Page 131 of Wild Then Wed
If I don’t remember to breathe, I’m not sure I’ll make it through the next ten minutes.
She steps in beside me, and even though she doesn’t touch me, I feel her—the warmth at my side, the subtle shift of air when her dress moves, the way her presence drags my focus back to center like gravity.
I told myself this was about land. About water. About getting in and getting out without anyone getting hurt.
One year. Three hundred and sixty five days, and then it’s all over.
But standing here, shoulder to shoulder with the woman I’m supposed to lie about loving, I already know I’ve made a big mistake.
Because nothing about this feels like pretending anymore.
And I’m not sure I want it to.
Chapter 22
WREN
I can’t feel my feet.
Not in a poetic, swept-off-them kind of way. I genuinely cannot feel my feet in these heels. I think they’re still in the shoes—somewhere below the too-tight satin and the too-exposed skin and the terrifying realization that I am standing in a packed venue, pretending to marry Sawyer Hart.
Every eye is on me. I can feel them.
The slit in this dress feels criminal. Was it always this high? I don’t remember it being this high.
It doesn’t matter. It’s too late now. The dress is hugging every inch of my body like a second skin I can’t peel off, and I can’t decide if I’m more concerned about flashing someone’s grandmother or passing out from the sheer force of trying to hold it together.
And then there’s him.
Sawyer.
Right in front of me, looking infuriatingly gorgeous. Tux tailored to his body like it came with him. Sandy hair freshly cut. Stubble trimmed along his jaw. He smells like pine and some subtle cologne that probably cost a fortune. His eyes are on me. Blue—but a darker shade than mine. Almost cobalt, butdeeper at the center. Green and brown radiating out, like little sunbursts.
He swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs once, slow, and then his gaze drags down the length of my body.
Again.
God.
The slit is definitely too high.
My pulse kicks up and I force my hands to stay still, even though every instinct is screaming to shift my weight or pull the fabric lower or disappear altogether. I remind myself that I chose this. I signed up for the performance. But no one said anything about him looking at me like this.
He blinks, just once, and his eyes meet mine again. And for a second—just one quiet second—I forget the crowd, the dress, the plan, the pressure.
I just feel him. And I hate how much I like it.
The pastor starts speaking, his voice echoing slightly through the mic. I hear words likeunityandcommitmentandsacred vows, but most of it is white noise. My pulse is louder. Steady, insistent, tucked behind my ears like it’s trying to drown everything else out.
I’m hyper-aware of literally everything. The weight of the makeup on my face, heavier than I’m used to. The heat of the lights. The feeling that my spray tan is no doubt sliding off of me in real time, no matter how confidently Miller swore it wouldn’t. I can’t stop wondering if there’s an orange streak forming behind my knee.
Then the pastor’s voice shifts slightly.
“And now, the vows,” he says, and turns toward me. “Wren, you may begin.”
Sage steps forward and hands me the folded piece of paper I gave her earlier. I take it, trying not to fumble it, and feel the ridiculous flush of embarrassment over the fact that I even wrotethem down. But this—this didn’t feel like something I could wing. Even if it’s fake, I didn’t want it to sound like I don’t care.
I unfold the paper. My fingers are steady, which surprises me. I clear my throat, glance at Sawyer once, and start reading.
