Page 4

"What tattoos did you get?" Greg asks, looking between us with interest.

Catherine and I exchange a panicked glance. We hadn't elaborated that far.

"Stars," I say, just as Catherine blurts, "Butterflies!"

There's an awkward pause.

"Star-shaped butterflies," I recover smoothly. "Very 2012."

Matt's eyebrow lifts slightly. He's not buying it. Not for a second.

"Where exactly are these tattoos?" he asks, voice deceptively casual.

Catherine flushes. I maintain my composure despite the dangerous gleam in his eye.

"Wouldn't you like to know," I say, meeting his gaze directly, a hint of challenge in my voice.

He stares at me with the barest hint of heat, of interest beyond suspicion in his gaze. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a half-smile that transforms his face from merely handsome to devastating.

"I would, actually," he says, his voice dropping to a register that sends a shiver down my spine.

Greg laughs, oblivious to the tension crackling between us. "Dude, stop interrogating Cat's friends. This isn't one of your reconnaissance missions."

"Force of habit," Matt says, his eyes still locked with mine. "I'm trained to spot pressure systems before they develop. To recognize when something isn't quite... as it appears."

The double meaning isn't lost on me. He's figured out something isn't right about my story. About me.

"Sometimes a cloud is just a cloud," I counter lightly. "No hidden tornadoes forming."

"And sometimes," he says, "what looks like a passing shower turns out to be the edge of a hurricane."

Our verbal sparring is interrupted when the band starts up, and Greg pulls Catherine to the dance floor for their first dance practice. The other guests follow, leaving Matt and me momentarily alone at the table.

“Something is off with you, Jackie Lawrence. I just haven't figured it out yet. It’s like you are playing a part or something."

My heart hammers against my ribs, but I keep my expression neutral. "We all play parts, Matt. The dutiful son, the successful professional, the storm-chasing loner. Which one is the real you?"

"Careful," he says, voice dropping lower. "You don't want to poke at things you don't understand."

"Maybe I like poking at dangerous things," I reply, the words out before I can stop them.

His smile is slow, predatory, sending a jolt of heat straight to my core. "Do you now? That's interesting information, sunshine."

Sunshine.

The pet name catches me off guard, especially coming from a man who looks like he lives in perpetual storm clouds. But there's something about the way he says it—warm, with a hint of irony—that makes my skin tingle. Like he sees the brightness I bring to rooms, the warmth I cultivate as part of my job, but knows there's more beneath the surface.

Before I can respond, Catherine reappears, breathless and laughing.

"Jackie! Come dance!" she insists, pulling at my hand. "Sorry to steal her, Matt, but maid of honor duties call."

I allow myself to be led away, feeling Matt's eyes on me as I go. On the dance floor, surrounded by laughing guests and pounding music, Catherine squeezes my arm.

"How's it going?" she asks, having to lean close to be heard. "Matt's not giving you too hard a time, is he?"

"Nothing I can't handle," I assure her, though I'm far less confident than I sound. "He's suspicious, but that's natural. Protective older brother and all."

"He's always been intense," she says with a grimace. "But ever since the Marines..." She trails off, shaking her head. "Just don't let him intimidate you."