Page 5 of Daddy’s Naughty Bridesmaid (Naughty Girls Book Club #4)

I wake to the sound of rain hammering against my hotel window. The weather app on my phone shows an angry red blob moving across the radar, covering most of Charlotte. Flash flood warnings, thunderstorm alerts, high wind advisories.

Perfect.

Nothing like a natural disaster to complicate an already complicated wedding weekend.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Catherine: Still on for today! Moving picnic inside to ballroom. Same time. Weather won't stop this party!

I admire her optimism, if not her judgment. Having planned more weddings than I can count, I know the chaos a sudden venue change can create. Especially with a guest list of two hundred.

I dress quickly in a casual sundress and cardigan, appropriate for an indoor picnic, and make my way to the hotel lobby.

The rain is coming down in sheets, turning the world outside into a gray blur.

I'm debating whether to brave the downpour or call a rideshare when a black SUV pulls up to the entrance.

Matt steps out, unfazed by the rain soaking through his shirt, and jogs to the revolving door. He spots me immediately, water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders, making him look like some kind of storm god come to life.

"You're here," he says, sounding surprised.

"I'm staying here," I point out.

"I know that. I meant, here. At the door. I was coming up to get you." He runs a hand through his wet hair, slicking it back from his forehead. "Catherine was worried about guests getting there safely."

The rain is torrential, and he's already soaked, and refusing would just seem petty.

"Thanks," I say, pulling my cardigan tighter around me. "That's... thoughtful."

His mouth quirks. "Don't sound so surprised. I'm capable of basic courtesy, even to people I suspect of lying to me."

"I'm not—" I begin automatically, then stop. No point rehashing this argument. "Never mind. Let's go."

Outside, the rain slams into us the moment we step from beneath the hotel's awning.

Matt's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me quickly to the passenger side of his SUV. The gesture is protective, automatic, and weirdly affecting. I can’t help but notice all the small dominant gestures he makes.

He reminds me of one of the heroes from our book club novels.

The daddies who take care of their women with a firm, but caring, hand.

Inside the car, the rhythmic pounding of rain creates a cocoon of white noise, isolating us from the rest of the world. Matt starts the engine, cranking up the heater against the damp chill.

"Some storm," I say, for lack of anything better.

"Just a garden variety thunderstorm." He glances at me, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. "Though the barometric pressure drop was significant. There's a chance of rotation if the system intensifies. I’m more worried about flash flooding in the historic district."

I blink at him. "Is that your sexy weather talk?"

He laughs, the sound rich and unexpected. "Just shop talk. Hazard of the profession."

"So this is mild for you? What do you consider an actual storm?"

Something shifts in his expression, a distant look replacing the amusement. "An EF4 tornado tearing through a residential area. A Category 5 hurricane making landfall in a populated city. The kind of weather that changes lives."

There's weight behind his words, a gravity that speaks to experience rather than theoretical knowledge.

"You've seen a lot of destruction," I say softly.

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "More than most."

"In the military?"

"And after." He navigates through rain-slicked streets with practiced ease. "Weather doesn't discriminate. It doesn't care who you are or what you've done. It just... is."

"Is that why you chase it? Because it's predictable in its unpredictability?"

He glances at me, surprise evident in his expression. "Most people think I'm an adrenaline junkie."

"Are you?"

"Partly," he admits. "It’s hard leaving war zones and returning to the mundane of day to day American life.

But it's more than chasing the next adrenaline high.

In a storm, everything is stripped away except what matters.

Survival. Protection. It gives me a purpose.

If I can get ahead of a storm, warn people…

save a life… I consider it a successful day at the office. "

I study his profile, seeing beyond the handsome features to the complexity beneath. "You're looking for meaning in chaos."

"Aren't we all?" His voice is quiet, almost lost beneath the sound of rain.

For a moment, we're just two people having an honest conversation, no games, no suspicion, no roles to play. It's... nice. Dangerous, but nice.

Then lightning flashes, followed immediately by a crack of thunder that shakes the car. The street ahead is suddenly obscured by a wall of water.

"Shit," Matt mutters, slowing the vehicle. "Visibility's gone."

