Page 25

When I emerge from the bathroom, Matt is sitting on the edge of the bed, his shoes off, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when I appear, his eyes warming as they take in my appearance.

"Beautiful," he says simply.

I approach the bed, suddenly shy despite the intimacy we've already shared. "Your turn," I say, nodding toward the bathroom.

He stands, dropping a kiss on my cheek as he passes. "Get comfortable. I won't be long. I ran down to my car and grabbed the go bag I always have in the trunk.”

I slip under the covers, listening to the sound of water running in the bathroom. This is surreal. Matt Dayton, showering in my hotel room, about to spend the night in my bed. Not for sex, but for something that feels even more intimate. Connection. Care. The dynamic we're both craving.

When he returns, dressed in his boxers and t-shirt, hair damp and face freshly washed, something settles in my chest. A recognition. A certainty. This is right.

He slides into bed beside me, opening his arms in invitation. "Come here, Sunshine."

The pet name sends a little jolt through me. It’s different from "good girl" but just as potent. I move into his embrace, resting my head on his chest, his heartbeat strong and steady beneath my ear.

"Comfortable?" he asks, one hand coming up to stroke my hair.

"Very." I sigh contentedly, my body melting against his.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," he says softly.

I consider the request, feeling safe enough in this moment to share a truth I usually keep hidden. "I'm afraid of ending up alone. Of being so good at fitting into other people's lives that I never build one of my own."

His arms tighten around me. "Thank you for telling me that."

"Your turn," I prompt, tracing patterns on his chest through his t-shirt.

He's quiet for a moment. "I have nightmares," he finally admits. "About Afghanistan. About storms that went bad. About not being able to save people."

I lift my head to look at him, seeing the vulnerability beneath his strength. "Is that why you push yourself so hard? Chase the most dangerous storms?"

"Probably." His smile is self-deprecating. "My therapist certainly thinks so."

"You see a therapist?"

"Yes. The VA hooked me up with one I connected with. PTSD doesn't go away on its own."

I lay my head back on his chest, absorbing this. The man who projects such confidence, such control, is fighting his own battles. It makes me trust him more, somehow. That he understands struggle. That he's doing the work to heal.

"Thank you for telling me," I echo his words back to him.

We talk for hours, sharing stories and secrets in the intimate darkness. He tells me about growing up with Greg, about joiningthe Marines to find purpose, about the storm that nearly killed him last year in Oklahoma. I tell him about my childhood with a single mother who chased men and dreams in equal measure, about building my business from nothing, about the satisfaction I find in making other people's special days perfect.

Gradually, our words slow, our voices grow softer, and I find myself drifting toward sleep, wrapped securely in Matt's strong arms.

"Rest now, Sunshine," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "I've got you."

As I slip into dreams, one last coherent thought floats through my mind:I could get used to this.

And that's the most terrifying thing of all.

CHAPTER 7

The moment Matt offers his arm, I feel the electric shock of contact even through the fabric of his perfectly tailored tuxedo. He's supposed to be escorting me down the aisle as part of my professional bridesmaid duties, but there's nothing professional about the way my body responds to his proximity. His cologne, something expensive and masculine with notes of sandalwood, envelops me as we take our first step together. I'm acutely aware of the solid strength of his bicep beneath my hand, the controlled power in his measured stride that forces me to match his pace. When he leans down to murmur, "breathe, little girl" in my ear, his warm breath against my neck sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.

Now, as we stand watching Catherine and Greg exchange vows, with every eye in the chapel on the bride, I can feel Matt's heated gaze on my profile, studying me with an intensity that makes my pulse race. The wedding ceremony goes perfectly. Despite yesterday's storm chaos, everything has come together seamlessly.

Throughout the ceremony, I maintain my professional composure, standing at the appropriate distance from the bride, holding her bouquet during the ring exchange, discreetlyadjusting her train when needed. The perfect maid of honor, focused entirely on the bride's needs.