Page 153 of Wild Then Wed
I’ve told myself I already got more than most people do. That I loved someone so fully, so completely, I should be grateful just to have had it once. That love like that doesn’t strike twice—not because it can’t, but because the world doesn’t work that way. You don’t get to hold lightning in your hands and expect the sky to offer it up again just because you’re still standing there, still hoping. I’ve told myself that was it—that what came after would always be smaller. Quieter. Less.
But Wren—she makes me wonder if maybe I’m wrong.
And I fucking hate it.
And I don’t want it to stop.
And I don’t know what the hell to do with any of it.
Chapter 26
SAWYER
What do you call a group of musical whales?
An orca-stra. :)
When I was eight, I dug a hole behind the barn because I read that if you went deep enough, you’d hit buried treasure. I packed granola bars, Gushers, and half of a Capri Sun in a Ziploc bag and wore my bike helmet in case of cave-ins. I got about two feet down before I hit a rock the size of a dinner plate and decided the treasure probably wasn’t worth it.
I don’t know. There’s something about that story that feels ridiculous now. But also kind of nice. The blind certainty of childhood. The way you believed in something enough to bring snacks. That if you wanted something bad enough, it would find its way to you.
I miss believing in things like that. Don’t you?
Anyway. Do you think you were more of a Fruit Roll-Up or Gushers kind of kid?
—W
It’s been hours since I read Wren’s note, and I still can’t stop thinking about it.
I chuckled when I first read it, and then I read it again. And again. There’s something about her notes—how they sneak upon me, make me feel seen in a way I didn’t know I needed.
Now, as we drive through the snow-covered roads to Bozeman for the charity gala, I find myself missing those little notes already. It’s silly, really. We’re in the same car, breathing the same air, but I miss her words on paper.
We’re somewhere in the stretch of highway where cell service gets spotty and cattle outnumber people ten to one. Snow’s coming down harder now, the flakes dancing before landing on the windshield, blurring the edges of everything. The road, the trees, the sky—like the whole world’s being half-erased. I’ve never been more grateful for heated seats. Or a steering wheel that doesn’t make my fingers ache.
Hank’s in the backseat, whimpering like it’s the greatest injustice of his life that I won’t roll the window down in the middle of a damn snowstorm.
“Not happening, buddy,” I say, voice low. “Pick a fight with the weather.”
Wren’s next to me, digging through her duffel bag on the floor. Her hat’s pushed back on her head, red hair spilling out in soft waves down her back. The whole truck smells like her now and it’s driving me fucking insane in the best way. There’s a smudge of something—maybe foundation—on the collar of her sweatshirt. I don’t know how I notice things like that, but I do. I’m always noticing her.
I glance at her again, for too long probably, and she doesn’t catch it. She’s too busy muttering to herself now, something about forgetting her deodorant. Something about how this entire trip is already cursed.
And I’m just sitting here. Watching her. Letting her fill up the space of my car with her voice and her presence and the smell of her shampoo and whatever the hell this thing is between us.
She looks over at me, her eyes sharp and amused. “You packed deodorant, right?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah.”
“Good,” she says, sinking back in the seat like that settles it. “I’m probably gonna need to borrow some.”
I glance at her, one hand still on the wheel, the other reaching to turn up the heat a notch. “Wow. I didn’t realize we were at the sharing-deodorant stage of our fake marriage.”
She smirks without looking at me. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hart. I’d steal deodorant from a stranger if it meant not smelling like a cow.”
She digs a book out of her bag, thumbed and folded like it’s been read a hundred times, and leans into the seat again. Hank immediately abandons his post in the backseat and wedges his big head into the crook of her arm.
He used to do that to me. Now I’m chopped liver. Scratch that—less than chopped liver. I’m probably the can the liver came in.
