Chapter 27 #2
And that should be the end of it. It should be simple—two grown adults, a hotel room, one king-sized bed.
But I can feel my mind spiraling, cataloging the details, the impossibility of sleeping beside someone who looks like him, who smells like fresh laundry and expensive cologne and spearmint gum.
Someone who is, technically, my husband—even if it’s only on paper.
It hits me then how little I’ve ever allowed myself to be in this kind of situation.
Not because I didn’t want it, but because my ex-boyfriend, Ethan, had rules.
Boundaries, he called them. Standards. No sleepovers, no overnights, no sharing a bed.
He’d said it with such conviction, like saving space between us somehow proved we loved each other more.
I used to believe him.
Now, I’m realizing that all of it just sounded ridiculous. And sad.
The memory of him makes my stomach twist the same way it always does when I think too hard about how far I bent to fit into the version of love he made me believe I wanted.
“Hey,” Sawyer says beside me, his voice quieter now. “You okay?”
I glance up. He’s watching me, brow creased just slightly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs. “You just look…nervous. Or sad. Or something.”
I force a breath and a small shake of my head. “I’m fine.”
The elevator dings before he can say anything else.
We step out onto a carpet that looks like it’s vacuumed hourly, the walls lined with sleek paneling and framed black-and-white photography of mountain ranges. Everything smells faintly of eucalyptus. Even the hallway feels rich.
Sawyer slides the key into the lock, pushes the door open, and steps aside for me to walk in first.
I stop in the doorway.
The room is…something else entirely.
It’s huge. Vaulted ceilings, crown molding, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city skyline, glowing gold against the dark.
The floors are a glossy dark wood, softened by an enormous rug the color of pale sand.
There’s a fireplace on the far wall, the mantle topped with candles and a massive gilded mirror.
A seating area with a navy velvet sofa and glass coffee table is arranged like it was plucked straight from an interior design magazine.
A bottle of champagne chills in a silver bucket, and beside it, a small hand-lettered note: Congratulations to the happy couple, Mr. And Mrs. Hart!
I swallow hard when I see the bed.
Layered in white linen and every type of pillow known to man, is one enormous, beautiful, ridiculous bed. King-sized, for sure. Maybe even California King.
Sawyer lets out a low whistle behind me. “Well. They didn’t skimp out on us.”
There are two robes folded at the foot of the bed, a pair of slippers beneath each one. Monogrammed.
I blink at the “H” stitched into the collar like it belongs to me. Like I belong here.
“Wren?” he says, coming up beside me.
I don’t answer right away. I’m still staring at the bed, trying not to panic about how close we’ll be. How much of me he might hear if I breathe too hard. If I dream too loud. If I forget, even for a second, that this isn’t real.
I finally look away from the bed, if only to give my brain something else to latch onto. That’s when I see our suitcases and duffel bags lined neatly on a velvet couch near the far wall. Above it, a massive flat screen flickers with the hotel’s welcome channel.
My eyebrows pull together. “Wait. How did our stuff get up here already?”
Sawyer chuckles under his breath. “Bellhop must’ve brought it up while we were still downstairs.”
I glance back at him, but don’t say anything.
“I know it’s a lot,” he says, voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to…overwhelm you. I just thought booking something nicer might be a decent way to say thanks. For coming. For doing this with me.”
I give him a tight smile. “It’s beautiful. Honestly. I’m afraid to touch anything.”
He laughs at that, and it’s warm. Uncomplicated. Like he’s relieved I didn’t bolt at the door.
He walks toward the couch and gestures toward it, as if it’s a perfectly reasonable place to sleep. “This works for me if you want the bed.”
I snort. “No, it doesn’t. It doesn’t work for me or for you.”
He raises a brow.
“That thing barely fits Hank,” I say, nodding at the loveseat. “You’d be curled up like a pretzel and then wake up shaped like one.”
He smiles again, that same polite, easy expression, like he doesn’t want to push me into anything. But it’s written all over him—he knew the couch was a joke the second he offered. His legs alone would hang off both ends.
“It’s fine,” I say, a little firmer now. “The bed is massive. We probably won’t even know the other one’s there.”
I turn before he can respond, drawn toward the floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side of the room.
