Page 3 of Daddy’s Naughty Bridesmaid (Naughty Girls Book Club #4)

T he rehearsal dinner stretches into the kind of elegant, endless affair where champagne flows freely and conversations bubble up around stories I'm supposed to know but don't. So far, I've navigated four "remember when" moments with the skill of a professional liar.

I wonder briefly if I should be playing poker in Vegas instead of performing this skit as a bridesmaid.

"So Jackie," Greg's mother leans across the table, "Catherine tells me you two were roommates at Vanderbilt?" Catherine’s mother is aware of my job, but the groom’s family is not. Catherine is my client, I do as she wishes. She expressed how Greg’s mother is a real gossip and can’t keep a secret, it’s best to not let her in on the charade, for now, anyway.

I take a sip of champagne, buying myself precious seconds. My notes said UNC Chapel Hill, not Vanderbilt. Either Catherine changed the story or I'm about to crash spectacularly.

"For a semester," I say smoothly. "Before I transferred to Chapel Hill. Catherine and I met in the dorms freshman year."

Mrs. Dayton nods, satisfied, but across from me, Matt's eyes narrow. He hasn't stopped watching me all evening.

"What did you study at UNC?" he asks, his tone conversational but his gaze anything but.

"Event management and hospitality," I lie easily. "With a minor in psychology. You learn a lot about human behavior when planning events."

"I'm sure you do." He takes a slow sip of his bourbon. "Like how to spot a liar, for instance."

The table falls silent. I force a laugh, like this is some delightful inside joke.

"Matt's teasing," Catherine says quickly. "He's always so suspicious of new people."

"Not suspicious," Matt corrects, his eyes never leaving mine. "Just observant."

I meet his gaze head-on, refusing to be intimidated. "And what are you observing, Matt?"

"That you're very good at what you do," he says finally. "Whatever that is."

The double meaning isn't lost on me or on him, judging by the heat in his eyes.

The conversation shifts to the wedding itself, and I exhale quietly.

Round one to the suspicious brother, but the night is young.

I make it through dinner without any more near-disasters, fielding questions about my "history" with Catherine with the kind of vague, affectionate answers that could apply to anyone.

As dessert is served, I excuse myself to the restroom, desperate for a brief escape from Matt's unrelenting attention.

In the mirror, I assess the damage. My curls are holding up, my makeup still intact.

I look like exactly what I'm pretending to be, the successful, confident best friend of the bride.

But underneath, my nerves are frayed. Usually, I blend seamlessly into wedding parties.

No one questions my presence or my stories.

Matt Dayton isn't just anyone, though. He sees too much.

When I emerge from the restroom, he's waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall.

"Ambushing women outside restrooms?" I ask, arching an eyebrow. "How gentlemanly."

"Just happened to be passing by," he says, straightening. In the narrow hallway, he feels larger, his presence more commanding. "Thought we could have a chat. Without an audience."

I fold my arms across my chest. "About what, exactly?"

"About how you and Catherine have supposedly been best friends forever, yet there isn't a single photo of you on her Instagram. Not one mention of a 'Jackie' anywhere in her social media history."

Shit.

I hadn't thought to check social media. Rookie mistake.

"I'm not big on social media," I say, which is actually true. "And neither was Catherine until recently."

"She has posts going back to 2014."

"Are you cyber-stalking the bridal party?" I deflect. "That seems excessive, even for a protective brother."

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 facade, past the carefully constructed persona I present to the world.

Like he sees me .

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.

"Fine," I say. "But no more interrogations tonight. I'm off duty."

His eyebrow lifts. "Off duty?"

Shit. Poor choice of words.

"Figure of speech," I recover quickly. "It's been a long night of socializing."

"No interrogations," he agrees. But not even twenty seconds after the elevator closes, he starts talking. "I care deeply about my brother and about Catherine. Which is why your sudden appearance in their lives interests me."

"There's nothing interesting about old friends reconnecting," I say, sticking to my story.

He glances at me, his gaze heavy with meaning. "We both know that's not what's happening here."

The rest of the short elevator ride passes with charged silence. He puts his hand on the small of my back and guides me out and down the plush carpeted hallway. I nod at my room number and we stop right outside the door.

"Whatever you're doing," he says, his voice low, "whatever game you're playing, I'll figure it out."

"There's no game, Matt." I reach for the door handle, eager to escape the intensity of his presence.

His hand lands on my arm, gentle but firm. "One more thing."

I turn back, my breath catching as I realize how close our faces are. "What?"

"If you hurt them," he says softly, "if this whole charade is some kind of scam, there is nowhere you can run that I won't find you. Understood?"

The threat should anger me. Should offend me. Instead, I feel a thrilling shiver race down my spine.

"Crystal clear," I whisper.

His eyes drop to my mouth again, lingering longer this time. For one breathless moment, I think he might actually kiss me.

Instead, he releases my arm and steps back. "Goodnight, Jackie Lawrence. If that's even your real name."

I slip into the hotel room, shut the door and lean back against it, letting out a long, deep breath.

What the hell am I doing?

Matt Dayton is suspicious, perceptive, and determined to expose me. He's the last person I should be attracted to.

And yet here I am, heart racing, skin buzzing, remembering the heat in his eyes when he looked at my lips.

Get it together, Jackie . It's just a job. Three more days, then you never have to see him again.

The thought should be comforting.

It isn't.