Page 37

Two hours later, I’m in the groom’s suite in one of the cottages, buttoning up my shirt and slipping on my suit jacket while the photographer moves around the room, getting shots of us in various stages of getting ready for the main event.

Regan’s brothers are here, along with my younger brother, Seth, who just got into town on a rare break from the ranch.

Even with the tight timeline, Regan really pulled the cottages together.

Gold finishes, a plush green velvet rug in the center of the room, and windows that look freshly cleaned.

Even the tall, gold-framed mirror in the corner has been polished to a shine.

The chandelier overhead catches the soft afternoon light, and for the first time, I get it—the appeal of getting married here.

The style inside, paired with the beauty of the Manor just outside, makes this place feel like nothing else in Whitewood Creek.

“I never thought you’d be the first to get married,” Seth says, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.

I snort. “I’m ten years older than you.”

“That doesn’t mean shit.”

I roll my eyes. “It’s a fake marriage.” The words come out easy, familiar, but somehow don’t sit quite right on my tongue anymore.

It’s wild that I’m even doing this. If you’d told me a year ago, hell, six months ago, that I’d be standing here, getting dressed for a wedding— my second wedding —I’d have laughed in your face.

Seth chuckles, tipping his beer bottle toward me. “Yeah, I can see that. But something tells me it might not stay that way for long. Scarlett said the way you look at Regan doesn’t look fake.”

I shake my head. “It’s just until the dust settles,” I murmur, adjusting my cufflink. That’s what we agreed to as part of the contract. That’s the deadline. Be sure everything’s finalized and established with the house, barns and business, and then decide from there what we want to do.

But for the first time since we agreed to leave things open-ended, I know without a doubt that I don’t want that.

What comes after all this, I hope, isn’t going our separate ways .

I hope she chooses me. Regan’s the only woman I’ve ever been with where I’m not looking for an expiration date or a way out.

And maybe that’s why it isn’t scary thinking about remarrying her today.

“She seems great,” Seth adds, more serious now. “Her family too.”

“She is.” The words slip out honestly. Because it’s the truth.

The photographer moves about the room, taking a few more photos of her brothers and then shifts to the artwork on the walls.

The space itself looks much different from when I first saw it with Mrs. Mayberry, and I hope that’s clear to whoever looks at these photos someday.

The amount of effort that Regan put into all this, not just for today, but for every couple that might walk through here or choose our property for their wedding, is a testament to her hard work and the pride she takes in everything that she does.

“Okay, great,” the photographer announces, checking something on her camera.

“I’ve already finished with Regan and the girls, so next up is your first look.

Regan said she understood if you didn’t want to do it, but she thought it might make a good shot for the website if you pose by the pond when you see her in her dress for the first time. ”

Seth glances at me with his brows raised, likely waiting to see if I’ll back out or come up with some sort of excuse for why I shouldn’t have a first look at my fake wedding.

Lawson and Cash are in the corner, chatting quietly and not paying any attention. Regan’s oldest brother and the state of North Carolina’s governor, Troy, and Colt are already down at the Marshall farm, making final preparations for the ceremony.

I take a breath. “That’s fine. Just tell me where you need me to be.”

The photographer nods, satisfied, and we head out, walking slowly down the dirt road that leads back toward the main house.

The air is thick with late-afternoon heat, the kind that clings to your skin but doesn’t quite suffocate.

It’s enough to have a thin sheen of sweat coating my skin by the time we make it a few steps and I’m already looking forward to getting out of this suit and relaxing with my girl once the ceremony’s over.

My eyes scan the property, taking in the way it’s all come together. I should be annoyed that Regan was up at dawn mowing the entire damn field while I was dead to the world after working two nights ago. But instead, I’m just... impressed.

She’s good . At all of it. Organizing, planning, running this place like she was made to do it.

I guess that’s what happens when you grow up in a family full of men and have to fend for yourself.

And when you grow up watching Mr. and Mrs. Mayberry tend to the place.

Frankly, she knows it better than me. And maybe that’s a big part of what I like about her.

She’s independent. Capable. And yet—somewhere deep down, buried beneath everything—I think there’s a small, selfish part of me that likes knowing that despite all that, she wants my touch. She needs my hands, tongue and body. And she loves coming on my cock.

Frankly, I’m fucked up.

“Okay, so I’m thinking you stand here, turn your back to the cottages where she is, and I’ll capture some shots of her walking down the road. Then I’ll cue you when to turn around. That work?”

“Sure.” My voice is even, but my pulse? Wrecked. I spin around, back facing the direction she’ll be coming from, locking eyes with my brother instead who’s the only one out here with me now. He’s grinning like an idiot, and I immediately regret this decision.

