Page 7 of Daddy’s Naughty Bridesmaid (Naughty Girls Book Club #4)

I avoid Matt for the rest of the evening, throwing myself into bridesmaid duties with almost manic energy.

I help Catherine calm nervous relatives, organize impromptu entertainment when the power fluctuates, and generally make myself indispensable to everyone except the one person I can't stop thinking about.

By the time I return to my hotel room that night, I'm exhausted and no closer to resolving the Matt situation than I was in that wine cellar.

I strip off my clothes and stand under the shower for a long time, letting hot water wash away the physical remnants of the day while my mind replays every moment with Matt.

The tension in the elevator. The mad dash through the flood.

The heat of his mouth on mine. The feel of his hands moving up my leg…

"Stop it," I tell myself firmly, shutting off the water with more force than necessary. "It was a moment of weakness. It won't happen again."

I'm a professional. I have a reputation to maintain, a business to run.

I don't get involved with clients or their families. Ever. My job does not include one night stands with the groomsmen. No matter how sexy they might be. I’ve been in dozens of weddings and never so much as kissed anyone.

So why can't I stop thinking about Matt?

I'm toweling my hair dry when my phone chimes with a text message. My heart jumps, expecting Matt and I’m slightly disappointed when it’s not.

Catherine: Everything ok? You disappeared during the storm for a bit.

Me: Everything’s fine. Just helping coordinate with staff. How are you holding up?

Catherine: Surprisingly well! Matt said you were a huge help during the evacuation. Thank you so much!

So he mentioned me. Interesting. What else did he say?

Me: Just doing my job.

Catherine: Well, get some rest! Big day tomorrow. Can’t wait for the final fittings and rehearsal!

I stare at Catherine's text, guilt gnawing at me. While she's thanking me for being helpful, I was kissing her future brother-in-law in a wine cellar. Some professional I am.

I set my phone on the nightstand, determined to get some sleep and put this whole Matt situation behind me. Tomorrow I'll be focused, professional, and completely immune to his intense stares and knowing smirks.

That resolution lasts approximately eight hours. Right until I step through the doors for the final fitting and see him sitting in one of the plush chairs in the waiting area, scrolling through his phone.

He looks up when I enter, and everything I'd convinced myself I'd imagined… The chemistry, the tension, the heat, all comes rushing back with breathtaking force.

"Morning," he says casually, like he didn't have his tongue in my mouth yesterday.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, keeping my voice low so the bridal attendant checking me in can't hear. "This is for the bridal party."

"Greg asked me to drop off something to Cat." He stands, tucking his phone in his pocket. "But since you're here, I think we need to talk."

"I have nothing to say to you." I turn to the attendant with a bright smile. "I'm with the Kent-Dayton wedding. Jackie Lawrence."

"Of course, Ms. Lawrence. Right this way. The bride is already in the fitting room."

I follow her, painfully aware of Matt's eyes on me as I walk away. He’s frowning and oddly flexing his hand.

Weird. Is that a tic of his? I shrug it off as I enter the bridal salon.

Champagne is flowing freely despite the early hour.

Catherine and the other bridesmaids are already in various stages of undress, attendants fussing over hems and seams.

For the next hour, I lose myself in the rhythm of fittings and alterations.

My bridesmaid dress, a flattering A-line in pale lavender, needs only minor adjustments at the waist. I stand patiently as the seamstress pins and marks, making small talk with the other women and steadfastly avoiding thoughts of Matt.

When I finally emerge from the fitting room, I'm convinced he'll be gone. Men rarely linger after delivering messages. But there he is, still in the waiting area, now nursing a cup of coffee and looking like he has nowhere else to be.

"You're still here." I stop several feet away from him.

"I am." He stands, his eyes tracking over me in a way that makes my skin heat. "I'll drive you to the rehearsal."

"I can get there myself."

"I'm sure you can." His tone is maddeningly patient. "But we still need to talk, and I'd rather do it privately than at the rehearsal dinner."

He has a point. The last thing I need is for us to have some kind of confrontation in front of the entire wedding party.

"Fine," I concede. "But just a ride. A conversation. Nothing else."

His mouth quirks. "Define 'nothing else.'"

I shoot him a warning look. "You know exactly what I mean."

"Do I?" He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Because yesterday in that wine cellar, you seemed pretty clear about what you wanted. And it wasn't just conversation."

