Page 147 of Wild Then Wed
He clears his throat, and the sound feels too loud in the quiet between us. “I actually have a favor to ask you.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is this where you tell me you need a kidney or something?”
He chuckles. “No vital organs required.”
Then he shifts his weight and glances back at the canvas as if it might help him figure out how to say what he’s about to say. “There’s this charity gala in Bozeman. It’s a work thing, and it’s next week.”
I nod, waiting.
“And I kind of need a date.”
“Ah,” I say, slowly. “And I just happen to be conveniently fake-married to you.”
He grins. “Exactly.”
I turn toward him fully now, brush still in my hand. “So just to clarify—are you asking me as your fake wife to accompany you to a formal event?”
He tilts his head, weighing it. “In theory, yes.”
I arch a brow. “And in practice?”
He meets my eyes, and there’s a pause. A real one.
“In practice, I’m asking if Wren Wilding would be willing to go with me.”
My pulse kicks at the sound of my full name in his voice.
I look back down at the brush. “Do I get to know what the favor includes? Champagne fountains? Awkward speeches? A buffet?”
“It’s an overnight thing,” he says. “Fundraising dinner, some auction stuff, a lot of handshaking.”
“Fancy.”
“I’ll book a nice hotel,” he adds. “But, you know…with separate beds.”
His voice stumbles on the last part, and when I glance up, he’s already clearing his throat again, the way people do when they’ve said more than they meant to.
I can’t help it—I laugh. “Good to know you’ve already planned the sleeping arrangements.”
He rubs the back of his neck, and his ears go the slightest bit pink. “I’m just trying to be respectful.”
“Well,” I say, tossing the brush back into the jar, “it’s very commendable.”
I stare at the floor for a second, then blow out a quiet breath. “Alright. Why the hell not. I’ll go.”
I start cleaning up—twisting caps back onto tubes, rinsing brushes in a jar of water that’s turned the color of old tea. I don’t look at him, but I know he’s still watching me. His attention isn’t loud, but it settles over me anyway, steady and warm. The kindthat doesn’t ask anything of you but still shifts the air in the room, so gently you don’t even notice at first.
I stand, wiping my hands, and when I turn, he’s closer than I expected. Close enough that I can smell the faint hint of spearmint on his breath. Close enough to see the edge of the gum tucked behind his molar.
“I really appreciate it.” His voice is softer now, and he shifts his weight, hands in his pockets, shoulders a little tense.
“I’m not doing it for you,” I tell him, reaching for the jar of brushes again. “I’m doing it because it gives me an excuse to dress up.”
He laughs—one of those small, bright ones that makes something tighten behind my ribs.
“Don’t get too fancy on me,” he says. “Hank’s coming with us.”
I glance up at him. “Well. This trip just got significantly better.”
