that before. Not even close.
My hand is still on his shoulder. The other, on his chest. His palm is still at my waist—lower than it was before—his thumb pressing softly through the fabric of my dress like he forgot to stop.
And the thing that throws me the most isn’t the kiss, or the crowd, or even how badly I want to do that again. How natural it felt. How easy it was to fall into him. How familiar.
I drop my hands and take a half-step back. He lets his fall too, slow and unhurried, like he’s not quite ready to give me all my space back.
We turn to face the crowd, still clapping, still standing, and as the pastor says something I barely register about blessing this union and what a beautiful couple we are, Sawyer threads his fingers through mine. Palm to palm, like we’ve done it a thousand times.
I glance up at him, startled, but he just smiles. Small. Casual. Devastating.
My heart lurches again, and I remind myself that I am now married. I am a married woman.
To Sawyer Raymond Hart.
A man I technically know, but don’t actually know. Not in the way a person should when they’re standing in a white dress and holding hands in front of three hundred people.
A man I didn’t know the middle name of until five minutes ago. A man whose birthday—February twentieth—I only learned when I read it on the marriage license.
I don’t know what he eats when he’s sick or how he sounds when he laughs too hard. I don’t know if he drinks his coffee black or with cream or if he even drinks coffee at all. I don’t know what movies he watches more than once or how he looks when he’s just woken up.
And yet I’m standing here, with his hand in mine, feeling something that isn’t nerves or dread or doubt.
It’s a pull. Quiet and constant. Something that tells me I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, even if I don’t know why yet.
His thumb moves, once, across my hand.
And I don’t let go.