Page 163 of Wild Then Wed
Wren tucks one leg under the other and flips a page in her book. There’s this small crease between her brows like she’s really into whatever she’s reading.
And I don’t know. For a minute, it all feels…quiet in a way I haven’t had in a long time. Sitting next to her like this, not saying anything, not needing to—it does something to me. I feel full in a way I forgot I could.
Like maybe I don’t have to keep trying so hard to outrun the ache in my chest.
Like maybe, when she’s here, I don’t have to run at all.
Chapter 27
WREN
I hit send on the text to Anna just as Sawyer turns into the hotel’s parking garage, my phone still in my hand and my stomach making this slow, uneasy roll.
Me:Hey, Zeus should be good with light lunge work, but keep his back boots on. He’s been weird about that back left again.
I set the phone in my lap and look up.
And I blink. Twice.
Because this hotel? Is absolutely not the kind of place you stay unless you have a black card and a trust fund.
It’s all glass and stone and golden lighting—somehow making even concrete look expensive. Valets wait by the curb like they’re guarding royalty. There are fountains out front and lobby chandeliers that probably cost more than my car. And that’s just from the outside.
“Um, Sawyer. This is a nice hotel,” I say, slowly. “Like…reallynice.”
Sawyer chuckles, pulling into a parking spot. “It’s something like that.”
I glance into the backseat where our garment bags are hanging off the hook, my fingers twitching to unzip mine justto double check. Miller picked out the dresses last-minute from some boutique in Bozeman, and at the time, I thought they were fine. Classy. Sleek. Nothing too showy.
But now? Now they look like they belong in a different galaxy from this building.
Sawyer shifts the car into park and kills the engine. “They’ll be fine,” he says, like he knows what I’m thinking.
I turn my head toward him. “You haven’t even seen them yet.”
“Don’t need to.”
“Right. Because you have a degree in fashion now.”
He smirks, unbuckling his seatbelt. “No. But I have eyes. And I know you’ll look fine.”
I shake my head, but there’s a flicker of warmth in my chest. Not because of the words themselves, but the way he said them—like it’s just true. Like there’s never been a day in my life I didn’t lookfine.
Which is objectively false, but sweet, I guess.
The lobby is absurd. That’s my first thought as the doors slide open and we step inside—me in a wrinkled sweatshirt, Sawyer looking mildly more presentable, and Hank trotting in like this is his second home.
It smells like gardenias and polished wood and money. The floors are polished marble, and probably costs more per square foot than the house I grew up in. There’s a live pianist in the corner playing something soft beneath a sweeping staircase, and a massive chandelier overhead that’s made of tiny blown-glass orbs catching the light like water. The walls are all dark wood paneling and gold accents, and there are fresh flowers—real ones, definitely not plastic—in tall crystal vases spaced out like art. Everyone here walks like they know they’re being watched by someone else. Designer luggage. High heels that have never met dirt. Wool coats that cost more than a mortgage payment.
Sawyer’s holding Hank’s leash like this is just a normal Tuesday, and apparently it is, because no one bats an eye. The bellhop in a deep navy vest nods politely as we pass, his white gloves clasped behind his back. Even the woman wiping down the mirrored elevator doors does it with the kind of efficiency that says she’s used to being invisible. Everyone here is dressed like they belong—business suits, pressed slacks, cocktail dresses and pearls—and then there’s me in gray joggers and a sweatshirt that may or may not have a toothpaste stain on the sleeve.
Sawyer, of course, fits right in. His dark jeans are clean and the button-up he threw on has been ironed to perfection. He could walk into a black tie event just like this and probably get offered the mic.
We approach the check-in desk and the woman behind it is probably in her late fifties, with auburn hair teased into a voluminous blowout, frosted eyeshadow, and long coral nails that click against the keyboard as she types. Her blazer is perfectly tailored, the hotel logo stitched at the lapel. She looks up and beams. Her name tag says Maureen.
“Dr. Hart, well I’ll be,” she says, and her smile pulls just a little wider.
Sawyer gives her a smile back. “Evening, Maureen. Did you change your hair again? It looks great.”
