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His mouth quirks. "Define 'nothing else.'"

I shoot him a warning look. "You know exactly what I mean."

"Do I?" He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Because yesterday in that wine cellar, you seemed pretty clear about what you wanted. And it wasn't just conversation."

A flush creeps up my neck. "That was... a mistake."

"Didn't feel like a mistake." His eyes hold mine, challenging. "Felt pretty damn right, actually. And, just so you know, Jackie, I am the one who gives the orders, not you.”

"Fine." I concede and adjust my purse strap, refusing to meet his gaze. "Where are you parked?"

Once inside the vehicle, he doesn't start the engine immediately. Instead, he turns in his seat to face me. "Look at me, Jackie."

Something in his tone, the quiet but commanding way he spoke, makes me comply instantly, despite my better judgment.

"Good girl,” he praises as he reaches out and strokes my cheek gently. “Yesterday wasn't a mistake. It was probably bad timing, and definitely complicated, given the circumstances. But it wasn't a mistake."

I swallow hard. "I don't get involved with clients' families. It's unprofessional."

"Catherine's your client, not Greg. Not me." His logic is irritating. "And the wedding's over in two days. Then what?"

"Then I go back to my life, and you go back to chasing hurricanes, and we never see each other again." The words taste bitter on my tongue.

"Is that what you want?"

No.

But it's what needs to happen. This—whatever this is between us—is temporary. A product of wedding emotions and forced proximity, and the heightened reality that comes with both.

"It doesn't matter what I want," I say instead. "It's what makes sense."

His eyes narrow slightly. "You're hiding behind your job. Using professionalism as a shield."

The accuracy of his observation stings. "I'm not hiding. I'm being responsible."

"Bullshit." There's no heat in the word, just certainty. "You're scared."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He leans closer, his gaze intent. "You've created this perfect little life where you drift in and out of other people's special moments without ever having to commit to anything yourself. No risk, no vulnerability, just a series of performances where you get to be whoever people need you to be."

Anger flares, hot and sudden. Maybe because he’s read me well, too damn well, in such a short amount of time. "You don't know the first thing about my life."

"I know you're good at your job. I know you care about doing it well. And I know you're using it as an excuse to keep people at arm's length." His voice softens slightly. "What I don't know is why."

I look away, uncomfortable with how easily he sees through my carefully constructed defenses. "We should go. The rehearsal?—"

"Isn't for another hour," he interrupts. "Stop deflecting."

"I'm not?—"

"Look at me." Again, that tone brooking no argument.

I meet his eyes reluctantly.

"Yesterday, in that cellar, was anything but professional," he says. "You wanted me. I wanted you. Still do. The only question is whether you're brave enough to admit it."

My heart hammers against my ribs, my mouth suddenly dry. "What exactly are you asking for here, Matt?"