Page 169 of Wild Then Wed
Mom:Hello?? Is anyone there? Can someone tell me how to open the group messages again, they’re not showing up on my phone and I think I hit the wrong button.
Ridge:Mom you’re literally in the group chat right now??????
Mom:Well how do I reply?
Boone:You just did ??
I stare at the screen for a full five seconds, then toss the phone onto the nightstand with a thud and mutter, “I’m going to kill them all.Slowly.”
The door to the bathroom clicks open, and I immediately shove the red monstrosity behind my back.
Sawyer steps out barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of white swim trunks that hang low on his hips. His chest is bare—broad and tan, every inch of him defined like he was carved with intention. His abs are cut into sharp lines, ones that make you stare without meaning to. Lower down, a thin trail of dark hair disappears beneath his waistband, and I have to physically stop myself from following it with my eyes.
His arms look like they could pin someone down with zero effort—and considering what I’ve seen him carry around at the ranch without breaking a sweat, they probably could. His whole body moves like he’s not just strong, but used to it. Every inch of muscle has earned its place.
It’s annoying. And distracting. And it’s totally unfair that a person can just walk around looking like…well,that.
His eyes land on me immediately, and his brow lifts. “You good?”
“Great,” I say with a timid smile. “Fantastic, actually.”
It’s way too many syllables and way too much enthusiasm for someone who’s actively debating whether she can drown herself in the champagne bucket to avoid putting on a glorified shoelace.
Sawyer smirks. Not in a mean way. Just in ayou’re-a-terrible-liarway.
“You can’t back out now, Wilding. This whole thing was your idea,” he says as he reaches for one of the bottles of champagne, tucks it under his arm like he’s done this before, and heads for the balcony. “Come on. I’ll be waiting.”
The glass door clicks shut behind him, and I look down at the bikini again. It’s red. Very red. Minimal coverage. Maximal risk of trauma.
I blow out a slow breath.
This is about to get very interesting.
Chapter 28
SAWYER
The champagne bottle is cold in my hand, damp with the condensation. I ease the cork out, and it pops louder than I expect it to, foam bubbling over the top and dripping onto the stone ledge.
I grab the cups I found in our kitchenette—clear plastic, thin, barely a step above a Solo—and pour carefully. One for her, one for me. I set hers across from where I’m sitting, in case she actually decides to come out. She disappeared into the bathroom with her swimsuit twenty minutes ago. Long enough for the water to start pulling the tension from my back, long enough for the champagne to start to lose its chill.
She’s bolder tonight, a little more spontaneous than usual. There’s an energy in her I haven’t seen before—nothing loud or obvious. Just a little shift. A door cracked open. I like it. Hell, I admire it. It doesn’t mean I was convinced she’d actually follow through.
I lean back and look out at the skyline again.
Everything out here feels sharp. Measured. Lights blinking in slow pulses across glass towers, cars threading through dark streets below. There’s a sense of order to it. I’ve always liked that. The illusion that everything and everyone has a place to go.
Julia and I used to talk about getting a place in the city someday. Something small but modern with big windows. We figured it’d make life easier—cut out the long commutes, keep us both closer to work. She wanted houseplants. I wanted a dog. But we kept putting it off, thinking we had years to figure it out.
Turns out, we didn’t.
The door finally clicks open, and I look up.
Everything just…stops. My eyes hit her, and every coherent thought I had leaves my body.
She walks onto the balcony slowly, her hair tied up into a high ponytail and her arms tightly folded in front of her, but it does nothing to hide the fact that she’s wearing a red bikini that barely covers her.
The top is barely there—thin straps around her neck, just enough fabric to cover her small, round breasts. They’re high, perky, flushed pink from the cold air, and I can see the outline of her nipples, sharp against the fabric. Her stomach is tight and toned, her waist narrowing to soft curves at her hips. The bottoms sit low, tied loose at both sides, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. And her legs—Jesus. They go on forever. Strong, smooth, perfectly defined. My eyes trail down without permission—ankles, calves, thighs—and then back up again, because I can’t help it.