I hadn’t realized one of the panels was actually a sliding door until I get close and catch the handle.
I open it slowly, the night air spilling into the room, cool and clean and tinged with the faint scent of concrete after rain.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
There’s a balcony. A wide one. With a private jacuzzi bubbling in the corner and two chaise lounges facing the city like they belong in a travel ad.
And the view—God.
The skyline stretches for miles, all lit up and glinting, like someone spilled a jar of gold glitter across the pavement.
Cars trace red and white ribbons through the dark, headlights weaving between buildings that blink and shine like stars.
The sky above is still, velvet black, only a few faint constellations managing to break through the city haze.
It’s quiet out here, somehow. Not the type of quiet that feels eerie or staged—but the type that settles over your shoulders and makes you exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.
Sawyer steps up behind me but doesn’t say anything. Just stands there. Close enough to feel but not enough to crowd me.
I grip the railing with both hands and try to remember that this is temporary. All of it—me, him, this view. Nothing more than a beautiful blip. A room we’ll have to leave eventually.
Still, I don’t move. Not yet. There’s something about this night—the stillness, the warmth behind me, the city glittering like it’s performing just for us—that makes it hard to turn around.
Sawyer leans on the railing, forearms resting there like he’s done it a thousand times. His biceps shift as he moves, easy and unbothered, all quiet strength and zero awareness of it. He doesn’t look like someone who could be pushed off balance—not by gravity, not by much of anything.
I glance at him—just to look.
His profile is sharp—strong jaw, high cheekbone, that effortless stillness he carries without realizing. A trace of stubble darkens his skin, like he shaved yesterday morning and hasn’t thought about it since. But it’s his mouth I keep coming back to.
The bottom one is full, shaped with a slight dip in the center, a soft crease that stays even when he’s speaking.
The top is thinner, more precise, curving into a bow that makes him look thoughtful even when he isn’t trying.
They’re slightly dry, the texture uneven, with a small, healed split near the corner. Still, they look warm. Real.
I look too long. I don’t stop myself.
He glances down and catches me staring, my cheeks flushing immediately. I look away like I wasn’t just mentally listing all the parts of his beautiful face I’d paint if I still painted people.
“It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?” he says, nodding toward the skyline.
I blink, pulling my gaze toward the view again. “Oh, yeah. I never knew the city could look like this.”
His shoulder brushes mine as he shifts again. “Have you been to the city much?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. Not really at night, though.”
In the city, I always felt off-tempo. Like I was standing still while everything else moved too fast—people brushing past, lights flashing, voices rising, all of it just out of reach. I was there, but not in it. Like life was happening through a window I couldn’t open.
But up here, everything slows. The noise fades into something softer, the lights blur at the edges—golden and quiet and beautiful. For once, it doesn’t feel like it’s pulling away from me.
“I’m used to Summit Springs,” I say, leaning into the railing again. “You know. Wide open spaces. Dirt roads. Miles of nothing but land and sky and livestock that outnumber the people.”
He smiles at that.
“And I love it,” I add quickly, because I do. It’s home. It’s where my roots are buried.
“But this,” I say, looking out at the glass towers and blinking billboards, “this is kind of special, too.”
Everything about this—the endless skyline, the glass towers reflecting gold against the night, the silence that somehow lives in the middle of a city this loud—makes something settle in my chest. Not in a quiet way.
In a brave way. The room, the view, the night itself—it gives me permission to step outside of myself for a second.
To stop thinking so damn much and just do something without checking the rulebook first.
I turn to Sawyer. “We should open that champagne.”
He looks at me sideways, one brow arched, the start of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Yeah?”
I nod once, my pulse already picking up, though I pretend I’m completely at ease. “Yeah.”
He glances down at his watch—which is polished and expensive in a subtle, generational-wealth sort of way. I shouldn’t be surprised. “It’s nine o’clock.”
I roll my eyes, step closer, and nudge his arm with mine. “Exactly, grandpa. We’ve still got time to have a little fun.”
I hold my fingers up, thumb and forefinger barely apart, to show just how little. Sawyer lets out a laugh, and it warms the air between us and does something traitorous to my stomach.
Without saying anything else, he slides the glass door open and gestures toward the room. “Lead the way.”