Page 41 of Wild Then Wed
Unfortunately for me, he has a remarkable face—one that you don’t mean to look at, but do anyway. His jaw is covered in blonde stubble, the kind that looks more accidental thanintentional. His nose is slightly crooked at the bridge, like it’s been broken at least once, maybe twice and never set quite right. It only adds to the rest of it—makes him look less polished, more real.
There’s a curve to his mouth like he’s always half a second from smiling. And right now, he is—grinning, easy and unbothered, with that vague dimple that shows up just long enough to make you wonder if it’s actually there or if your brain imagined it for you.
His lashes are thick and dark—ridiculous, honestly—and his teeth are somehow both too white and too straight. And he’s so damn big he makes the entire Audi feel like a toy car.
I look away before it looks like I’m checking him out. Which I was. Kind of. But not on purpose.
Compliments make me uncomfortable. Like I’ve been given something I didn’t earn and now I have to figure out how not to break it. I never know what to say—thank you always feels too small, and anything else feels like I’m trying too hard.
Sage wouldn’t hesitate. She’d smile, flip her hair, and say something quick and clever. Something that made her seem charming and unbothered. She’s always known how to do that—take a compliment and make it feel like it belonged to her.
I’ve never been good at that.
I just feel exposed, like I’ve been seen in a way I didn’t ask for.
It’s not that I think people are always lying. It’s that I don’t know how to believe them. Somewhere along the way, I started measuring myself by my flaws. Somewhere in the range oftoo-muchandnot-enough. Too blunt. Not soft enough. Too distant. Not easy to love.
So when someone says something kind—says something good—I freeze. I don’t know what to do with it. Because if I let it in, even for a second, I’m afraid I’ll start wanting more.
And wanting more has always been the fastest way to get disappointed.
Maybe that’s why I just give him a nod and the smallest smile I can manage. The seat warmer suddenly kicks in, and I sink into it.
“My mom’s a pretty good cook,” he says, casually. “She’s no Molly Wilding, but she holds her own.”
That makes me snort. “Nobody could be Molly Wilding if they tried.”
He smirks at that. “Are you two close?”
I shrug, my eyes fixed on the snow-frosted windshield. “I guess.”
“You guess?” he repeats, brow lifted like that answer didn’t compute.
I pick at a loose thread on my glove. “We’re close. Just…different. She’s warm and chatty, like my sister. She makes everyone feel like they’ve known her forever. I’m…not really any of those things.”
He doesn’t say anything, just looks over at me. So I keep going, even though I probably shouldn’t.
“I was always closer to my dad,” I admit. “We just…got each other, I think. He didn’t ask questions when I was quiet and he didn’t take it personally. He’d just sit next to me and wait until I was ready to talk. Or not talk.”
Sawyer nods, quiet. “Heard a lot about him. Sounded like a good man.”
I press my hand to the heater vent, letting the warmth spread across my palm. “He was.”
It comes out softer than I meant it to.
Sawyer shifts in his seat a little, one hand still on the wheel, eyes flicking over to me for a second like he’s weighing whether to say it.
Then he goes, “My dad will never admit this, but when we were younger and Lane was still on the circuit? He used to collect all the magazines that featured him.”
I turn to look at him. “Seriously?”
He nods, smiling. “Thought he was a total badass. Especially when he had the mullet.”
That makes me laugh. Not just a polite little exhale, either—a real, honest laugh that bubbles up before I can stop it. My hand flies up to cover my mouth, which is stupid, but a reflex. It’s loud in the quiet of the car. Unexpected, even to me.
Sawyer’s head snaps over like I startled him. His eyebrows lift. “Huh.”
“What?”
