Page 129 of Wild Then Wed
“He’s so handsome,” I hear someone whisper to the left.
“He looks just like Estelle,” someone else says.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Or disappear.
Dom takes his place beside me, adjusting his jacket as he does, calm as ever. He nods at someone across the room—probably Riley or Crew, who I can’t see yet. Some of my brothers are still in the back, probably making inappropriate jokes with Miller and Lark, who’s wrangling her dress while trying to keepthe twins from climbing the walls. Emily’s probably already lined up, clutching her bouquet like it might combust.
I let out a slow breath. Plant my feet. Keep my hands at my sides.
This is the part no one talks about—the waiting.
There’s nowhere to look. Nowhere to go. Just a few hundred people in front of you and a very long thirty seconds stretching into what feels like half your life.
I glance toward the side aisle once, then again, like maybe the door’s going to open early. It doesn’t.
Dom leans in slightly. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh.
The music changes—some soft string arrangement I don’t recognize but assume Wren chose—and people start turning in their seats again, this time toward the back.
I shift my weight. Flex my fingers. Remind myself that this is for one year. Just one.
The pastor claps a hand on my shoulder, firm and warm.
“Congratulations again, Mr. Hart,” he says, his voice low but cheerful. “We’ll get started in just a minute.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
He smiles and steps back toward the altar, flipping open a small black binder. I’m not even sure what his name is—he’s a person you only meet once, remember vaguely, and then somehow end up tying your entire day to.
He clears his throat and steps forward, voice steady as he begins. “Welcome, everyone. Thank you for being here today as we gather to witness the joining of Wren Wilding and Sawyer Hart in marriage.”
I breathe in. Not deep—just enough to keep the room from tilting.
I glance down the aisle toward the front row. My dad’s sitting with his legs wide, one arm slung over the back of the chair next to him like he’s at a damn rodeo. And sure enough—there’s a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth.
I swear to God. The man is in a suit, in a wedding venue, and he still has a damn toothpick. You can take the man out of the ranch, but you can’t ever take the ranch out of the man, I guess.
Mom’s next to him, a handkerchief pressed to the corner of her eye. Of course. Even though she knows this whole thing isn’t real, she’s still crying. That’s how she is. Tenderhearted and entirely unable to fake indifference.
And Nora—five years old and wild as ever—is crawling all over Mom’s lap, knees in her grandmother’s skirt, little shoes kicking against Dad’s shin like she’s got no idea this is supposed to be a quiet moment. She probably doesn’t. Nora hasn’t been still a day in her life.
It makes me smile. Just a little.
The pastor’s still talking—something about love and commitment, about coming together as a community—but it drifts in and out. I don’t hear all of it. The room’s too full. My mind’s too loud.
The music shifts again—violins this time. Softer, maybe slower. I don’t know. I’m not exactly a connoisseur of wedding soundtracks, but it does the trick. People sit up straighter. Heads turn.
The back doors open, slow and silent, and the processional begins.
Lark is the first to appear, her arm looped through Crew’s. He’s in a black suit and tie, buttoned clean, jaw set like a man who didn’t grow up wrangling cattle. She looks stunning, obviously—her dress is a silky emerald green that Wren picked for all of her bridesmaids. The dress catches the sunlight pouring through the stained-glass windows and turns it into somethingborderline celestial. Her hair’s curled, makeup flawless, her posture straight.
Next are Riley and Miller. She looks perfect. Chin high, bouquet held in that exact effortless-but-intentional way she pulls off. Her heels click like little punctuation marks. Riley’s smirking like a man with a secret. He probably whispered something crude right before they stepped out.
