Page 115 of Wild Then Wed
I nod once. “Yes. That’s an easy yes.”
“Public kissing?”
I scrunch my nose. “Only if we absolutely have to.”
He raises an eyebrow again. “We’llhave toeventually, Wilding.”
“Only if someone’s watching. Or if it would be weirder not to.”
“Got it. Emergency kisses only.”
“Exactly.”
He hums like he’s thinking it through. “What about nicknames? In public.”
I tilt my head. “Like what? Babe? Sweetheart? Darling? Love of my life?”
“Just wondering where the line is.”
I give him a look.
He laughs. “Noted. So…Wren it is.”
“That’s safe.” I pause. “Maybe the occasional‘sweetheart’if it’s in front of someone old enough to still say something like that.”
He nods. “Got it. Only strategic endearments.”
“Yep.”
He shifts slightly, coat still over his arm, the sun catching on the edges of his sunglasses. “Anything else?”
I shake my head. “Just…don’t be weird, okay?”
He laughs. “I’ll do my best.”
We step inside, and the warmth hits first. Dry heat that lives in old radiators and makes your skin feel tight.
The Summit Springs courthouse is small but proud, built a hundred years ago and has barely been updated since. There’s polished wood trim along the walls, dusty crown molding, and framed black-and-white photos of old mayors and county judges staring down from above the water fountain. The whole place smells faintly like lemon cleaner.
A few people linger near the clerk’s desk. A man in overalls flips through a manila folder. A young woman holds a crying baby on her hip. An older couple stands by the bulletin board, coats unzipped, talking softly.
And then they all notice us.
It’s not necessarily dramatic—just a beat of stillness, like everything shifts ever so slightly as their eyes catch us walking in together. I watch it happen in real time: a glance, a blink, and then the quick double take.
Because we’re not just two people. We’re a Wilding and a Hart.
Together.
Who would’ve thought?
Sawyer, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch. He walks like this is completely normal. His coat’s still folded neatly over his arm, his sleeves pushed up just enough to show his leather watch and the veins on his forearms, and somehow he looks like he belongs here more than I do.
I, meanwhile, feel like I’ve shrunk two inches. Like my clothes suddenly fit all wrong and my shoes are too squeaky.
An older couple near the back leans in close, their eyes tracking us as we move toward the front. The woman whispers something to her husband, who grunts and raises his bushy gray eyebrows.
Sawyer leans down as we pass the receptionist window, his mouth close enough to my ear to make my stomach tighten. “You’re going to want to look a little less like you’re being held hostage.”
