Chapter 31
SAWYER
The first thing I notice is the space beside me.
It’s empty.
The sheets are cool, the weight’s gone, but there’s still the faint dip in the mattress where she’d been, like her absence hasn’t fully settled yet.
My eyes open slowly, adjusting to the soft light bleeding in through thick curtains. The room is quiet. Still.
Too still.
And then it fully hits me—she’s not here.
My pulse jumps before I can stop it, some primal instinct kicking in before logic does. My hand moves across the bed like I’ll find her that way. Like maybe I just missed her.
But it’s just thin fabric and air.
Until I see it.
A slip of hotel stationery on her pillow. Folded once, my name written across the front in her handwriting—round and a little loopy. The S is bigger than the rest.
I sit up, still groggy, and open it.
Sawyer,
Took Hank for a walk. I wanted you to get some sleep. We’ll be back soon.
P.S. What do you call a dog who does magic?
A labracadabrador. ?? -W
There’s a tiny doodle of a paw print next to her signature W . It’s a little smudged in the corner, like she might’ve leaned on it while she wrote. I trace it with my thumb and try not to smile, but fail miserably.
She walked my dog.
I don’t know what gets me more—the fact that she let me sleep, or the fact that she took Hank out without me asking her to. Like she’s mine, and what’s mine is hers. No questions asked.
I lean over the side of the bed to grab my phone, still stuck in that floaty, post-dream state, and my eyes catch the time.
12:04.
I blink at it and frown. Then check again.
Noon?
I can’t remember the last time I slept that late. Maybe high school. Maybe never. Not when you’re up with calves at sunrise or pulling double shifts at the clinic or studying until your vision blurs. Sleeping in just hasn’t ever been a thing . I’m not wired for rest. Or haven’t been, at least.
But somehow…I did. Somehow, with Wren in my bed last night, I actually slept.
And she let me. No alarms. No noise. Just a note with a dad joke and a doodle and her out in the city somewhere, walking my dog like this is just what she does now. What we do now.
Damn, what is she doing to me?
By the time I’ve cleared out my work inbox, texted three people back from the clinic, and showered off what’s left of the nightmare still clinging to my skin, the room’s gone quiet again. Peaceful, almost. Except now I’m wondering what the hell Wren ate for breakfast.
I unzip the lunchbox she packed—tucked neatly beside her duffel bag—and find curled orange peels and a crumpled granola bar wrapper.
That’s it? No. No, that can’t be it.
She let me sleep in, walked my dog, and only ate…citrus and oats?
There’s no way in hell that’s all she’s eating today.
I grab the hotel phone and press the button for room service.
It rings twice before a bright voice answers. “Good afternoon, this is Clarice at the front desk of the Langford. How can I assist you today?”
“Hi, good afternoon,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m calling from room 1804. I was wondering what you’re serving for lunch?”
“Let me check on that for you…” I hear the soft clicking of a keyboard. “Okay, we’ve got a roasted turkey sandwich with cheddar, lobster bisque, mushroom risotto, and a grilled panini that comes with provolone and aioli.”
Of course. Cheese, cheese, cream, and wheat.
“Do you happen to have any gluten- and dairy-free options?” I ask, running a hand through damp hair. “My wife can’t have either.”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “We don’t have anything pre-set on the lunch menu that’s fully allergen-free, but I can absolutely speak with the chef. We’ve accommodated similar dietary needs before.”
I flip open the room service menu and scan it again, mentally crossing out half the things she can’t eat until I land on some options that would work for her.
“She’d probably like the cedar plank salmon.
Maybe with a citrus glaze? And if the chef can add roasted beets or a fennel salad, I think she’d love that. ”
“We can absolutely make that work, sir,” she says, tone still pleasant but slightly apologetic. “I should mention that with custom orders like this, there is a per-item charge. It does run a little higher—”
“That’s fine,” I cut in. “Charge whatever. Just make sure it’s safe for her to eat.”
There’s another pause, then a warmer smile behind her voice. “Of course, Dr. Hart. We’ll take care of it. It should be up in about forty-five minutes.”
“Thank you. One more thing—do you happen to carry Swoon ice cream?”
“We actually do, sir. It’s very popular with our vegan guests.”
I smile to myself. “Great. Can you send up a pint of that, too?”
“Absolutely.”
“Perfect. Thanks again, Clarice.”
“You’re very welcome, Dr. Hart. Enjoy your afternoon.”
