Page 2 of Wood You Marry Me?

If only my fucking gallbladder had gotten the memo.

So here I was, on my wedding day, questioning so many of my recent choices. But it was too late to back out now. The vows were just a formality. I knew that. So I sat, arms crossed, certain I was making a huge mistake.

But what other choice did I have?

Girls like me, we didn’t get the princess weddings. I was a trailer-park kid. And although I had come a long way from Mountain Meadows, deep down, I was still the girl who hustled every single day just to get by. The kid who wore too small shoes and ate expired food.

And I had never stopped hustling. All the way through college and grad school. And right now, I was killing myself to finish my PhD. I may not have been a princess, but I was making something of myself.

Life had taught me, though, that hard work was never enough. A person needed luck too. And I had recently run out of it.

So here I was. Ready to get married. Because it made sense. It was a good plan.

As we waited, he took my cold, clammy hand in his warm, rough one. His grip was tight, as if he was afraid I’d run away. It was strangely comforting to know that he was nervous too.

I could feel the heat radiating off his body as we sat, shoulder to shoulder, on the wooden bench. He was perfectly still, a tell if I’d ever seen one, since he was always in motion. Had been for the decades I had known him.

I shifted in my seat and looked into his dark eyes, noticing for the first time faint flecks of gold. He smiled at me. Not his usual gregarious grin, but a small, shy smile.

Oh, Remy Gagnon.

Star of all my teenage fantasies. My would-be shaggy haired knight in shining armor. For years, I’d convinced myself he would show up in his beat-up old truck and we would ride off into the sunset together.

The lanky boy with the dimples and ripped jeans. Who shared his lunch with me when I had none. Who never made fun of me for being brainy and intense.

Looking at his kind face helped calm my heart rate. This was the right choice.

I repeated the mantra for the hundredth time since he’d picked me up this morning.He’s a good man. We have a solid plan. This will work.

I could do worse than fake marrying my brother’s best friend.

Chapter2

Remy

One week earlier…

My phone rang as I headed down Main Street toward the diner. I had thirty minutes to pick up lunch for myself and my siblings before I had to be back at the office. Just another day of paying penance for my bad behavior. After my fiancé revealed she’d been cheating on me and dumped me, I went a little off the rails, and my family has not let me forget it.

I was lucky to have a job. Hell, I was lucky to be alive.

And my brother. I’d never forgive myself for what happened to him. I was the family fuck-up. No doubt about it. So I was on office duty—and coffee duty and lunch duty—indefinitely. Hoping to win back their trust by being a boring, responsible adult for as long as it took.

I dug my phone out of my pocket, and my stomach dropped at the name lit up on the screen.

“Remy. What’s new?” Tim was a fast-talking sports agent from Boston who wore sleek suits and drove a Porsche SUV. He was old enough to be my dad but looked thirty-five and did Ironman triathlons for fun.

He represented, in his words, “alternative athletes.” Martial artists, dancers, a few skiers, and skateboarders. And me. We met a couple of years ago in Portland at a festival where I placed first in an axe-throwing competition. After, he bought me a beer and talked up the growing popularity of timbersports.

He encouraged me to get on social media, build a brand, and aim higher. I kept his card in my wallet for more than a year before I finally reached out. And after I placed third in the Maine state championships last year and set a regional record for speed climbing, he started talking sponsorships.

But it had been a long, lonely winter. I had focused all my attention on working and trying to make amends to my family and our employees. My behavior last fall had been appalling, and I was still plagued by shame over how I’d fallen apart.

And all that guilt and shame was wrapped up in the endless questions around my dad’s death. What we’d thought had been a tragic accident, we’d recently discovered, was foul play. Despite working with law enforcement and the state inspectors, we still hadn’t gotten answers. And I was beginning to doubt we ever would.

“Competition season is around the corner. I got an email from my guy at Stihl. He’s still interested in you. Said he and his kids and grandkids are coming to the northeast regionals to see you. Hopes you can set another climbing record.”

I winced. Climbing required strength, focus, and precision. Three things I lacked at the moment.

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