Chapter 34
WREN
We haven’t even reached the ballroom doors and I’m already regretting not checking the mirror one last time. My lipstick’s been kissed completely off, my hair’s doing something weird near my temple, and my thighs are still trembling from what just happened five minutes ago.
Sawyer’s hand tightens around mine like he can sense the spiral coming. He lifts it to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles, slow and grounding. “You look beautiful.”
I blow out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and try to smile, but my nerves are loud and fidgety.
My free hand smooths down the front of my dress for the third time in as many steps.
He doesn’t let go, just shifts slightly to run his other hand down my side like he’s trying to iron out the tension, his fingers trailing down my bare back.
I don’t do things like this. Not really. Not ever.
I never went to prom or homecoming in high school.
Not because I wasn’t asked, but because the thought of a packed gym full of sweaty teenagers grinding and twerking to Usher and Justin Bieber made me want to crawl out of my skin.
That had always been Sage’s or Ridge’s thing.
My fun, go-with-the-flow younger siblings.
They could find the pulse of a party in their sleep.
I was the one who stayed home and mucked stalls.
I’ve always been more…structured. Comfortable when I’m in control. And right now, I’m so far out of my element I might black out.
Even now, this doesn’t feel real. The silk on my skin, the violins echoing through the hallway, the weight of Sawyer’s hand in mine.
At this exact moment, I should be tacking up a lesson horse for a group of seventh graders who just discovered what a diagonal is.
Or reviewing a sixteen-year-old’s last round on video, helping her prep for a schooling show in Ogden.
Or maybe walking the property, checking turnout fences and reworking the feed chart so that the colt in stall five stops kicking at night.
I’d be doing a final walk-through, confirming the gates were latched, that blanket straps weren’t twisted, that the barn cats hadn’t gotten into the grain room again.
My day usually ends with sweat on my back and hay in my bra.
Not… this .
Not in a black silk dress, trying not to look like a woman who just got her brains fucked out by her fake husband against a vanity before stepping into polite society.
Sawyer squeezes my hand again. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “Yeah. It just feels weird, I guess. Not working.”
He glances over, his expression soft. “You are allowed to exist outside the barn, you know.”
“Tell that to my cortisol levels.”
Sawyer lets out a low chuckle, and when I glance up, he’s already watching me. There’s something in his gaze lately—soft, certain, like I’m not just here with him but somehow the reason he’s here at all.
I don’t know how I ended up next to the most beautiful man in the room, but I’m not questioning it. I’m just reaching for the moment and holding on tight.
We finally step inside and my jaw just…drops.
Everything sparkles. Chandeliers float above us like stars, glittering across polished marble floors.
Waiters in tailored black uniforms drift between tables with trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres I can’t pronounce.
There’s a live quartet playing something elegant and understated, and a grand piano sits tucked near the edge of a glossy black stage.
Sage would lose her shit over that piano.
Beyond that are tables dressed in white linen, towering floral centerpieces, and candles flickering in crystal holders.
The scent of gardenia and something roasted and savory fills the air.
I catch a glimpse of a dessert table that looks like it belongs in a magazine. It’s beautiful. And way too much.
I glance down at the ring on my left hand. Glittering, believable, heavy in a way I still haven’t gotten used to yet. I remind myself to play the part, to smile like this is normal. Like I belong here.
But next to Sawyer, I don’t feel like I’m pretending. Not even a little bit.
Heads turn as we make our way inside, people leaning into each other, murmuring. My stomach turns.
I tug gently on Sawyer’s hand. “Why is everyone looking at you?”
He dips his head low, his breath brushing my ear. “They’re not.”
I pull back just enough to see his face. “What?”
“They’re looking at you.”
My cheeks flush hot. “Why?”
He smiles, just barely. “Because you’re beautiful.”
My palm is suddenly sweaty in his, and I start to pull away to wipe it on my dress, but he tightens his grip. Just a gentle squeeze, as if he knew it was coming.
“You’re doing great,” he says quietly.
I nod, and he presses a kiss to my temple just as a man in a crisp black suit approaches, his smile wide.
He’s tall—tall enough to almost meet Sawyer eye to eye—and his skin is a deep ebony and glowing.
He has warm, intelligent dark eyes and his energy is easy, infectious, like he walks through the world assuming people will like him.
