Page 51 of Wild Then Wed
I blink and shake my head. “I don’t know what to think about him yet,” I say, which is technically true, if you squint hard enough.
Miller stares at me. “What is there to think about, girl? He looks like Thor and he makes good money. You need to hop on that dick. Immediately.”
That sends the room into another round of laughter.
Even I’m laughing and watching the way Lark has to set her drink down before she spills it.
Miller’s not wrong. Anyone with two functioning eyes could tell you Sawyer Hart is hot. Broad shoulders. Strong hands. And it’s not just the way he looks. It’s the way he moves around animals, around people—steady, sure, patient. The way he doesn’t flinch when I’m blunt, how he doesn’t try to file me down at the edges.
It’s the way he looks at me sometimes, like he sees everything I am—every cracked, stubborn piece of me. And he isn’t in a hurry to decide if that’s a good thing or a bad one. I like that he doesn’t back down. That when I push, he holds his ground.
But liking someone is dangerous territory for me. The second you start to want something, you give it the power to undo you. I’m not sure I have it in me to survive wanting someone again—only to find out I’m still too much, or not enough, or something in between.
So for now, I tell myself the truth I know how to live with: It’s easier not to want anything at all.
Miller nudges me with her foot. “Fine. If you don’t want him, I’ll take him.”
Lark snorts. “Please. You wouldn’t last one day as a ranch wife.”
Miller sighs, long and dramatic, like she’s just now realizing her tragic fate.
“This is true,” she says, flopping back against the cushions. “Can you imagine me in a chicken coop? I’d rather die.”
Sage grins from under her blanket. “You’d last exactly five minutes. And three of those would be you complaining about the smell.”
Miller points her wine glass at her like she’s proven some critical argument. “Exactly. I’m self-aware.”
She tips her head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. “Still. How’s a guy who looks likethatsingle? There has to be a catch.”
Lark hums thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s emotionally unavailable.”
Sage adds, “Or married. That’s another popular option.”
And maybe it’s stupid, but it’s the first time I really stop to think about it. Itisstrange that a man who looks like Sawyer Hart—who carries himself the way he does—is still single.
He’s not some twenty-something kid either. He’s Boone’s age, maybe a little older. Thirty-five, thirty-six if I had to guess.
Or maybe he’s not single at all. Maybe he just hasn’t mentioned it. It’s not like I’d know. It’s not like I’m some expert when it comes to reading men.
Still. When I catch him watching me from across the round pen, when his mouth pulls into that crooked half-smile like he knows exactly how much I’m pretending not to notice him—it feels likesomething.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it. Maybe he looks at everyone like that. Maybe he’s not even thinking about me at all.
Surely if he were married, he wouldn’t—
I cut the thought off before it can finish.
It doesn’t matter. Nothing’s going to come of it, anyway.
It’s almost funny, though. If the universe had a sense of humor, a Wilding marrying a Hart would fix this whole damn water crisis in one clean sweep.
I shift a little on the couch, sitting up straighter without meaning to. The idea tumbles around in my head, ridiculous and impossible—but still, it’sthere. I pretend to listen while the girls chatter around me, but my mind is somewhere else entirely, picking the thought apart and putting it back together.
Marrying Sawyer Hart.
God. It sounds insane when I say it like that.
Itisinsane.
