Page 2 of Daddy’s Naughty Bridesmaid (Naughty Girls Book Club #4)

"I go where the weather takes me," he says simply.

"How convenient," I reply before I can stop myself.

Catherine laughs nervously beside me. "Jackie's being modest. She's always traveling for work, too. Event planning," she adds quickly, sticking to our cover story. "Very in-demand."

Matt's eyes narrow slightly. "Is that right? What kind of events?"

"All kinds," I say vaguely. "Corporate, social, whatever pays the bills."

"Jackie's amazing," Catherine jumps in. "She organized that charity gala for the children's hospital last year. Remember I told you about it?"

Matt's expression makes it clear he remembers no such conversation, but he nods politely. "Impressive."

"It's just problem-solving with prettier decorations," I say with a shrug. "Nothing like chasing hurricanes."

"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 a second, I think I see appreciation in his eyes before they cool back to watchful suspicion.

"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."

Matthew Dayton doesn't intimidate me—he rattles me in ways no man has in years.

Not just because he's dangerously perceptive and might expose my deception, but because he looks at me like he can see beneath my carefully constructed persona to the woman underneath.

The one who reads Daddy Dom romances in secret and wonders what it would be like to surrender control, just once, to someone strong enough to handle it.

As if my thoughts have summoned him, Matt appears at my side.

"Mind if I cut in?" he asks Catherine.

She gives me a questioning look. I nod slightly, and she steps back with a smile that's equal parts encouraging and concerned.

"Be nice," she orders Matt before disappearing into the crowd.

Then his hand is on the small of my back, the heat of it burning through the fabric of my dress. His other hand takes mine, and suddenly we're dancing, my curves pressed against the solid wall of his chest as he guides me with confident precision.

"You are a good dancer," he observes, surprising me with what sounds like a genuine compliment.

"So are you," I reply. "Not what I expected from a storm chaser."

"My parents made us take cotillion," he says simply. "We all hated it, but the lessons have stuck with me."

He pulls me closer to him and I'm suddenly acutely aware of his hand on my back, how it spans almost half my waist, his thumb resting just at the curve where my hip flares out.

"So, Jackie," he says, his breath warm against my ear. "Who are you, really?"

"Exactly who I said.”

He laughs softly. "You're good. I'll give you that. But your eyes give you away."

"What do my eyes say exactly?"

His gaze softens slightly. "That you're more than Catherine's friend. More than an event planner. More than this role you're playing. You are hiding something, Jackie.”

For a terrifying moment, I think he's going to expose me, call me out in front of everyone. Instead, he spins me elegantly, then pulls me back against him, closer than before.

"You're not who you say you are, are you?" he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear.

The question sends ice through my veins, even as his proximity floods me with heat.

This is exactly the disaster I feared. Matt is a perceptive man who sees too much, asks too many questions, and won't be satisfied with charm and vague answers.

But there's something else in his tone beneath the suspicion.

Interest. Intrigue. Maybe even admiration for the game I'm playing.

"Everyone at weddings plays a part," I deflect, forcing a light tone. "The blushing bride, the proud parents, the charming best man. It's all theater, isn't it?"

"Nice pivot," he acknowledges with a subtle nod. "But I'm not talking about others. I'm talking about you. And why my brother's fiancée suddenly has a 'best friend' no one's ever heard of before."

The music shifts to something slower, giving him the perfect excuse to tighten his hold. With our bodies pressed this close, I'm acutely aware of the contrast between us; my soft curves against his hard planes, my rounded hips cradled against his narrow ones.

Most men I've danced with seem uncomfortable with my size, holding me at awkward distances or overcompensating with too-tight grips. Matt holds me like my curves are exactly what he expected, what he wants, his hands confident in their placement on my fuller figure.

"What exactly are you accusing me of?" I ask.

His dark eyes hold mine, searching. "I haven't decided yet. But I will figure it out."

The certainty in his voice sends a shiver down my spine. Part fear, part something far more dangerous. Because the truth is, part of me wants him to figure it out. To see me, truly see me, beyond the professional mask I wear so well.

"You're wasting your energy," I tell him. "I'm just here to support Catherine."

"Hmm." The sound is skeptical. "We'll see."

The music ends, but he doesn't release me immediately, holding me in place with that steady gaze and the warm pressure of his hand on my back.

"This weekend just got a lot more interesting," he says finally, stepping back with a slight incline of his head. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, sunshine. I'll be watching."

It's both a promise and a warning.

I'll be watching.

I'm in serious trouble. And the storm has only just begun.