Page 55

When I wake up the next morning, there’s a soft, persistent buzzing somewhere in the distance. It fades in and out like a warning I don’t want to hear, the kind you only half register in that fragile space between dreaming and waking.?

I blink against the soft morning light, the air around me still warm with the lingering heat of him, and realize I’m in Hayes’s bed.

Where he carried me last night. Where he made love to me like it meant something.

Where he told me he loved me and then, without even trying, showed me that I’ve been in love with him too.

I don’t remember the last few months, not in the way I wish I could, but I’ve always trusted energy more than words.

And last night? I could feel his. It was electric and steady and filled with this bone-deep ache that matched my own.

Something about the way he touched me—like I was familiar and sacred and his—told me everything I needed to know to clear any lingering doubts.

I believe him when he says he told me he wanted more during our second wedding.

And I believe I felt that same way, too at the time.

Because the way I feel right now isn’t some vague nostalgia for memories lost. It’s something much sharper. A craving. A longing not for the past, but for him. For who we are right now. For the space we’re carving out together in this soft, quiet beginning in a home we both love.

I tug the sheet around me, legs brushing against warm cotton as I swing out of bed, the scent of him and where he kissed, bit and sucked on my skin after we made love multiple times in the quiet of the night, still clings to my skin like perfume.

I pad down the stairs, the wood creaking under my bare feet, the morning light pouring through the old windows I’m sure we’ll need to replace soon in slow golden ribbons.

The buzzing starts again. Louder this time and I realize it’s coming from the kitchen’s coffee maker.

I step into the room and find it already prepped, Hayes’s signature all over it.

The carafe is full and ready. And there’s a note beside it that catches my eye.

It’s written on a scrap of yellow notepad paper, his handwriting quick and masculine, a little crooked in places like he was in a hurry but didn’t want to skip a word.

***

Not sure if you’re ready to see these, but I wanted you to have the choice.

These are photos from our first and second weddings.

Molly got them developed and dropped them off while I was waiting for you to come home from the hospital.

I didn’t even know she took some of them.

You look beautiful in every picture.

I love you,

-H

***

My throat tightens instantly.

There’s a soft-bound photo book sitting beside the note, totally unmarked, no title or label. Innocent looking. Unassuming. But it feels heavier than it looks.

I take a deep breath and press the button on the coffee maker. The machine hums to life, and I pour a cup as the scent of dark roast curls up around me, grounding me.

The mug is familiar—one I must’ve brought from my childhood home when I first moved into the Manor. Pale blue with a crack near the handle and just the letter R engraved into it. It was the one my dad bought me when I got into drinking tea every morning before school.

I tuck the photo book under one arm and head into the living room, cheeks flushing as I glance at the couch and remember some of the things that Hayes and I have done here. The places he’s touched me, the way that I always melt into his rough hands when he touches me.

I sink into the cushions, legs folded under me, coffee warming my palms. And then, with a steady breath, I open the book.

The first image has me gasping, my heart thudding out of my chest. It’s one of Hayes and me, standing across from each other at the Whitewood Creek courthouse.

He’s got a twitch at the corner of his lips, like he’s trying not to laugh.

I’m in denim cutoffs and a white tee looking completely uncoordinated.

He’s in a button-down white shirt and khaki colored pants, looking more dressed up than I’ve ever seen him.

We’re not touching but we’re looking directly at each other, and something’s there.

Something’s between us that only a picture can capture.

The officiant stands between us, reading us our rights, and my hands are twisted nervously in front of me.

But Hayes—he looks happy. Calm. Not like a man being dragged into a sham.

Like a man choosing something. Maybe not love. But something.

The next page is me outside the courthouse, fist pumping the air like I just won the damn lottery. Hayes is laughing at me, head tipped back, and something about the soft lines in his face, the crinkles around his eyes, makes it feel like this way always more than convenience.

I flip to another one, this one clearly taken by a stranger in the parking lot. Me, Molly, Colt, and Hayes all draped over one another outside the courthouse. Even my twin is smiling wide. Hayes’s arm is casually slung around my shoulder like it belongs there. And it does. God, it does .

A tear splashes onto the page as I read Molly’s handwriting under it, all looping cursive:

Happily, ever after. ??

Did she know then? Did she feel it too?

I keep flipping, and suddenly the mood shifts.

We’re no longer at the courthouse—we’re in color and light and beauty.

Photos from the rehearsal dinner at the bar in town, the one with the mismatched chairs and the exposed brick I always loved and remembered helping build last fall.

The place is decorated in soft blues and greens with flowers and dim lighting.

I’m in a white dress I recognize from the closet upstairs, standing at the front of the room with a mic in hand addressing the crowd that gathered.

Hayes is leaning against the wall wearing that same, brown cowboy hat, watching me like I’m his whole world.

Those eyes. The way they hold me from across the space. He adored me even then.

Next comes the wedding morning—me surrounded by Rae, Lydia, Georgia, Molly, and a woman I don’t recognize but must be Scarlett, Hayes sister who helped coordinate the whole thing.

Champagne flutes raised, our laughter caught mid-sound in one of the cottages, and I’m wearing the most beautiful white dress I’ve ever seen.

My dress.

The tears come again.

God, I wish I remembered this. But even if I don’t—I feel it.

And then the next pages wreck me completely.

Hayes’s first look. We’re down by the pond I grew up swimming in every summer.

He turns. He sees me. His whole face softens.

There’s a shot of him kissing me there, and I swear I can feel it still on my lips.

Like it’s waiting to be remembered. I trace his face in the photo, the way his hands cradle my jaw, the smile on my lips, the absolute joy in my eyes. It’s overwhelming. And it’s beautiful.

The final photos are of the wedding itself.