And from the looks of it, they usually do.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the man says, grinning. “Sawyer Hart! You haven’t aged a day.”
Sawyer’s face shifts into unfiltered joy. He grabs the man’s hand in a firm shake, pulls him in, and claps his shoulder with the other hand. “Joel Valentine! It’s so good to see you, brother.”
There’s an ease to it. One that only comes from years and miles and whatever they’ve gone through together. I step back half a step as they separate and Joel turns to me, those kind eyes finding mine.
“And this must be the beautiful bride,” he says, holding out his hand.
I shake his outstretched hand, catching the deep dimples that flash when he smiles. “I’m Wren,” I say automatically. “Wren Wi—Hart.”
Joel doesn’t miss the stumble, but he lets it go with a knowing tilt of his head. “Wren Hart. Gorgeous name for a gorgeous woman.” Then he turns to Sawyer and adds, “Too pretty for this jackass, that’s for sure.”
Sawyer just smiles. “Yeah, I know.” He glances over, amused. “We were in vet school together. Roommates for a while. Now he runs a practice a couple hours south of me.”
He claps Sawyer on the shoulder, shaking him a little. “Known this one for a long time. Now, tell me, Hart—how’d you manage a wife this beautiful, huh? Blackmail? Hypnosis? Are you secretly holding her hostage?”
Joel leans in, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “Blink twice if he’s got you locked up in a basement somewhere, Wren.”
I laugh before I mean to. It bubbles up and for a second, I forget how tightly I’ve been holding myself together.
Joel has that effect, I’m realizing. He’s the type of person who makes you forget you were anxious a minute ago.
Who talks to you as if he already knows you, as if there’s nothing about you that needs softening or adjusting first.
People light up when they see him. They stop to shake his hand, clap his back, pull him into conversations like they’ve been waiting for him to show up.
And he lets them. Not in a fake, performative way.
Just—genuinely. He’s warm without trying, approachable in a way that I probably never will be.
I watch him and wonder what that feels like.
To be someone people are just naturally drawn to.
To move through a space like you deserve to be there. To carry that kind of light.
There’s something about that charisma and ease that makes you want to be near it. Like maybe if you stand close enough, some of it will rub off on you.
Sawyer and Joel are still talking—laughing, catching up like no time’s passed at all—but their voices have sort of faded into the background.
I’m standing here, watching their conversation without really absorbing any of it.
Sawyer’s hand finds mine again. Just a soft brush at first, then his fingers thread between mine like he knows exactly when I need something to hold onto.
Joel’s telling some story with wild hand gestures and this grin that practically stretches off his face, and Sawyer’s smiling back, eyes soft and crinkled at the corners. There’s a quiet comfort to seeing him like this, as if I’m witnessing a piece of who he used to be.
I try to stay present. I try not to shrink. But the truth is, I’ve always been more observer than participant in rooms like this.
Some people are built for this sort of thing—people who can strike up a conversation in a grocery store line, who walk into a crowded room like it’s theirs. Ridge, Sage, Lark, Miller, Joel, my mom—they can talk to anyone, light up a dinner table. They’re magnetic without even trying.
And then there’s me and Boone. We’re like our dad. Quieter, and slower to open ourselves up to people. We don’t speak unless we really mean it. And it’s not that we don’t want to connect—we just don’t always know how. Or worse, we overthink it until we’ve convinced ourselves not to try.
I glance up at Sawyer again, at the way he’s listening to Joel with that small smile, like he’s genuinely happy to be here.
He’s different, I’ve learned. Somewhere in-between.
A person that people naturally trust and want to be around, but he doesn’t let many people in.
He’s polite and respectful to everyone, sure.
Warm, even. But when it comes to real closeness? That’s earned.
And once you’ve got it, he doesn’t half-ass it. He shows up for you, fully, with everything he is.
Which is maybe why it’s still so hard for me to believe he’s here with me. Holding my hand in a room like this, as if he doesn’t care who sees or what they think. Like he’s already chosen his place, and it’s beside me.
“Joel Valentine!” a woman’s voice calls out, bright and teasing.
We all turn as she weaves through the crowd in a black gown. Her olive skin practically glows under the chandelier light, and her dark curls are pulled up, a few spiraling around her cheekbones.