Page 90 of Wild Then Wed
The one who didn’t make a deal with her pride.
The last couple of weeks have gone by in a blur. Not the soft kind, like a dream, but the kind where you forget what day it is and keep waking up to half-drunk coffee cups and a to-do list that never actually gets shorter.
I’m still training Junie every morning, rotating through the others in the program, and then heading out to the Hart ranch in the afternoons to work with Zeus. He’s come a long way—less flighty, more focused—but still needs me to go slow. Some days I think we’re both learning the same lesson. Trust is a process.
In the middle of all that, we’ve somehow been planning a wedding. A real one. Or at least, one that looks real enough to convince a town full of sharp-eyed people who live for gossip and meaningful glances over deviled eggs.
Loretta’s been in full event planner mode, building out meal spreadsheets like she’s catering a Hollywood gala. Mom and Sage tackled the seating chart with the kind of intensity I usually reserve for foaling schedules. Lark’s handling the reception playlist, the guest list, and the string lights—and doing all of it while parenting three kids, which feels a little bit like watching someone juggle knives while sleep-deprived.
Even Miller’s been looped in, though no one technically invited her. She just showed up with her iced matcha and a legal pad full of passive-aggressive notes about table linens. Which is how I know she somewhat cares about me.
A few days ago, we all made the drive into the city so I could try on dresses—something that still doesn’t feel real, even after the fact. It was one of the weirdest experiences I’ve ever had, and I say that as someone currently fake-marrying a man I barely knew a month ago.
The whole thing felt like playing a part I wasn’t sure I’d earned. Standing on a pedestal in front of those mirrors, the fabric too white, the lighting too bright, and everyone watching me with too much hope in their eyes. I kept expecting tofeelsomething. Toknowmaybe when I found the one.
Instead, I just kept trying things on while Miller trailed behind me like a couture-obsessed ghost, pulling at sleeves and tugging at hems, muttering things like“It’s giving pageant girl”or“We need a higher slit”or“This neckline is only for virgins and liars.”
Sage kept offering quiet encouragement, and Lark teared up every time I stepped out of the dressing room, which was oddly comforting. Mom just kept saying,“Whatever makes you feel most like yourself,”which felt both supportive and impossible, because I’m still not sure who that is in this context.
But then we found it.
The dress wasn’t loud or flashy. No rhinestones or beading or layers of stiff tulle that made me feel like a frosted cake.
It was off-shoulder with soft, gathered pleats that swept across the bodice and cinched just right at the waist. The fabric draped over my hips and fell into this clean, dramatic train that felt more effortless than ornamental. There were these sheer sleeves that just floated around my wrists, barely there but still grounding the whole thing in something soft.
And the slit—high, unapologetic—cut right up the side like the dress was daring me to be bold. To take up space.
Miller got real quiet when I walked out in it.
Then she stood, crossed the room without a word, adjusted one corner of the fabric near my hip, and stepped back like she’d just finished a painting.
“Okay,” she said finally, her voice softer than it had been all day. “Thisis definitely it. This is the one.”
And it was.
Not because it made me feel like a bride. But because for the first time all day, I hadn’t felt like I was pretending. I just looked like myself. Maybe even the version of myself I’d forgotten I was allowed to be.
Now, back in the dining room, I’m folding the last of the cloth napkins into something vaguely triangle-shaped while Sage lays out silverware. The sun has shifted just enough to hit the pinecone print on the plates, making everything feel a little too golden and nostalgic.
I’m not sentimental about holidays. But there’s something about the mess of it that gets me—the noise, the closeness, the way everyone drifts in and out of rooms like we’re all part of the same slow, wandering tide.
Hudson strolls in from the kitchen, already licking his fingers like he’s been up to something.
“Everything looks so good,” he says, eyes scanning the table like he’s casing it for any weaknesses. Then, without breaking stride, he reaches for one of the brownies on the dessert plate.
I slap his hand before he makes contact. “Touch that and I’ll tell your mom you ate raw stuffing mix.”
He grins. “I did not.”
“Try me,” I say, sliding the plate an inch closer to me.
He narrows his eyes. “You’re not seriously claimingallof those.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You don’t even eat gluten.”
“Those aremybrownies. Made withmyflour, bymymother, forme.”
