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Nope. Not doing this.

Liam Carter is off-limits. Always has been, always will be. I square my shoulders and make my way toward the bar, my throat suddenly dry.

On reaching the bar, I order something strong enough to erase the last five minutes from my memory.

The bartender slides me a whiskey sour, the glass cool against my fingertips, condensation slipping down in lazy rivulets. I lift it to my lips, and the scents of caramelized oak and bright citrus fill my senses.

The first sip spreads through me like liquid gold—rich and laced with velvety warmth, sharpened by the tart bite of lemon and softened by a whisper of sugar. It rolls over my tongue, golden and smoky, leaving behind a decadent warmth—just what I need right now.

It's fine. I saw Liam, he looked at me, I imagined the whole lingering-stare thing, and now I'm moving on with my evening. No big deal.

Except, of course, before I can fully recover, Emily materializes at my side in a swirl of silk and jasmine-scented perfume, eyes twinkling like she knows every single thought that just ran through my head.

"Ooh, you look dangerous tonight," she purrs, stealing my drink and taking a sip before I can protest. "Honestly, if I weren't already married to your brother, I'd be worried about my own self-control."

I roll my eyes but can't help grinning. "Not the goal, but thank you."

Emily tilts her head, assessing me with the kind of knowing smirk that only a woman who has survived the Bennett Brother Gauntlet can pull off. She leans in conspiratorially. "So, how many times has Dean tried to sell you off to Andrew tonight?"

I groan. "At least four. I think he's ready to start throwing in bonus incentives, like a family discount or a free year of my terrible baking."

Emily snickers. "That poor man. He has no idea what he's up against." Her voice drops as she nudges me playfully. "But on the bright side, someone else has been watching you all night, and it's definitely not Andrew."

I arch a brow. "Oh?"

She sips from my glass again, eyes flicking somewhere over my shoulder before landing back on me with a knowing glint. "Mm-hmm. Tall, dark, and broody, standing by the bar looking like he's trying very hard not to look."

My stomach tightens. "Liam?"

Emily hums in agreement. "I'd say it's nothing, but every time you're in the same orbit, he gets this whole ‘I'm-in-control-but-also-secretly-in-crisis' thing going on."

I scoff, shaking my head. "That's just his face."

She laughs. "Sure, keep telling yourself that." Then, with a little wink, she hands my drink back and sashays onto the dance floor, leaving me standing there flustered and slightly off-kilter.

I take another sip and square my shoulders, determined to rejoin the reception, enjoy myself, and—above all—avoid my brothers' latest attempt to auction me off. But just as I turn, fate decides to be spectacularly unhelpful.

Because standing directly in my path, holding two glasses of wine and beaming like a golden retriever in a suit, is Andrew.

"Ava! There you are." He thrusts one of the glasses at me before I can escape. "I was just telling your brothers that we haven't had a chance to catch up properly."

Damn it, Dean.

I take the wine out of politeness, but I already know I won't drink it. "Oh! Right. Well, you know weddings. So much happening, so little time."

Andrew doesn't pick up on the please let me leave undertone. Instead, he launches into what I can only assume is his TED Talk on real estate acquisitions, complete with market trends, zoning laws, and interest rates that are simply fascinating if you think about it.

I do not think about it.

I think about escape routes. I think about Emily laughing at me from across the dance floor. I think about whether God is punishing me for that time I accidentally shoplifted a lip balm in middle school.

And then—like an actual miracle—I feel a warm, steady hand slide around my waist.

"Babe."

The voice is smooth, lazy, completely self-assured. And attached to the one man who absolutely should not be touching me.

I freeze. So does Andrew.