Page 83 of Wild Then Wed
“Definitely,” I say without hesitation.
He laughs, but there’s a nervous edge to it. Like he’s trying to play it cool, but his body didn’t get the memo. I get it. I’m the one who came up with this whole insane plan, and I still feel like I might black out.
I glance toward the main house and feel my stomach twist. God help him. The poor man’s about to be marched into my family’s house—where at least one of my brothers is guaranteed to threaten him, Loretta might interrogate him like we’re at a murder trial, and my mom will probably offer him food and ask if we’re sleeping together all in the same breath.
And then tomorrow, I get to do the same thing with his family. Perfect.
Sawyer follows my gaze. “You ready?”
“No,” I say. “But we have to do it anyway.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans and take a breath. “Okay, so let me do the talking. I mean, obviously you’ll talk too, but just let me start, because I don’t want it to get confusing. They’re gonna have a lot of questions—mostly why on earth you’d agree to something like this—but I’ll try to keep it focused, and just kindof lay out the basics without making it sound like I’ve completely lost my mind, which is, you know, going to be difficult, because I absolutely have, and maybe I should’ve made a PowerPoint or something—”
“Wren,” he says gently.
I keep going. “—or at least printed out a bullet point list so I don’t forget anything, like the water rights part, or how it’s temporary and not a real marriage—”
“Wren.”
“—and maybe we should’ve coordinated outfits so it looks like we’re on the same page or something, or maybe not because that would be too much—”
“Wren.”
That one finally breaks through. I blink up at him. He’s looking at me with this steady, amused expression, like he’s watching a runaway train and gently considering stepping in front of it.
I inhale slowly. Exhale even slower. “Sorry. It’s just…I’m nervous.”
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just lets the silence stretch out between us long enough for my heart rate to return to something that doesn’t feel like I’m about to go skydiving.
Then he tilts his head and nods toward the house. “You ready now?”
I swallow. “Absolutely not.”
He cracks a small smile. “Good. Me neither.”
Sawyer takes a step forward like we’re about to start walking toward the house—toward the ambush, toward the chaos, toward the hellfire that is telling my entire family I’m getting married out of convenience—and then pauses.
“I need to give you something first,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
He reaches into the front pocket of his jeans and pulls out a tiny blue velvet box.
Oh God.
Oh God. Oh God oh God.
The ring. This is the shit that makes it real.
I thought I’d been clear:“Get something cheap.”And I meant it—scroll-stopper plastic, one of those ten-dollar rings you’d find beside the beef jerky at the gas station. I said it because none of this was supposed to be real—not the ring or the meaning behind it. Just a prop. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it token in the story we’re telling this town.
But then he opens the box, and for a moment, the world shrinks down to what’s inside it.
The dark blue velvet halves and the box is lined in deep navy velvet, catching the light in quiet waves. Inside it, the ring doesn’t sit—it settles. Centered in the middle is an oval-cut diamond, large enough to command attention but not so big it feels performative. The setting is fine, high-polished gold that curves like it was shaped for someone specific. Along the band, a row of diamonds fans outward in both directions—smaller, brighter, meticulously placed.
It’s not simple. Not modest. Not something he picked up without giving it some real thought.
This is not a placeholder.