A flush creeps up my neck. "That was... a mistake."

"Didn't feel like a mistake." His eyes hold mine, challenging. "Felt pretty damn right, actually. And, just so you know, Jackie, I am the one who gives the orders, not you.”

"Fine." I concede and adjust my purse strap, refusing to meet his gaze. "Where are you parked?"

Once inside the vehicle, he doesn't start the engine immediately. Instead, he turns in his seat to face me. "Look at me, Jackie."

Something in his tone, the quiet but commanding way he spoke, makes me comply instantly, despite my better judgment.

"Good girl,” he praises as he reaches out and strokes my cheek gently. “Yesterday wasn't a mistake. It was probably bad timing, and definitely complicated, given the circumstances. But it wasn't a mistake."

I swallow hard. "I don't get involved with clients' families. It's unprofessional."

"Catherine's your client, not Greg. Not me." His logic is irritating. "And the wedding's over in two days. Then what?"

"Then I go back to my life, and you go back to chasing hurricanes, and we never see each other again." The words taste bitter on my tongue.

"Is that what you want?"

No.

But it's what needs to happen. This—whatever this is between us—is temporary. A product of wedding emotions and forced proximity, and the heightened reality that comes with both.

"It doesn't matter what I want," I say instead. "It's what makes sense."

His eyes narrow slightly. "You're hiding behind your job. Using professionalism as a shield."

The accuracy of his observation stings. "I'm not hiding. I'm being responsible."

"Bullshit." There's no heat in the word, just certainty. "You're scared."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He leans closer, his gaze intent.

"You've created this perfect little life where you drift in and out of other people's special moments without ever having to commit to anything yourself.

No risk, no vulnerability, just a series of performances where you get to be whoever people need you to be. "

Anger flares, hot and sudden. Maybe because he’s read me well, too damn well, in such a short amount of time. "You don't know the first thing about my life."

"I know you're good at your job. I know you care about doing it well. And I know you're using it as an excuse to keep people at arm's length." His voice softens slightly. "What I don't know is why."

I look away, uncomfortable with how easily he sees through my carefully constructed defenses. "We should go. The rehearsal?—"

"Isn't for another hour," he interrupts. "Stop deflecting."

"I'm not?—"

"Look at me." Again, that tone brooking no argument.

I meet his eyes reluctantly.

"Yesterday, in that cellar, was anything but professional," he says. "You wanted me. I wanted you. Still do. The only question is whether you're brave enough to admit it."

My heart hammers against my ribs, my mouth suddenly dry. "What exactly are you asking for here, Matt?"

"Honesty," he says simply. "Start with that."

Honesty. Such a small word for such a monumental request.

I take a deep breath. "Fine. Yes, I'm attracted to you. Yes, yesterday was... intense. But that doesn't change the fact that getting involved would be complicated and messy and potentially disastrous for my professional reputation."

He nods, accepting this. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"Are we? Because it feels like we're going in circles."

"Not circles." His mouth curves into a smile that makes my stomach flip and my clit vibrate with need. "Just taking the scenic route."

Before I can respond, he starts the engine and pulls out of the parking lot. We drive in silence for several minutes.

"So what happens now?" I finally ask, unable to bear the tension.

"Now," he says, turning onto a quiet residential street that's definitely not the route to the church, "we figure out what we both want."

I glance around, confused. "Where are we going? The rehearsal is at St. Thomas."

"We'll get there." He pulls into the driveway of a modern-looking townhouse.

"This is your place?" I ask as he parks.

"Yes. I rent it. It’s home when I'm not on the road." He unbuckles his seatbelt. "Come in for a minute."

Every warning bell in my head is clanging now. Going into his home is crossing a line I'm not sure I'm ready to cross.

"The rehearsal—" I begin.

"Will still be there in twenty minutes," he finishes. "Come inside, Jackie. Just to talk."

I shouldn't. I really, really shouldn't.

But I find myself unbuckling my seatbelt and following him up the short walkway to his front door.

The interior of Matt's rental is surprisingly comfortable. It looks lived-in, despite his nomadic lifestyle.

"Drink?" he offers, heading toward the kitchen.

"Water," I say, still hovering near the door. "Just water."

He fills two glasses from the refrigerator dispenser, hands me one, then leans against the counter, watching me.