Dusk light spilling over everything on the farmstead like honey, flowers everywhere, tables set with food from the brewery, friends and family dancing and smiling like they knew this wasn’t some joke or accident.

Like they knew what we were building mattered.

And then the last photo.

Me and Hayes, surrounded by my brothers, their partners, my nephews Max and Beckham, even Troy, Georgia and my baby niece. Everyone beaming. Everyone happy. Even Hayes.

Especially Hayes.

I press my fingers gently to the page like I can absorb the happiness found in it, like I can press it into memory. I don’t know what our beginning looked like through my eyes back then, but I know how it feels now.

Like the start of something real.

“I hope it wasn’t too much to see those,” Hayes deep voice says from the doorway to the kitchen.

His words curl around me like smoke, dragging me from the photos and the emotions still blooming heavy in my chest.

I have no idea how long he’s been watching me but he’s leaning there casually, arms folded, back braced against the frame like he’s trying not to come any closer until he knows I’m okay.

He looks like every soft and dangerous dream I’ve ever had.

Tight, light-washed Wranglers hug his strong thighs and lean hips, a plain white t-shirt stretched across his broad chest and biceps.

There’s a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, but it doesn’t hide the way he’s watching me with so much love I can feel it on my skin.

No man has ever looked at me like that before.

I swipe at my cheeks, my throat thick, and the moment our eyes meet, he’s already closing the distance. He drops to his knees in front of me, one hand reaching for mine, the other steadying himself on the couch beside my thigh.

“It was perfect,” I whisper, choking a little on the knot of emotion lodged behind my ribs. “I’m not crying because I’m sad that I don’t remember it. I’m crying because it’s beautiful. Because I’m so… grateful. For you. For this.”

His hand curls around mine, warm and strong and grounding. He nods, but I can see there’s something else hidden in his expression.

“What are you thinking?” I ask softly, my fingers tightening around his.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me with that devastating focus of his like he’s weighing whether it will be too heavy to share with me.

“I can handle it. You don’t have to treat me like I’m glass.”

He nods. “I’m thinking,” he says finally, “that I want a third wedding with you.”

I blink, startled, a soft gasp slipping out before I even realize it. “What?”

“This time, just our families. Small. Simple. Something we’ll be able to tell our kids about someday.

I want to marry you again, Regan. For real this time.

Not because of some deal or some clause in a will.

Not because we had to. But because I can’t imagine walking through a single day without you by my side and I want you to remember the moment I tell you I do. ”

My heart is thudding so hard I can feel it in my ears. He lifts my hands, brushing his thumbs over my knuckles and then drops a kiss on them where a ring would go.

“I want to give you vows this time. Real ones. Words that live in my blood. Promises I’ll never break.

I’m not rushing you. I know we still have things to figure out, time to get to know each other better.

But I need you to know that I’ll propose again someday.

Because you’re already my wife. And this time, I want to do it right. ”

I nod, lips trembling, eyes stinging all over again.

I reach for him, wrapping my arms around his neck and tugging him toward me until our lips crash together.

The kiss is messy, full of all the things we don’t have words for yet, and when he pulls me closer, I feel the heat of it right down to my toes.

Then he’s lifting me, carrying me into the kitchen and setting me on the edge of the island. His fingers deftly tug my shorts down and to the ground with a groan that goes straight to my core. Then he drops to his knees in front of me like I’m something worthy of being worshipped.

“Baby,” he murmurs, breath hot against me, “you’re soaked for me, aren’t you?”

I clutch the back of his head, my thighs trembling as his tongue slides across my opening and finds my clit, lapping, sucking, sending sparks shooting through my body. His fingers join in, curling inside me in just the right way, working me open, unraveling me piece by piece.

“Yes, Hayes,” I moan, rocking against his mouth, “yes, that feels so good.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ease up until I’m panting, shaking, on the brink of my orgasm. My toes curl against his shoulders, my nipples pebbling through my thin shirt, every part of me wound tight.

And then—he stands. Eyes wild. Hands already working his jeans down. He fists his cock, thick and flushed and hard for me before he lines himself up and pushes inside my pussy with a loud grunt.

I gasp, the stretch of him stealing my breath.

It burns, it aches and then it doesn’t. Then it’s just him—deep and hot, filling me so completely.

The slick sound of his hips snapping against me as he slides in and out fills the space as he presses into me harder until we’re both gasping, rocking against each other in a rhythm.

“I swear,” he pants, glancing down at where we’re joined, watching himself disappear into me repeatedly, “I could do this every single day of my life. Work my horses by your side, throw some weddings, work at the hospital occasionally, and fuck you on every surface of this house.”

“So do it,” I whisper, breathless, dizzy with him. “I want that too.”

He slows his thrusts, brushing a knuckle down my cheek, his eyes soften. “I know this might not mean the same thing to you.”

I blink, stunned. “How can you say that?”

He doesn’t answer with words right away. Just thrusts a little deeper, hitting a new angle that has me clenching down around him. He holds me in place, pinning my hips with his fingers as his cock pulses inside me. Then his voice breaks slightly.

“Because Regan… this is everything to me.” He adjusts his grip, scooping my hips and angling deeper, until I can’t breathe. Can’t think.

“No one’s ever fit me like you do,” he murmurs. “No one’s ever made me feel this fucking whole. I’ve never been inside anyone bare before, but I didn’t hesitate to do that with you. You’re it for me. You’ve always have been.”

I look down, watching where we’re connected, where he fills me. A moan escapes me, and I can’t hold it in. I meet his eyes, and the world stills.

“It’s everything to me too,” I say, voice cracking. “I love you, Hayes.”

And I know he hears it. Not just the words, but the truth underneath. The way we’re in sync now. Finally. Like we’ve both found our way back together to something worth staying for.