She flashes me a quick smile, tossing her hair over her shoulder, still not meeting my eyes. And it hits me: I keep worrying about things being awkward between us, but it’s not Regan who’s at risk of falling too hard after messing around with me.
It’s me.
She smells good.
She looks good.
She takes care of shit that needs done without waiting around for me. She doesn’t need me. She doesn’t need my help. She’s been on her own for a long time. Which only makes me want to take care of her and all her needs even more. And that freaks me the fuck out.
I’ve never been in this position before—with a woman who just does stuff, who doesn’t wait around for me to handle it, who doesn’t get attached or want breakfast in bed after we fuck around. A woman who gets that I’m a bit wounded, a little aloof, not marriage material yet doesn’t take it personally or push for more.
And I don’t know how to handle it because like every idiot guy in a romantic comedy, that makes us needier than ever.
“I’ll clean out the barn,” I say.
She nods. “Sounds good. I’m heading over to the egg farm shortly to make sure everything’s set for tomorrow’s ceremony. Don’t forget, the rehearsal dinner’s tonight at the brewery.”
“Okay,” I mumble, shaking my head because she’s really thought of everything, and it makes me feel like I’m falling short.
I stalk off to the barn, the one that’s been on my list to clean for months, partly for the horses and partly because guests might want photos there when we book our first wedding, so it has to look good. The horses that I’ve purchased should be coming to the farm sometime in the next two weeks, so this feels like the push I need to finish getting the place ready. I pick up a broom, a bucket of water and a hose and get to cleaning.
***
Six hours later, I’m hot, sweating, and back in the shower at the house, scrubbing off the dust and grime. When I step out, tryingto figure out what the hell to do next, my phone pings from the countertop.
Regan: Don’t wait up for me. I already showered and am at the brewery with Scarlett. See you there.
I pull on a pair of khaki chinos and a navy button-up, having no clue what to wear to this kind of thing. I know it’s not a real rehearsal dinner, but we’re going through all the motions to show off the business, so I want to look presentable. When Samuel got married, I was in the bridal party, and Vanessa had mapped everything out, leaving no room for doubt or confusion around where I needed to be and when. Now, Regan’s done that, and I feel like I’m spiraling. It’s a strange, fucking feeling.
As I head for the door, I pause, my eyes catching on one of my oldest cowboy hats draped over the bedpost. It’s the one that I wore during my final ride—the night that I first met Regan seven years ago and scrawled my phone number inside of it with the date we met, only for her to leave it in my hotel room when she disappeared.
Feels fitting, in a sentimental, punch-you-in-the-gut kind of way. I put it on and head out, making the short drive across town to the Marshall’s Whitewood Creek family brewery.
By the time that I arrive, the place is already buzzing. Regan said this was an informal rehearsal dinner, open to the public to showcase the Marshalls’ latest venture and build excitement for tomorrow’s wedding. No actual rehearsal—no running through lines or practicing walking down the aisle—which I’m grateful for, I’d prefer not to have that attention on me, but seeing this many unfamiliar faces still has me nervous.
“Hayes!” Scarlett spots me the second I walk in the door as she waves from atop a chair.
She looks happy here in town, lighter even, her green eyes sparkling. She’s in a short dress with matching heels and when I get closer, her arms wrap around me in a tight hug. The scent of her shampoo, wildflowers and honeysuckle, catches me off guard because it smells familiar and that’s when I realize she must have used Regan’s.
“Oh my god, this place is amazing,” she says loudly.
I nod. “Yeah. It’s loud in here today,” I mutter, scanning the crowd, my eyes searching for one person in particular.
She takes a slow sip from her cup, eyes narrowing on me like she’s trying to peel back layers of my mind. “You know, out of all the small towns in North Carolina, I think you picked the best one to settle in—and the best girl to settlewith.” She throws me a wink, and my first instinct is to snap back that it’s all fake. That none of this is real. You know, my usual speech about why what’s between Regan and I is strictly business. But then I see her.
Regan.
My wife.
She’s across the brewery, framed by string lights and the golden glow of late evening, like she belongs in a damn painting. Her dark auburn hair tumbles in loose, effortless curls down her back, catching the light every time she moves. She’s barefoot—because of course she is—and wearing a simple white linen dress, the thin straps slipping just enough to bare one sun-kissed shoulder.
She should be sitting. Laughing. Letting people toast to her. It’s her rehearsal dinner, after all.
But no.
She’s weaving between tables with a pitcher of lemonade in hand and a smile stretched across her face, dishing out food, pouringdrinks, checking in with everyone like she’s hosting a charity event instead of prepping to fake-marry me again in about twenty-four hours.
“Oh! Hayes!” she calls out, her eyes lighting up when she sees me, and damn if it doesn’t feel good to be on the receiving end of that look. “Hey y’all, it’s the groom!” she laughs loudly, and the crowd erupts into cheers and hollers like we’re really here tonight to get married.
