He steps closer, and suddenly the hallway feels even smaller. "I'm looking out for my brother. Someone appears out of nowhere, claiming to be Catherine's best friend, when Greg's never heard of you before last month? It's suspicious."

He's right, of course. It is suspicious. And if I were actually Catherine's friend, I'd appreciate his concern.

"Look," I sigh. "Catherine and I reconnected recently after losing touch for a while. We were close in college, drifted apart, and now we're back in each other's lives. It happens."

"Right around the time her real maid of honor tried to sleep with Greg," Matt observes. "Convenient timing."

My smile slips. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"I haven't decided yet." His eyes roam my face, searching for... something. A clue? Confirmation? "But I'll figure it out."

"Well, while you're playing detective," I say, stepping into his space with more confidence than I feel, "maybe consider that Catherine's happy. That your brother's getting a beautiful happy bride. That whatever you think I'm doing, it's not hurting anyone."

We're standing close now, too close. I can smell his cologne. It’s something woodsy and subtle, mixed with the whiskey on his breath. His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second, and my heart hammers against my ribs. I want him to kiss me. The thought infuriates me. I shouldn’t want him to kiss me. Is it the alcohol? I blame the alcohol.

"Not hurting anyone yet," he murmurs. "But lies have a way of catching up, don't they, Jackie?"

The way he says my name—like he's testing the sound of it, like he's not entirely convinced it belongs to me—sends a shiver down my spine. I always use my real first name.

"We should get back," I say, my voice embarrassingly breathy. "They'll be wondering where we are."

"Let them wonder." His hand comes up, not quite touching my face but hovering near my cheek. "I'm not done figuring you out, yet."

There's a promise in those words that makes heat pool low in my belly. If this were one of my romance novels, this would be the moment he pushes me against the wall, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that proves chemistry trumps suspicion. His hands would come up, one on each side of my head, his lips would lower over mine. The kiss wouldn’t be gentle. It would be dominating, a taste of things to come in the bedroom.

But this isn't fiction. This is a job, and Matthew Dayton is a complication I cannot afford.

"Well," I say, ducking under his arm, "you have three more days to solve the mystery. Good luck."

I walk away, feeling his eyes on me with every step. My heart is racing, and not just from narrowly avoiding his interrogation. There's something about the way he looks at me…like he can see past my professional façade, past the carefully constructed persona I present to the world.

Like he seesme.

Which is ridiculous, since he doesn't even believe I'm who I say I am.

Back at the table, Catherine gives me a questioning look. "Everything okay?"

"Perfect," I assure her. "Just freshening up."

When Matt returns a few minutes later, there's a new tension between us. A hum of awareness that has nothing to do with his suspicions and everything to do with whatever just sparked in that hallway. He catches my eye across the table and raises his glass in a silent toast, the gesture both a challenge and an acknowledgment.

Game on.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of toasts and laughter. I navigate the treacherous waters of fake friendship with practiced ease, mentally filing away details about Catherine's life to repeat later. All the while, I'm hyperconscious of Matt's presence. The way he throws his head back when he laughs at his brother's jokes, the careful way he watches over his mother, making sure her wine glass stays full. For all his intensity, he's unexpectedly tender with family. It's… dangerously attractive.

By the time the dinner winds down, I've had enough champagne to feel warm and loose-limbed, but not enough to forget myself. As guests begin to depart, I find myself standing near the door, saying goodbyes alongside Catherine and Greg.

"Early morning tomorrow," Catherine reminds me, kissing my cheek. "Yoga at nine, then brunch, then the welcome party starts at three."

I nod, committing the schedule to memory. "I'll be there. Get some rest." I step into the hallway and head down to the elevator.

"Going up?"

Matt’s shed his suit jacket, his tie loosened, looking less like an intimidating ex-Marine and more like a man who knows exactly how good he looks in rolled-up shirtsleeves.

“I’ll walk you to your room.”

The sensible part of me knows spending any more time with him is playing with fire. The part of me that reads steamy romance novels and leads a chapter of a book club called "Naughty Girls" wonders what would happen if I got burned.