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She’s not wrong. There’s something about a man who knows how to work with his hands that’s always gotten under my skin. It started when I was seven. I used to spend Saturday mornings at Dad’s gym, watching the local contractors and mechanics come in to train before their shifts. These weren’t men who called AAA when their trucks broke down.

They were the guys other people called when something needed fixing.

There was something deeply attractive about that kind of self-reliance, that quiet confidence that came from knowing youcould handle whatever life threw at you. While my friends were swooning over actors and musicians, I was drawn to the kind of men who could build a house from the ground up, who smelled like sawdust and honest work.

“What are you waiting for?” Violet nudges my shoulder. “Go talk to him.”

“Are you insane?” I hiss. “I can’t just walk over there.”

“Why not?” Iris demands. “You’re single, he’s gorgeous, and you’re moving across the country tomorrow to marry a criminal. If there was ever a time to live a little, it’s tonight.”

“He’s at a wedding celebration with friends. I can’t just interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Violet argues. “You’re introducing yourself to a fellow human being. What’s the worst that could happen?”

My mind immediately supplies about fifty different scenarios, each more humiliating than the last.

But before I can voice any of them, Iris is already flagging down our server.

“Excuse me,” she says when he approaches. “Could you send a round of champagne to the wedding party over there? And tell them it’s from the three ladies at table seven.”

“Iris, no,” I whisper frantically.

“Iris, yes,” she says with a wicked grin.

The server nods and heads toward the bar. Within minutes, he’s walking toward their table with a bottle of champagne and four glasses on a silver tray.

I watch in horror as he gestures in our direction. The bride claps her hands together delightedly. The groom raises his glass in thanks.

And the best man looks directly at me with those dark eyes and that barely-there smile.

“I’m going to kill you both,” I mutter.

“You’re going to thank us,” Violet replies. “Look, he’s getting up.”

Sure enough, the mountain man is rising from his chair, saying something to his friends before turning and walking straight toward our table.

My mouth goes dry.

“Oh my gosh, he’s coming over here.”

“Breathe,” Iris instructs. “And for the love of all that’s holy, do not mention that you’re getting engaged tomorrow.”

He moves with the easy confidence of a man who’s comfortable in his own skin, weaving between tables like he owns the place. And when he reaches our table, his presence seems to fill all the available space. Up close, he’s even more devastating. His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and his jaw is shadowed with just enough stubble to make my fingertips itch.

“Ladies,” he says. His voice is exactly what I expected. Deep and rough around the edges, with just a hint of mountain accent. “Thank you for the champagne. That was very generous.”

“Our pleasure,” Violet says smoothly. “Congratulations on the wedding.”

“I’ll pass that along to the happy couple.” His gaze shifts to me, and I feel that same electric jolt from across the room. “I’m Jackson, by the way. Though most people call me Reign.”

Reign. Of course, he has a name that sounds like he conquers small countries in his spare time.

“I’m Elizabeth,” I say, the lie rolling off my tongue before I can stop it. Why did I just lie about my name? My heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it.

“Violet,” my friend says, extending her hand like she’s meeting royalty.

“And I’m Iris.” She’s practically glowing with excitement at this turn of events.