Chapter 27
WREN
I hit send on the text to Anna just as Sawyer turns into the hotel’s parking garage, my phone still in my hand and my stomach making this slow, uneasy roll.
Me: Hey, Zeus should be good with light lunge work, but keep his back boots on. He’s been weird about that back left again.
I set the phone in my lap and look up.
And I blink. Twice.
Because this hotel? Is absolutely not the kind of place you stay unless you have a black card and a trust fund.
It’s all glass and stone and golden lighting—somehow making even concrete look expensive. Valets wait by the curb like they’re guarding royalty. There are fountains out front and lobby chandeliers that probably cost more than my car. And that’s just from the outside.
“Um, Sawyer. This is a nice hotel,” I say, slowly. “Like… really nice.”
Sawyer chuckles, pulling into a parking spot. “It’s something like that.”
I glance into the backseat where our garment bags are hanging off the hook, my fingers twitching to unzip mine just to double check. Miller picked out the dresses last-minute from some boutique in Bozeman, and at the time, I thought they were fine. Classy. Sleek. Nothing too showy.
But now? Now they look like they belong in a different galaxy from this building.
Sawyer shifts the car into park and kills the engine. “They’ll be fine,” he says, like he knows what I’m thinking.
I turn my head toward him. “You haven’t even seen them yet.”
“Don’t need to.”
“Right. Because you have a degree in fashion now.”
He smirks, unbuckling his seatbelt. “No. But I have eyes. And I know you’ll look fine.”
I shake my head, but there’s a flicker of warmth in my chest. Not because of the words themselves, but the way he said them—like it’s just true. Like there’s never been a day in my life I didn’t look fine.
Which is objectively false, but sweet, I guess.
The lobby is absurd. That’s my first thought as the doors slide open and we step inside—me in a wrinkled sweatshirt, Sawyer looking mildly more presentable, and Hank trotting in like this is his second home.
It smells like gardenias and polished wood and money.
The floors are polished marble, and probably costs more per square foot than the house I grew up in.
There’s a live pianist in the corner playing something soft beneath a sweeping staircase, and a massive chandelier overhead that’s made of tiny blown-glass orbs catching the light like water.
The walls are all dark wood paneling and gold accents, and there are fresh flowers—real ones, definitely not plastic—in tall crystal vases spaced out like art.
Everyone here walks like they know they’re being watched by someone else.
Designer luggage. High heels that have never met dirt.
Wool coats that cost more than a mortgage payment.
Sawyer’s holding Hank’s leash like this is just a normal Tuesday, and apparently it is, because no one bats an eye.
The bellhop in a deep navy vest nods politely as we pass, his white gloves clasped behind his back.
Even the woman wiping down the mirrored elevator doors does it with the kind of efficiency that says she’s used to being invisible.
Everyone here is dressed like they belong—business suits, pressed slacks, cocktail dresses and pearls—and then there’s me in gray joggers and a sweatshirt that may or may not have a toothpaste stain on the sleeve.
Sawyer, of course, fits right in. His dark jeans are clean and the button-up he threw on has been ironed to perfection. He could walk into a black tie event just like this and probably get offered the mic.
We approach the check-in desk and the woman behind it is probably in her late fifties, with auburn hair teased into a voluminous blowout, frosted eyeshadow, and long coral nails that click against the keyboard as she types.
Her blazer is perfectly tailored, the hotel logo stitched at the lapel.
She looks up and beams. Her name tag says Maureen.
“Dr. Hart, well I’ll be,” she says, and her smile pulls just a little wider.
Sawyer gives her a smile back. “Evening, Maureen. Did you change your hair again? It looks great.”
She actually blushes. Pink rises on her cheeks and she bats her lashes like this is a Jane Austen adaptation and not a hotel lobby. Her eyes do a slow sweep of him, pausing briefly at the rolled sleeves of his shirt, and I swear to God she licks her bottom lip.
I let out a quiet breath through my nose, sharp enough to fog glass. It’s a reflex, the same one I developed in middle school when girls started giving Ridge that same look.
She’s not doing anything wrong, necessarily. Just ogling my husband like he’s a steak dinner and she skipped lunch. And she’s allowed to look. He’s not doing anything to encourage her. It’s not like I have a claim on him beyond whatever this situation is. Temporary. Technical.
So why do I hate how it feels?
I shift my weight and glance down at Hank. He lifts his head and licks my wrist like he knows I’m off-kilter.
