She reaches her arm up to knock, literallyknockon my forehead. “Because your head is clouded by rage andnotrational thinking.”
My mother’s words suddenly ring in my ears. The ones about finding someone who evens me out, who balances my senses and puts me in my place. Suddenly, I really, really hate that I went to my mom. Otherwise, I probably would have let rage overcome me and beat Andrew to a pulp like he deserves. But Whitney, unfortunately, is fucking right. I pull a deep breath in through my nose and close my eyes. “Get inside.”
“You could ask a little nicer-” I shoot her a glare. One that tells her my patience is wearing thin. She puts her hands up in surrender, backing away, “Okay. Getting inside.”
Men wanderin and out of the house, shirts with a Hometown Eyes logo on every single one. It’s the closest security company to town, and probably the only one with the dumbest name inthe world. But they got the job done in less than two hours, and I can’t help but appreciate that. We had cameras installed in every corner of the house, inside and out.
“Isn’t this a little excessive?” Whitney asks, taking a bite from the toast I made her a few minutes ago.
“No.” I shake my head looking around. “I think we might need to add one at the gate, too.” She must realize how tense I am because she stands, chair scraping against the hardwood, and does the unthinkable—wraps her arms around me in a hug. I don’t hesitate to do the same, arms crossing over her shoulders and pulling her in closer. “I will call you next time. I promise.” She breathes softly against my chest. My heart squeezes. Because for all her attitude and fight, I know this Andrew situation is bothering her more than she’ll let on.
“Thank you,” I whisper against her hair. I really do mean it. If something were to happen to her–to happen to Brinley–onmywatch, I’d never be able to forgive myself.
“Maggie pissed on him,” she says quietly. My laugh is immediate, ears not believing the words she just spoke. It rumbles against her, and she shakes when her low, flirty laugh joins mine.
“No, she didn’t.” I protest, not believing it. Now I really wish I had cameras up at the stalls before.
“She really did.” Whitney laughs again, nudging her head farther into my chest. “I love that damn horse.” I nod in agreement. She’s growing on me, too. Whitney pulls back slightly but doesn’t let go of me yet. Her doe eyes look into mine, and all of the emotion swirling in them hits me like a battering ram. “I’m scared, Wyatt.”
My brows furrow at the shake in her voice, and I tug her closer, if that's even possible. “I know. But I’m here now.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
WHITNEY
I’m getting married today.
I should be ecstatic. This is what every girl dreams of when they are little. Yet, the entire time I spend getting myself ready, I can’t bring myself to feel anything other than guilt over the other day. Wyatt was furious, but underneath all that was pure worry. Worry that I’dcaused. I should have called him or the police right away.
God, could I have even dialed 9-1-1? I didn’t want Andrew to have Brinley, but I didn’t want to see him behind bars, either.
When I slipped on my white dress, and when I delicately traced my lips with my favorite color–I felt like I was being placed under a microscope. Was there an investigator taking photos of me right now? Was Andrew nearby, waiting to retaliate for how I treated him the other day?
I haven’t heard or seen anything from my daughter’s father–and somehow, that is so much worse. My anxious mind feels like a live wire, and I’m waiting for the reality of my shock to settle. I don’t know what I was thinking–instigating him like that. Just like now, I don’t know what the hell I’m thinking.
The church smells like worn wood, paper, and candle wax. The faint smell of the white roses shoved into my hands a fewminutes ago are what I try to focus on. I wasn’t nervous before, but I can’t keep my hands from trembling as I take my place beside Wyatt. The sleeve of his shirt brushes my bare arm. He looks as beautiful as he did the day I met him. He’s dressed simple today–dark wash jeans and a pale blue button up shirt. His sleeves are slightly rolled up, something I think is solely to protect himself from the heat radiating off him. He wears boots, but not his work ones. They’re still slightly scuffed, but more polished than any pair I’ve ever seen on him.
The town priest, who’s probably about as old as the town itself, is marrying us. Ana, Vivienne, Blake, and Brinley sit in the first two pews. Father John glances at us beneath slim, silver glasses. “Shall we begin?”
Wyatt and I nod, and when his feet shift slightly, I feel every movement. It beats through my chest like a war drum. Is he as nervous as I am? He doesn’t look it. He looks calm. Collected. Completely unphased with the life-altering thing we’re about to do.
“This is not a traditional sort of wedding, so we are going to keep it short.” The priest’s voice thunders off the walls. “But remember, the promises made here today are just as real, and just as lasting.” He takes a step back, slightly bowing his head at us in encouragement. “With that being said, Whitney and Wyatt have written their own vows.”
We agreed last night that we would. Something sweet and heartfelt. In order toreallysell it. Or just in hopes of convincing John himself that I’m not being kidnapped–which I’m sure is looking realistic right now with my pale face and clammy hands. When Wyatt and I turn to each other, it feels as if life zeroes in on this very moment. Reality whooshes out and the family watching us does, too. It’s just me and him, standing at the altar and preparing to do the unthinkable.
“I’m glad it’s you by my side today.” Wyatt’s timbre is low, only loud enough for me to hear. Or maybe I’m imagining that. His hand brushes over my shoulder, pushing my iron-clad curls back. I shiver at the gentle touch. “I can’t promise that we’ll be perfect. But I can promise this—I’ll show up. On the hard days. On the good days. On the quiet days, and the messy days.” His eyes are as sharp as steel when he says the next line, and I hang onto every word like it’s a promise he’ll keep. “I’ll protect and love Brinley as my own and protect what we choose to build together.” That whisper again, only meant for my ears, floods between us. “I promise to choose you. In this life and the next, I promise to always choose you.”
My eyes burn, because this feels like hemeansit. Like, maybe we weren’t just fooling everyone else. Maybe we were fooling ourselves, too.
When father John looks at me expectantly, my hand flies out to grasp Wyatt’s. Out of need, out of comfort, or out of the desire to keep my voice from shaking when I speak. The words I had planned fly out the window at his own, and I pull straight from my heart before I can think twice. “You make it easy to trust you.” I pull in a long breath, nerves crawling over me like a second skin. “I’ve never been sure about much. But being with you feels like being able to breathe deeply for the first time.” His body stills at my words, but a heartbeat later, he’s squeezing my hand right back. “Like every breath before you wasn’t deep enough,” I continue, shaking my head like I can somehow clear the fog. “I can’t tell what tomorrow will bring, but I can promise you’ll never face it alone. I promise to make it easy to trust me, too.”
No matter what comes of this, Wyatt Conway has wormed his overprotective ass into my life. He planted a seed of love and support and has done nothing but water it. Standing here with him only solidifies one thing–that I don’t want to fake thisanymore. I don’t want to pretend, or to put on a show. I want this life. For him. For us. For Brinley.
Being here today feels like I’m lightyears away from grasping it. Because what are we, other than a relationship built on lies? Between each other, between our families?
The priest steps back up, clearing his throat. “Do you, Wyatt Conway, take Whitney Adler, to be your wife?”
“I do.” Wyatt speaks softly, leaning forward on the balls of his feet in anticipation.