“Never in my motherfucking—” he mumbles.

“Don’t,” I cut him off, shooting him a look as he bites down on his fist to stifle a chuckle.

A few seconds pass, but he doesn’t stop smiling. Then, suddenly, his expression shifts. His gaze lifts over my left shoulder, locking onto something, or someone walking towards us.

“Oh… shit…” His voice trails off, low and almost reverent.

That’s all it takes for me to know I’m done for.

I can feel her before I see her. The way the air changes.

The soft, honeysuckle scent that wraps around me, sweet and intoxicating.

My hands curl into fists at my sides because I want to turn around so fucking bad, but I need a second.

Because I already know that whatever I’m about to see is going to ruin any last bit of my control.

The control that I’ve held onto so tightly for years thinking I’m better off alone is about to be demolished all in the name of a small town girl with big blue eyes and red hair.

The soft clicking of the camera fades into the background as her heat finally reaches me.

“Okay, Hayes,” the photographer says gently. “You can turn around.”

I inhale once, then move.

And Jesus Christ.

Regan stands there, hands clasped in front of her, shy and vulnerable in a way that makes my chest tight.

She’s in a white dress that fits her body so damn perfectly I can’t look away.

Sleeveless with thin straps, low-cut, hugging her curves before flaring out in soft layers of tulle at the bottom. She looks… fuck. Just like a princess.

Her dark auburn hair falls in loose waves, delicate braids woven throughout, giving it depth and dimension. Her skin, warm and sun kissed. Her eyes, glowing under soft gold makeup. Lips, full and pretty, the lightest shade of pink. Small diamond earrings catch the light.

I’m gutted because I think I’ve always known this but never admitted it: she’s easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I can’t believe I was a fool to ever let her go. She was right. She was completely right. I think I fell in love with her the night that I met her.

“Fuck,” I breathe out. “You look gorgeous, baby.”

Her cheeks flush, that soft, secret smile tugging at the corner of her mouth like only her and I know what we did last night right here on this lawn with the rain from the sky pouring down on our naked bodies, and that’s it.

I step toward her, forgetting the photographer, forgetting my brother, forgetting the whole damn world exists.

My hands find her hips, sliding up, fingers mapping over the smooth, bare skin of her back. Memorizing.

I cup her chin, tilting it up just enough before I kiss her.

Gentle. Unhurried. The soft clicking of the camera is the only sound out here, but I barely register it.

It’s just her. I’m not doing this for the website or for anyone else right now .

I’m doing this because I get to. Because she’s my wife.

“Okay,” the photographer’s voice cuts in, clapping her hands eagerly. “Wow, those are beautiful. Let’s grab a few by the pond, then we’ll be ready to head over to the Marshalls for the ceremony.”

The next five minutes blur together. Pose after pose, my arms around her, looking at her, kissing her. Nothing too posed or forced, just us. And maybe I should mind how natural it all feels—how easy it is to touch her like she’s already mine. But I don’t . Not even a little.

When it’s finally time to part, Regan and her bridesmaids pile into the golf cart to head over to the Egg Farmstead.

I should step back, should let her go, but instead, I dip my head under the roof, my mouth brushing against her neck as I groan, “You look so beautiful baby, and you smell so fucking good. I can’t wait to see you out of this dress tonight. ”

She laughs, but it’s breathless, like I’ve knocked the air out of her and she’s not sure how to handle it.

I press one last kiss there, ignoring the quiet giggles from her friends watching us from the cart.

Her brothers and mine have already taken off, but I don’t even care that we have an audience.

I should care, given the circumstances and all. Given this is all supposed to be fake .

But I don’t . Not one fucking bit.

I cup her face, holding her there, letting her see all of it—everything I don’t know how to say yet. I want to tell her. That this feels like more. That I want to— fuck, date her or something. But that’s insane, right?

What the hell am I doing?

I’m already married to her.

The words slip out before I can stop them, soft and meant for her alone to hear.

“I can’t wait to remarry you.”

She stills, just for a second. Her gaze searches mine, like she’s trying to figure out if I mean it. And God, I hope she sees the truth there.

Because I do.

I do .

I want this.

She leans back, lips curling into a small, knowing smile.

“I’ll see you at the altar,” she murmurs before her friend Molly puts the golf cart in drive and takes off. I watch her go, my chest tight the entire time.

The photographer calls my name as she waits for me to join her in the car she’s taking next door. I exhale, shaking my head, but I can’t stop the small smile pulling at my lips.

There goes my fucking wife.