Page 30

When I wake up the next morning, I already know I’ve overslept.

The distant buzz of a saw outside the bedroom window jolts me upright, the sheets tangled around my waist, my cock already hard from dreams soaked in Regan—her taste, her touch, the way her breath caught when I held her thighs apart and tasted every inch of her pussy.

The way her mouth gave me an orgasm that had me blacking out almost instantly.

Fuck.

The saw that I was hearing cuts off with a sharp snap, pulling me out of the early morning haze.

I jump out of bed, tugging on a pair of sweatpants, skipping the mirror, just a quick splash of cold water to my face before heading downstairs.

The burnt orange carpet under my feet, the same one that I heard Regan suggest we tear out and replace when we ‘get the time, ’ feels like an accusation with every step that I’m not doing enough to contribute to our new house.

I need to make a point to work on it as soon as this wedding is done. She’s been handling all the renovations and taking care of the place while I pull long hours at the hospital. It’s not right that she’s doing everything on her own and I feel like a real ass leaving the heavy lifting to her.

I make a pit stop in the kitchen, grabbing a mug of coffee, but the sight outside the window steals my attention.

There she is. Looking fucking beautiful in the front yard, standing next to the swing that hangs from the old oak, operating a table saw like she was born to.

Clear, plastic goggles are perched on her nose, she’s barefoot, wearing nothing but a flimsy floral dress with thin spaghetti straps, cutting boards like she doesn’t give a damn about safety protocols.

No gloves. No hesitation. Just pure, reckless beauty.

I nearly choke on my coffee as she fires the saw back up, blade dangerously close to her fingers, sawdust spraying like confetti on either side of her body.

What the hell is she doing?

I toss the mug onto the kitchen counter and bolt outside just as she finishes the last board. She pulls off her goggles with a triumphant grin, cheeks flushed, auburn hair wild.

“What are you doing?” I shout.

“Oh, good morning, Hayes,” she replies breezily, eyes unapologetically raking over my bare chest like she always does when I’m shirtless.

I stand a little taller, not minding her looking one bit.

My eyes drop to her bare legs that were wrapped around my shoulders last night as I return the favor.

She looks even prettier up close in the morning sunlight.

“Just cutting some boards for the signs I’m making for the rehearsal dinner tonight. Had an idea when I woke up and I just had to do it.”

“Which was what time?”

She shrugs. “Six.”

Dammit. She hardly slept and I feel like a lazy ass.

She drops to the grass, crossing her legs with ease, grabbing a paintbrush and dipping it into a can of light blue paint like it’s second nature. A few quick swipes and I can see her vision.

“Anything I can do to help you with this?”

She shakes her head without looking up. “Nope. I took care of everything.”

My heart sinks. “What do you mean by everything ?”

“I skimmed the pond. Mowed the lawn.”

I step back, eyes scanning the yard, and for the first time, I notice the neatly trimmed grass, the fresh lines carved into the earth like she tamed the whole goddamn place while I was knocked out after getting the best head of my life.

“Regan...” My voice deepens because now I’m pissed that she didn’t wait for me when I told her I’d take care of it today.

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, trying to 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 settle with. ” 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, pouring drinks, 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.

She waves me over, and I walk slowly, crossing the space until I’m standing next to her. My arm wraps around her hip protectively where I give a little squeeze. Someone taps their glass with a spoon, trying to get us to kiss, but Regan just rolls her eyes.

“Stop it, Rae,” she murmurs before clapping her hands loudly. “Okay, everyone! We’re thrilled you’re all here tonight to celebrate the grand opening of the newest Marshall venture, my very own Whitewood Creek Dreams wedding business!”

The crowd cheers loudly, and I notice she didn’t mention it’s also in celebration of our wedding day tomorrow.