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"In the military?"

"And after." He navigates through rain-slicked streets with practiced ease. "Weather doesn't discriminate. It doesn't care who you are or what you've done. It just... is."

"Is that why you chase it? Because it's predictable in its unpredictability?"

He glances at me, surprise evident in his expression. "Most people think I'm an adrenaline junkie."

"Are you?"

"Partly," he admits. "It’s hard leaving war zones and returning to the mundane of day to day American life. But it's more than chasing the next adrenaline high. In a storm, everything is stripped away except what matters. Survival. Protection. It gives me a purpose. If I can get ahead of a storm,warn people… save a life… I consider it a successful day at the office."

I study his profile, seeing beyond the handsome features to the complexity beneath. "You're looking for meaning in chaos."

"Aren't we all?" His voice is quiet, almost lost beneath the sound of rain.

For a moment, we're just two people having an honest conversation, no games, no suspicion, no roles to play. It's... nice. Dangerous, but nice.

Then lightning flashes, followed immediately by a crack of thunder that shakes the car. The street ahead is suddenly obscured by a wall of water.

"Shit," Matt mutters, slowing the vehicle. "Visibility's gone."

I peer through the windshield, seeing nothing but gray and the blurry red of tail lights ahead. "Should we pull over?"

"We're almost there." His focus has shifted entirely to driving, his posture alert. "Just a few more blocks."

The radio crackles with a severe weather alert, warning of flash flooding and advising people to seek shelter.

Great.

Just what every bride wants to hear on her wedding weekend. I wonder how stressed Charlotte is, and what kind of bride she will turn into with this chaos. Will I have a bridezilla on my hands?

We crawl along at a snail's pace, the wipers working overtime. Matt's concentration is absolute, his eyes never leaving the road despite the near-impossible conditions. There's something compelling about his focus, his competence, the way he handles the vehicle like it's an extension of himself.

Finally, the grand facade of the venue appears through the rain. Matt pulls as close to the entrance as possible, then turns to me.

"Wait here," he says. "I'll come around with an umbrella."

"I'm perfectly capable of walking ten feet in the rain," I protest.

His expression is unyielding. "It's coming down hard enough to knock you over. I said wait." His tone is commanding and as much as I hate to admit it, it turns me on.

Before I can argue further, he's out of the car, jogging around to my side with an umbrella that immediately inverts in the wind. By the time he opens my door, he's soaked through for the second time today. I step out and he quickly pulls me against his side, one arm around my shoulders as he attempts to shield me from the worst of the downpour. I can’t help but feel his strength and the outline of his muscles. This man has stepped right out of one of my romance novels. Intelligent. Sexy as fuck. Dominant. Too bad he thinks I’m a liar. Well… he’s not exactly wrong.

We make a dash for the entrance, rain lashing at us from all directions. By the time we reach shelter, we're both drenched despite his efforts. My sundress clings to my skin, my carefully styled curls are now plastered to me, and my cardigan feels about ten pounds heavier.

Matt doesn't look much better. His shirt is transparent with moisture, revealing the contours of his chest and the edge of what appears to be a tattoo beneath his collarbone. Water drips from his eyelashes, making them seem impossibly long.

"So much for staying dry," I say, trying to wring water from my hair.

"Could've been worse." He reaches out, brushing a wet strand from my face with unexpected gentleness. "You look like a drowned kitten."

"Charming," I say dryly, but my pulse kicks up at his touch.

Inside, the venue is chaotic. Staff members rush about moving tables, caterers argue over serving stations, and the wedding coordinator looks one crisis away from a nervousbreakdown. Catherine stands in the center of it all, still smiling but with a frantic edge to her expression.

"There you are!" she exclaims when she spots us. "Oh my god, you're soaked!"

"Just a little damp," I assure her, pushing aside my discomfort to focus on her needs. "How can I help?"