Maureen’s gaze slides over to me and her face scrunches like I’m a chewed up piece of gum stuck to the heel of her designer shoes.
Her eyes drag from the top of my baseball cap down to my scuffed sneakers, pausing just long enough at my oversized sweatshirt to make her point.
Her voice comes out sugary and tight. “And this is…?”
I narrow my eyes at her, matching her sweet with something a little sharper. She may have a name tag and a pension, but I’ve had a resting bitch face since seventh grade and I’m not afraid to use it.
Before I can open my mouth and say something I’ll regret later, Sawyer slips his fingers into mine. Smooth as anything, he lifts our hands like we’re debuting a damn engagement photo.
“Didn’t you hear?” he says, all casual charm, like this moment hasn’t just scrambled every signal in my body. “She’s my wife.”
Maureen’s eyes snap to the ring, her brows climbing high like they’ve seen a ghost. I should probably be focused on the fact that this little performance just bought us a smoother check-in—but all I can think about is his hand wrapped around mine.
How it’s like there’s a cord running from his palm to every nerve ending in my body.
That…can’t be normal. Right?
I glance up at him just as he throws me a quick, smug smile. He knows what he’s doing. The bastard.
Maureen’s lips twitch into something that might be a smile, if you squinted and tilted your head. “Well. Congratulations are in order.”
It sounds like she just swallowed a lemon whole.
I flash her the brightest, fakest smile I can muster—teeth and all. “Thanks,” I say, syrupy sweet. “We’re just so happy! We had to celebrate. You know…take some time to catch up on newlywed activities.”
Maureen’s cheeks flush, her lips parting like she doesn’t know what to say and Sawyer clears his throat, his mouth twitching as he tries not to laugh. I can feel the tension in his arm where it’s pressed against mine. It’s subtle, but it’s there. Like he’s holding it in, just barely.
And I hate how much I like that, too.
“I just wanted to check into our room, please,” Sawyer says, stepping closer to the counter.
Maureen nods, her fingers flying across the keyboard with practiced speed, the click of her acrylics sharp against the quiet of the lobby. The screen casts a faint glow on her face as she squints at the monitor.
I keep a hand on Hank’s head, more for me than for him.
He’s already settled, lying beside my feet like this is just another errand.
Meanwhile, my heart’s caught somewhere between the polished floors, the ceiling that could house a basketball court, and the distant sound of water trickling from a fountain I can’t even see. It’s too much. All of it.
Maureen’s mouth softens into a smile. “Here we are. Queen Suite. Queen bed.”
There’s a pause—short, but enough for my brain to clock it.
Did she say bed? As in…one? As in, singular?
My stomach knots. I glance at Sawyer, but he’s already leaning in, his brow creased.
“I’d requested two beds,” he says. “Is there a note about that?”
Maureen’s fingers fly over the keys again.
“Hmm. Looks like your reservation was modified this morning. There was a mix-up with the adjoining suite—it had a plumbing issue, so they moved you to this one instead.” Her eyes flick from him to me and back again, like she’s enjoying this way too much.
“But one bed shouldn’t be a problem for a newlywed couple though, right, Dr. Hart? ”
My chest tightens. Not because of the bed, necessarily. But because I didn’t expect this part—sharing a space that intimate, with no place to retreat if it gets weird between us.
Sawyer smiles—easily, confidently. “Not at all.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
Maureen reaches under the desk, pulls out an envelope with our keys and something that looks like a packet of spa coupons, then hands them over with a satisfied tilt of her head. “Your bags will be sent up. Room’s on the eighteenth floor. Enjoy your stay.”
She holds his gaze a moment too long.
“Thanks, Maureen,” Sawyer says, giving her a quick wink. “You’re a gem.”
She nearly glows.
I don’t bother hiding the eye roll as I follow him toward the elevators, Hank trotting loyally beside me.
The elevator doors close with a soft hiss, sealing us inside. I shift my weight next to Hank, more aware than ever of the way my pulse is pounding behind my knees.
Sawyer exhales, the sound barely audible, then glances over at me. “Sorry about the room mix-up.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say much yet.
“If you want, I can take the couch. Or the floor.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Whatever makes you more comfortable.”
I glance at him, unsure what to do with the knot forming in my chest. “You don’t have to do that. It’s not your fault, anyway.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know,” I say, quieter this time. “But you’re not sleeping on the floor.”
He doesn’t push. Just gives me a soft look and nods again.