I peer through the windshield, seeing nothing but gray and the blurry red of tail lights ahead. "Should we pull over?"

"We're almost there." His focus has shifted entirely to driving, his posture alert. "Just a few more blocks."

The radio crackles with a severe weather alert, warning of flash flooding and advising people to seek shelter.

Great.

Just what every bride wants to hear on her wedding weekend. I wonder how stressed Charlotte is, and what kind of bride she will turn into with this chaos. Will I have a bridezilla on my hands?

We crawl along at a snail's pace, the wipers working overtime. Matt's concentration is absolute, his eyes never leaving the road despite the near-impossible conditions. There's something compelling about his focus, his competence, the way he handles the vehicle like it's an extension of himself.

Finally, the grand facade of the venue appears through the rain. Matt pulls as close to the entrance as possible, then turns to me.

"Wait here," he says. "I'll come around with an umbrella."

"I'm perfectly capable of walking ten feet in the rain," I protest.

His expression is unyielding. "It's coming down hard enough to knock you over. I said wait." His tone is commanding and as much as I hate to admit it, it turns me on.

Before I can argue further, he's out of the car, jogging around to my side with an umbrella that immediately inverts in the wind. By the time he opens my door, he's soaked through for the second time today. I step out and he quickly pulls me against his side, one arm around my shoulders as he attempts to shield me from the worst of the downpour. I can’t help but feel his strength and the outline of his muscles. This man has stepped right out of one of my romance novels. Intelligent. Sexy as fuck. Dominant. Too bad he thinks I’m a liar. Well… he’s not exactly wrong.

We make a dash for the entrance, rain lashing at us from all directions. By the time we reach shelter, we're both drenched despite his efforts. My sundress clings to my skin, my carefully styled curls are now plastered to me, and my cardigan feels about ten pounds heavier.

Matt doesn't look much better. His shirt is transparent with moisture, revealing the contours of his chest and the edge of what appears to be a tattoo beneath his collarbone. Water drips from his eyelashes, making them seem impossibly long.

"So much for staying dry," I say, trying to wring water from my hair.

"Could've been worse." He reaches out, brushing a wet strand from my face with unexpected gentleness. "You look like a drowned kitten."

"Charming," I say dryly, but my pulse kicks up at his touch.

Inside, the venue is chaotic. Staff members rush about moving tables, caterers argue over serving stations, and the wedding coordinator looks one crisis away from a nervous breakdown. Catherine stands in the center of it all, still smiling but with a frantic edge to her expression.

"There you are!" she exclaims when she spots us. "Oh my god, you're soaked!"

"Just a little damp," I assure her, pushing aside my discomfort to focus on her needs. "How can I help?"

For the next hour, I'm too busy to think about Matt or my attraction to him or the conversation in the car.

I direct staff, rearrange seating, consult with the caterer, and generally do what I do best, solve problems. I'm in my element, the professional taking charge, making decisions and creating order from chaos.

It's only when things finally seem under control that I slip away to find a bathroom, desperate to do something about my bedraggled appearance before more guests arrive. As I round a corner, I nearly collide with a staff member carrying a case of wine.

"Sorry," I say automatically, stepping back. "Is there a restroom nearby?"

"The main one is pretty full. I saw a line. If you want, you can use the staff bathroom. It’s down those stairs, to the end of the hall, then left," he says. "But careful down there. We had some water come in through a broken window. Floor's slippery."

I thank him and head down, my wet shoes squeaking against marble tiles.

The farther I go, the darker and quieter it becomes.

The staff bathroom, when I find it, is blessedly empty.

I do what I can. I bend under the hand dryer for a moment until my hair is dryer.

Using paper towels and the emergency makeup kit I always keep in my purse, I manage to transform myself from "drowned rat" to "caught in light rain" in about ten minutes. I’ve just put my makeup back in my purse when the lights suddenly shut off, and I emerge into a dark and silent hallway.

The emergency lights have kicked on, casting an eerie glow through the hallway.

I start back the way I came, moving carefully on the slick floor. As I pass a set of double doors, I hear voices from within. One of them is distinctly Matt's.

"—at least a foot of water in the cellar already," someone is saying. "Wine collection's in danger."

"What about the structure?" That's Matt, all business.