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"Tornadoes, mostly," he corrects. "Though I've done my share of hurricane seasons in the South."

"Matt was just in Oklahoma tracking some massive storm system," Catherine offers, clearly trying to smooth the awkward energy between us.

"Fascinating," I say, meaning it despite myself. "What makes someone choose a career literally running toward danger?"

His gaze intensifies, as if he's trying to see beneath my carefully constructed exterior. "Maybe the same thing that makes someone choose a career slipping into other people's lives and pretending to be what they need."

My heart stutters. Does he know? How could he possibly?—

"Event planning," he clarifies, but there's a knowing glint in his eye that makes me think he suspects something. "Becoming whatever the client needs for their perfect day."

Relief mingled with wariness washes through me. "We all wear different hats in our jobs, Mr. Dayton."

"Matt," he corrects.

"Matt," I repeat, the name feeling oddly intimate on my tongue.

Before he can respond, Greg appears, slinging an arm around his brother's shoulders. He's the younger, softer version of Matt with the same dark hair but with friendly eyes and an easy smile.

"You met Jackie!" he exclaims. "Cat's partner in crime since forever. The stories this woman could tell..."

I laugh, the sound practiced but convincing. "And I've been sworn to secrecy on most of them."

"Smart," Matt says, his eyes still studying me. "Secrets have a way of coming out though."

The warning is subtle but unmistakable. This man is going to be a problem.

"Dinner's starting," Catherine says, tugging on my arm. "We should find our seats."

As we move toward the tables, I feel Matt's eyes on me, tracking my movements. I resist the urge to look back, focusing instead on guiding Catherine to the head table where place cards await.

My seat, naturally, is right across from Matt's. He’s the best man. I’m the maid of honor. We’re going to be spending a lot of time next to each other.

Just perfect.

Throughout dinner, I navigate the conversation with practiced ease. I deflect questions about our college days with vague references and inside jokes. I compliment Greg's parents,charm his extended family, and do what I'm paid to do—make everything feel warm and genuine.

All while hyper-aware of Matt's silent observation.

He doesn't say much, but when he does, his questions are precision-targeted. Where did I grow up? What's my family like? How exactly did Catherine and I meet? Each one requires careful navigation, blending enough truth from my real life with the fabricated backstory Catherine and I created.

By dessert, the tension between us has built to almost tangible. Every time our eyes meet, something hot and dangerous flashes between us. It's not just suspicion on his part or wariness on mine. There's an attraction that's as unwelcome as it is undeniable.

"Jackie, don't you have that photo on your phone?" Catherine asks suddenly. "The one from that spring break trip to Miami?"

I blink, momentarily confused. We hadn't discussed any Miami photos in our preparation.

"You know," she prompts, eyes widening meaningfully. "When we got those matching tattoos that our parents would have killed us over?"

Ah. She's creating shared history on the fly. Clever girl.

"God, I'd forgotten about that," I say with a laugh. "But no, those photos are long gone. Probably for the best considering how we looked in those bikinis."

"Speak for yourself," Catherine teases. "I rocked that neon green monstrosity."

"And I rocked being twice your size in that purple one," I counter, adding a touch of authentic body humor. "Though I still maintain my curves look better on a beach than just about anywhere else."

Matt's gaze flicks over me at that, a brief but thorough assessment that sends heat blooming across my skin. For asecond, I think I see appreciation in his eyes before they cool back to watchful suspicion.