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CHAPTER 5

Iavoid Matt for the rest of the evening, throwing myself into bridesmaid duties with almost manic energy. I help Catherine calm nervous relatives, organize impromptu entertainment when the power fluctuates, and generally make myself indispensable to everyone except the one person I can't stop thinking about.

By the time I return to my hotel room that night, I'm exhausted and no closer to resolving the Matt situation than I was in that wine cellar. I strip off my clothes and stand under the shower for a long time, letting hot water wash away the physical remnants of the day while my mind replays every moment with Matt. The tension in the elevator. The mad dash through the flood. The heat of his mouth on mine. The feel of his hands moving up my leg…

"Stop it," I tell myself firmly, shutting off the water with more force than necessary. "It was a moment of weakness. It won't happen again."

I'm a professional. I have a reputation to maintain, a business to run. I don't get involved with clients or their families. Ever. My job does not include one night stands with the groomsmen. No matter how sexy they might be. I’ve been indozens of weddings and never so much as kissed anyone. So why can't I stop thinking about Matt?

I'm toweling my hair dry when my phone chimes with a text message. My heart jumps, expecting Matt and I’m slightly disappointed when it’s not.

Catherine: Everything ok? You disappeared during the storm for a bit.

Me: Everything’s fine. Just helping coordinate with staff. How are you holding up?

Catherine: Surprisingly well! Matt said you were a huge help during the evacuation. Thank you so much!

So he mentioned me. Interesting. What else did he say?

Me: Just doing my job.

Catherine: Well, get some rest! Big day tomorrow. Can’t wait for the final fittings and rehearsal!

I stare at Catherine's text, guilt gnawing at me. While she's thanking me for being helpful, I was kissing her future brother-in-law in a wine cellar. Some professional I am.

I set my phone on the nightstand, determined to get some sleep and put this whole Matt situation behind me. Tomorrow I'll be focused, professional, and completely immune to his intense stares and knowing smirks.

That resolution lasts approximately eight hours. Right until I step through the doors for the final fitting and see him sitting in one of the plush chairs in the waiting area, scrolling through his phone.

He looks up when I enter, and everything I'd convinced myself I'd imagined… The chemistry, the tension, the heat, all comes rushing back with breathtaking force.

"Morning," he says casually, like he didn't have his tongue in my mouth yesterday.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, keeping my voice low so the bridal attendant checking me in can't hear. "This is for the bridal party."

"Greg asked me to drop off something to Cat." He stands, tucking his phone in his pocket. "But since you're here, I think we need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you." I turn to the attendant with a bright smile. "I'm with the Kent-Dayton wedding. Jackie Lawrence."

"Of course, Ms. Lawrence. Right this way. The bride is already in the fitting room."

I follow her, painfully aware of Matt's eyes on me as I walk away. He’s frowning and oddly flexing his hand. Weird. Is that a tic of his? I shrug it off as I enter the bridal salon. Champagne is flowing freely despite the early hour. Catherine and the other bridesmaids are already in various stages of undress, attendants fussing over hems and seams.

For the next hour, I lose myself in the rhythm of fittings and alterations. My bridesmaid dress, a flattering A-line in pale lavender, needs only minor adjustments at the waist. I stand patiently as the seamstress pins and marks, making small talk with the other women and steadfastly avoiding thoughts of Matt.

When I finally emerge from the fitting room, I'm convinced he'll be gone. Men rarely linger after delivering messages. But there he is, still in the waiting area, now nursing a cup of coffee and looking like he has nowhere else to be.

"You're still here." I stop several feet away from him.

"I am." He stands, his eyes tracking over me in a way that makes my skin heat. "I'll drive you to the rehearsal."

"I can get there myself."

"I'm sure you can." His tone is maddeningly patient. "But we still need to talk, and I'd rather do it privately than at the rehearsal dinner."

He has a point. The last thing I need is for us to have some kind of confrontation in front of the entire wedding party.

"Fine," I concede. "But just a ride. A conversation. Nothing else."