Page 126 of Wild Then Wed
He turns back to me. “Yeah?”
I lift my brows and gesture to him with a hand. “You’re skating.”
He glances down, as if just now realizing what his feet are doing. Then he looks back at me and smiles.
And God.
It’s not a smug smile, and it’s not the usual self-satisfied one he gives when he knows he’s right. It’s quieter than that—something steadier, almost gentle. There’s a softness in it that catches me off guard, the way his eyes crease just slightly at the corners.
And for a second, it doesn’t feel like any of this is fake. Even though I know it is. Even though I keep reminding myself how it started—with paperwork and conditions and a name beside mine that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. But then he listens, really listens, like he wants to understand every word before it even leaves my mouth. And he looks at me like I’m not just skimming the surface of my own life, like maybe there’s more to me than I’ve ever let anyone see.
Somehow, around him, the things I’ve been holding onto start to slip out before I’ve even decided to say them. Things I didn’t know were weighing me down until they’re out in the open, suspended in the space between us. And he doesn’t try to clean it up or make it easier or turn away. He just stays, as if being here with me is the most natural thing in the world.
I don’t know what to call it. I don’t know what any of it means. But when he smiles at me that way—quiet and certain, as if I’ve done something right without even trying—it makes me want to believe that something real might exist between us. Something not built on fear or timing or the need to prove a point. Something that doesn’t come with an expiration date.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just the snow, or the soft pull of December, or the way being next to him makes silence feel settled instead of empty.
But maybe it’s something.
And maybe it stays.
Chapter 21
SAWYER
“Stop fucking with it.”
Dom’s voice is flat as he crosses the room toward me, already dressed and looking like he’s got absolutely zero patience for whatever I’m doing in front of the mirror.
He steps in and swats my hand away, already reaching for the fabric.
“I think you mean a psychopath,” I say.
Dom pauses. “What?”
I glance at him in the mirror. “Psychopaths are calculated and calm. Sociopaths are more impulsive. Less organized. They struggle with attachment.”
He blinks at me. “Okay, since it’s your wedding day I’m going torespectfullyask you to shut the hell up.” He straightens my bow tie with surgeon-level precision. “Jesus Christ.”
I bite back a smile. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“Well, be helpful more quietly.”
I grunt but don’t argue.
Dom looks good. He always does, which is irritating on principle. Clean-shaven, his dark hair still damp from the shower but already pushed back like he didn’t even try. The tux fits perfectly—black with slim lapels, tailored sharp through theshoulders—like someone designed it just for him. You’d never know he flew in from New York last night after some Nike shoot, took his private jet, and claimed he’d sleep on the flight. He showed up this morning looking like he’d just stepped out of a spa instead of a red-eye. He’ll leave again right after the reception, off to Vegas for his next fight tomorrow.
But today, he’s here. Best man and all.
“You talk to your manager yet?” I ask.
He huffs out a breath, still adjusting the tie. “Yeah. He’s pissed.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Says I’m fucking with the promo schedule. That it’s a bad look to vanish the day before weigh-ins.”
“Is it?”