I hang up, still holding the phone, thinking about orange peels and granola bars and how she keeps doing these quiet little things for me, like walking my dog and leaving me notes.
The very least I can do is make sure she’s fed properly.
I set the phone down and look around the room.
It’s not trashed, but it definitely looks lived in—last night’s clothes still in a heap near the end of the bed, pillows crooked, the duvet halfway to the floor.
My shoes are tipped over by the armchair.
Her duffel’s gaping open, a sweatshirt half-spilling out.
I exhale through my nose and start moving. It’s instinctual. When I was a kid and things felt too big, I’d clean. I’d line up the spurs by the door, fold my shirts into perfect squares, sweep the porch even if it didn’t need it. Something about making order where I could.
I re-make the bed first. Tuck the corners, smooth the blanket, fluff the pillows so they look like we didn’t spend the night tangled between them.
I fold my clothes and then hers too, setting the neat pile on top of her bag.
I find her shoes under the table and line them up next to the nightstand.
Pull the used towels off the bathroom floor and drop them by the door for housekeeping.
Then I make my way over to the jacuzzi.
Her bikini top is still floating in the water—barely. The straps are all twisted and soaked. I shake it off gently, set it on a towel, and grab the bottoms that are still in the shower.
Jesus.
They’re…basically a shoestring. A suggestion of fabric. And I love them. I loved her in them. I love the idea of seeing her in them again.
I’m turning to head back toward the bed when it hits me.
My wife.
I’d said it without even thinking. “My wife can’t have either.”
No hesitation. No caveat.
And what’s worse—or maybe better—is that it didn’t feel wrong. It felt natural. Easy. Right in a way I didn’t expect anything to feel ever again.
I used to think I’d only say that word about one person. But today, I said it about Wren. And now, the more I sit with it, the more I realize I could keep saying it about her. Today. Tomorrow. Maybe for the rest of my life, and it wouldn’t just be okay. It’d be good.
Better than good.
There’s a knock at the door.
I toss on a clean T-shirt and answer it, brushing a hand through my hair.
Room service wheels in the tray and lifts the lids like it’s a magic trick.
Everything smells incredible. I reach for my wallet on the desk and hand the guy a tip—more than I probably need to—but he smiles wide and thanks me like I just made his day.
As he backs out, I tell him “appreciate it,” and close the door behind him.
I grab Hank’s bowls and step out onto the patio by the jacuzzi. The water’s still, the sky soft and bright now. I fill his bowl with fresh water from the glass pitcher and pour a scoop of food into the other, setting them both down near the sliding door.
I’m heading back inside when I hear it. The click of the door unlocking.
It opens, and there she is—her hair down, and a puffy red jacket swallowing her entire frame. Hank bounds in like he owns the place, nose to the ground, tail wagging like a maniac.
Wren’s eyes meet mine just before Hank lunges for the food tray.
“Hank.” My voice cuts through and he skids to a halt mid-charge, ears perked. “Outside.”
He hesitates, but then darts to the glass door. I slide it open and he barrels out.
When I turn around, Wren’s standing in the entryway, cheeks pink from the chill, the faintest smile tugging at her lips.
“You cleaned up,” she says, looking around. “It looks really good in here.”
I chuckle and walk toward her, looping my arms around her waist as she toes off her sneakers. She tilts her head back when I lean down and I press a kiss to her lips—quick, warm, grounding.
She laughs against my mouth, her fingers sliding around the back of my neck.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I murmur, my forehead brushing hers.
She shrugs, eyes dancing. “Figured you could use some rest. And it gave me time to bond with Hank.”
My chest tightens—not in a bad way. Just that quiet kind of full that sneaks up on you when you’re not looking.
I kiss her again—slow and easy—then pull back just enough to ask, “How was the walk?”
She starts to answer, her voice soft and casual, something about a park a few blocks over, but I’m not really listening. Not because I don’t care—but because her mouth is right there, and I’m only human.
I drag my lips from hers, trailing them down the line of her jaw.
She tastes like cold air and something warm underneath it, like sun on skin, and I press another kiss there, then another, working my way lower.
Her pulse jumps just under her skin, and my cheek brushes against the collar of her jacket.
I nudge it gently to the side with my nose so I can get to the place I want—her collarbone—and I press my mouth there.
“Sawyer, are you even listening?”
Another kiss. “Mmm.”
There’s a beat of silence before she asks, amused, “What’s the last thing I said then?”
I grin against her skin. “You asked if I was listening.”