Page 135 of Wild Then Wed
He kisses me like he means it.
And the worst part—the best part—is that I don’t want it to stop. Not yet. Not when he’s still holding my mouth between his like it’s something worth keeping. Not when every slow pull and gentle press is telling me something I’ve been trying not to hear since this whole thing started.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only by an inch. His lips hover over mine, parted, his breath uneven. His hand is still in my hair. His thumb is still on my skin.
And when I open my eyes, he’s already looking at me.
The clapping registers in pieces, as if someone turned the volume up on the world all at once. A hundred people on their feet. The creak of chairs. A cheer from the back I’m pretending not to hear. My brain tries to catch up, but I’m still stuck in the part where his mouth was on mine and it was…good.
No. Not just good.
It was the kind of kiss that makes you forget your name. Makes you forget this is a transaction. Makes you forget this is fake.
I’ve never had a kiss feel like that before. Not even close.
My hand is still on his shoulder. The other, on his chest. His palm is still at my waist—lower than it was before—his thumb pressing softly through the fabric of my dress like he forgot to stop.
And the thing that throws me the most isn’t the kiss, or the crowd, or even how badly I want to do that again. How natural it felt. How easy it was to fall into him. How familiar.
I drop my hands and take a half-step back. He lets his fall too, slow and unhurried, like he’s not quite ready to give me all my space back.
We turn to face the crowd, still clapping, still standing, and as the pastor says something I barely register about blessing this union and what a beautiful couple we are, Sawyer threads his fingers through mine. Palm to palm, like we’ve done it a thousand times.
I glance up at him, startled, but he just smiles. Small. Casual. Devastating.
My heart lurches again, and I remind myself that I am now married. I am amarriedwoman.
To Sawyer Raymond Hart.
A man I technically know, but don’t actually know. Not in the way a person should when they’re standing in a white dress and holding hands in front of three hundred people.
A man I didn’t know the middle name of until five minutes ago. A man whose birthday—February twentieth—I only learned when I read it on the marriage license.
I don’t know what he eats when he’s sick or how he sounds when he laughs too hard. I don’t know if he drinks his coffee black or with cream or if he even drinks coffee at all. I don’t know what movies he watches more than once or how he looks when he’s just woken up.
And yet I’m standing here, with his hand in mine, feeling something that isn’t nerves or dread or doubt.
It’s a pull. Quiet and constant. Something that tells me I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be, even if I don’t know why yet.
His thumb moves, once, across my hand.
And I don’t let go.
Chapter 23
SAWYER
There are way too many kids with glow sticks in this place.
I’ve stopped counting how many of them are tearing through here, all sugar and static and wild energy. They weave between chairs and skid across the floor, high on sheet cake and the sheer thrill of being a child at a wedding. One of them is blowing bubbles straight into the appetizer tray. No one tells him to stop.
The whole place smells like eucalyptus—earthy and warm, the sort of scent that settles in and lingers between bursts of laughter and the soft clink of glassware. Garlands hang from the ceiling beams, draped with string lights and dotted with white flowers that look like they were just clipped from the garden. Round tables fill the room, dressed in sand-colored linen and lit with low votives, the centerpieces overflowing with roses and wild greenery that spills out in every direction. Every seat is full. The air buzzes with conversation, the scrape of silverware, the rise and fall of music that lands somewhere between old-school country and a beat that pulls people to the dance floor. The whole room feels alive—crowded and glowing, pulsing with soft, electric energy.
We’ve already cut the cake. It was messy and Wren threatened me with the knife. When I dared to smear a littlefrosting on her face, she actually laughed—genuine and startled, like she forgot for a second that this whole thing is pretend.
And maybe I did, too.
Dom’s busy flirting with someone in a red dress that I’m not sure is even from Summit Springs. Mom is talking to Molly like they’ve been best friends for twenty years. Crew’s got Nora on his hip while he tries to talk football with Boone and I’m halfway through a glass of whiskey when an older couple walks up, hand-in-hand. The woman’s in a pale pink suit, pearls at her throat. Her husband’s wearing a bolo tie and boots so polished they reflect the candlelight.
