Page 165 of Wild Then Wed
She holds his gaze a moment too long.
“Thanks, Maureen,” Sawyer says, giving her a quick wink. “You’re a gem.”
She nearly glows.
I don’t bother hiding the eye roll as I follow him toward the elevators, Hank trotting loyally beside me.
The elevator doors close with a soft hiss, sealing us inside. I shift my weight next to Hank, more aware than ever of the way my pulse is pounding behind my knees.
Sawyer exhales, the sound barely audible, then glances over at me. “Sorry about the room mix-up.”
I nod, not trusting myself to say much yet.
“If you want, I can take the couch. Or the floor.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Whatever makes you more comfortable.”
I glance at him, unsure what to do with the knot forming in my chest. “You don’t have to do that. It’s not your fault, anyway.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know,” I say, quieter this time. “But you’re not sleeping on the floor.”
He doesn’t push. Just gives me a soft look and nods again.
And that should be the end of it. It should be simple—two grown adults, a hotel room, one king-sized bed. But I can feel my mind spiraling, cataloging the details, the impossibility of sleeping beside someone who looks like him, who smells like fresh laundry and expensive cologne and spearmint gum. Someone who is, technically, my husband—even if it’s only on paper.
It hits me then how little I’ve ever allowed myself to be in this kind of situation. Not because I didn’t want it, but because my ex-boyfriend, Ethan, had rules. Boundaries, he called them. Standards. No sleepovers, no overnights, no sharing a bed. He’d said it with such conviction, like saving space between us somehow proved we loved each other more.
I used to believe him.
Now, I’m realizing that all of it just sounded ridiculous. And sad.
The memory of him makes my stomach twist the same way it always does when I think too hard about how far I bent to fit into the version of love he made me believe I wanted.
“Hey,” Sawyer says beside me, his voice quieter now. “You okay?”
I glance up. He’s watching me, brow creased just slightly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugs. “You just look…nervous. Or sad. Or something.”
I force a breath and a small shake of my head. “I’m fine.”
The elevator dings before he can say anything else.
We step out onto a carpet that looks like it’s vacuumed hourly, the walls lined with sleek paneling and framed black-and-white photography of mountain ranges. Everything smells faintly of eucalyptus. Even the hallway feels rich.
Sawyer slides the key into the lock, pushes the door open, and steps aside for me to walk in first.
I stop in the doorway.
The room is…something else entirely.
It’s huge. Vaulted ceilings, crown molding, floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the city skyline, glowing gold against the dark. The floors are a glossy dark wood, softened by an enormous rug the color of pale sand. There’s a fireplace on the far wall, the mantle topped with candles and a massive gilded mirror. A seating area with a navy velvet sofa and glass coffee table is arranged like it was plucked straight from an interior design magazine. A bottle of champagne chills in a silver bucket, and beside it, a small hand-lettered note:Congratulations to the happy couple, Mr. And Mrs. Hart!
I swallow hard when I see the bed.
Layered in white linen and every type of pillow known to man, is one enormous, beautiful, ridiculous bed. King-sized, for sure. Maybe even California King.
Sawyer lets out a low whistle behind me. “Well. They didn’t skimp out on us.”
