Chapter 24 #3
“Fun fact,” I say, because the silence is starting to feel too full, “sunflowers don’t just follow the sun. When there’s no sun—on cloudy days—they turn toward each other.”
That gets his attention. He looks over, meeting my eyes like he’s seeing something else now. Something new.
“Seriously?” he asks.
I nod. “They just know where to look, I guess.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at me for a beat too long, like he forgot for a second where we were. Then he turns back to the painting, and I can almost see him collecting himself.
“Smart flowers,” he murmurs, softer now.
“Yeah.” My voice catches a little, just enough that I hope he doesn’t notice.
He clears his throat, and the sound feels too loud in the quiet between us. “I actually have a favor to ask you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this where you tell me you need a kidney or something?”
He chuckles. “No vital organs required.”
Then he shifts his weight and glances back at the canvas as if it might help him figure out how to say what he’s about to say. “There’s this charity gala in Bozeman. It’s a work thing, and it’s next week.”
I nod, waiting.
“And I kind of need a date.”
“Ah,” I say, slowly. “And I just happen to be conveniently fake-married to you.”
He grins. “Exactly.”
I turn toward him fully now, brush still in my hand. “So just to clarify—are you asking me as your fake wife to accompany you to a formal event?”
He tilts his head, weighing it. “In theory, yes.”
I arch a brow. “And in practice?”
He meets my eyes, and there’s a pause. A real one.
“In practice, I’m asking if Wren Wilding would be willing to go with me.”
My pulse kicks at the sound of my full name in his voice.
I look back down at the brush. “Do I get to know what the favor includes? Champagne fountains? Awkward speeches? A buffet?”
“It’s an overnight thing,” he says. “Fundraising dinner, some auction stuff, a lot of handshaking.”
“Fancy.”
“I’ll book a nice hotel,” he adds. “But, you know…with separate beds.”
His voice stumbles on the last part, and when I glance up, he’s already clearing his throat again, the way people do when they’ve said more than they meant to.
I can’t help it—I laugh. “Good to know you’ve already planned the sleeping arrangements.”
He rubs the back of his neck, and his ears go the slightest bit pink. “I’m just trying to be respectful.”
“Well,” I say, tossing the brush back into the jar, “it’s very commendable.”
I stare at the floor for a second, then blow out a quiet breath. “Alright. Why the hell not. I’ll go.”
I start cleaning up—twisting caps back onto tubes, rinsing brushes in a jar of water that’s turned the color of old tea.
I don’t look at him, but I know he’s still watching me.
His attention isn’t loud, but it settles over me anyway, steady and warm.
The kind that doesn’t ask anything of you but still shifts the air in the room, so gently you don’t even notice at first.
I stand, wiping my hands, and when I turn, he’s closer than I expected. Close enough that I can smell the faint hint of spearmint on his breath. Close enough to see the edge of the gum tucked behind his molar.
“I really appreciate it.” His voice is softer now, and he shifts his weight, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little tense.
“I’m not doing it for you,” I tell him, reaching for the jar of brushes again. “I’m doing it because it gives me an excuse to dress up.”
He laughs—one of those small, bright ones that makes something tighten behind my ribs.
“Don’t get too fancy on me,” he says. “Hank’s coming with us.”
I glance up at him. “Well. This trip just got significantly better.”
He scoffs, like I’ve offended him. “You like being with Hank more than me? ”
“Is that even a real question?”
He grins widely at that and it changes his whole face. It makes him look younger somehow, like someone turned a light on from the inside. “Can’t say I blame you.”
We fall into a quiet moment, the sort that hums just under the surface. It feels like standing too close to the edge of something and pretending you’re not thinking about what it would feel like to let go.
“Thank you,” he says, softer this time.
“You’re welcome.”
He looks at me for a second longer. Then, without warning, he reaches out and taps a finger lightly to the tip of my nose. “You have some paint right there.”
Then my cheekbone. “And right there.”
And—after the briefest hesitation—my forehead. “And there.”
If it were anyone else, I’d hate that. I’d pull back. Laugh it off. Make space.
But it’s not anyone else. It’s him.
And instead of flinching, my body softens like some part of me already knows he won’t take more than I’m willing to give. As if it’s safe here, in this small radius of breath and closeness and spearmint.
His eyes meet mine again—soft, steady—and something in me wavers, but he doesn’t push it.
He just lets his hand fall, and with one last look, turns and walks out.
And I don’t exhale until he’s gone.
* * *
Later that night, when the house is quiet and I should absolutely be asleep, I find myself in the kitchen—barefoot and half-awake—for a glass of water.
Instead, I open the drawer by the fridge—the one that barely has anything in it except two rogue batteries and a yellow legal pad with a crease down the middle like it’s been folded, forgotten, then flattened again.
It reminds me of what he said earlier, about the notes he used to leave his dad. About how much he loves them.
I don’t really think—I just tear off a sheet and grab a pen from the jar near the sink. The ink skips a little at first, but it works. I sit down at the island, tuck my leg underneath me, and start to write.
Sawyer,
What do you call a fish wearing a bowtie?
Sofishticated. (I’ll be here all week. Literally. Ha ha).
Also your kitchen only has like, three things in it. It stresses me out.
-W
I stare at it longer than necessary, debating whether to rewrite it. Then briefly, seriously, consider lighting it on fire, which feels dramatic but also not entirely out of character for me.
In the end, I leave it on the kitchen island, just to the right of the sink—where I know he’ll see it. The man is pathologically committed to washing his hands at least a dozen times a day.
I switch on the light above the stove, that small glow that says someone was here , and head to bed before I can talk myself into anything else.