Page 65 of I Wish I Would’ve Warned You (Forbidden Wishes #3)

EMILY

T aylor’s wedding weekend is at a lavish estate in The Hamptons, the kind of place where the air smells like roses and old money.

Ivy climbs the whitewashed columns of the main house, and a fountain gurgles beside a winding cobblestone drive.

Inside, the chandeliers gleam like starlight, and the air-conditioned halls echo with the hush of polished heels and practiced charm.

Everything smells faintly of gardenias and champagne.

There’s a full orchestra tuning in the distance.

I’ve helped her plan every detail—from the signature cocktails to the custom linens—but there’s one person on the guest list I never quite prepared for.

The best man.

Please don’t be here early. Please don’t be here early…

I heard Cole might skip the rehearsal entirely.

Just breeze in for the ceremony and vanish again like he always does.

So I braced myself—smoothed on foundation like armor, practiced my smile in the mirror, laughed when I didn’t mean it.

Tried to build a version of myself that wouldn’t shatter at the sight of him.

The hallway leading to the rehearsal dinner is hushed, the scent of candle wax and white roses drifting in from the banquet room. My heels click too loud on the glossy floor. I tug at the hem of my dress, breathe through the nerves.

Then he steps into my path.

Tuxedo. Shirt slightly open at the collar. His hair tousled like he ran a hand through it in frustration—or on purpose. His jaw is sharp, his eyes sharpest of all.

He takes my breath away like it’s still his to steal.

“Hello, Emily.”

My heart stutters. “Mr. Dawson.”

I try to move around him, keep walking, pretend I didn’t just fall apart inside. But he shifts, not letting me pass—just a subtle shift of weight, like he always knew how to block my escape.

“I think we should still be on a first-name basis,” he says gently, voice low and warm. “After all, I came here tonight to play a game with an old friend.”

I raise a brow. “Truth or dare?”

“I was just stating the name of the game.” He smiles, and the air tilts. “Nice to see you’re still jumping to conclusions.”

His presence feels too big for the hallway. His body’s too close. And then he steps in—closer—and I swear my lungs forget how to work.

“Are you going to pretend you feel nothing?” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine. “That you haven’t thought about me… missed me?”

“Cole—”

“You don’t have to lie.” His voice dips, a little rougher now. “I can see it all over you. The way you’re looking at me. The way your hands won’t stop trembling.”

I cross my arms, trying to still them. “This isn’t the time.”

“I don’t care about the time. Or the place. I just care about you.” He leans in, his breath brushing my cheek. “And whether you’re brave enough to admit what you still want.”

My pulse is a snare drum. “We shouldn’t be doing this here.”

“Then come with me.” His fingers skim mine. “Let’s go somewhere private. Just you and me. Say the word, and I’ll have you alone in sixty seconds.”

He’s still watching me like he knows exactly what he’s doing to my body. Like he’s cataloging every reaction, every heartbeat.

“You’re impossible,” I whisper.

His smile deepens—dark, familiar, devastating. “Only for you.”

And then—God—he pulls me into him.

No warning. No hesitation.

His mouth crashes into mine like no time has passed at all. I fall against him with a broken sound, my fingers curling into the lapels of his tux like I never let go. His arms wrap around me, sure and strong, one at my waist, the other cradling my head as if I might vanish if he lets go.

I kiss him like it’s the first time and the last. Like every lonely night and half-formed prayer has led back here. Tears slide down my cheeks, but I don’t even try to stop them.

He draws back just barely, lips brushing mine. “Why are you crying?”

“I thought you’d moved on,” I breathe. “I thought you found someone else…”

He wipes a tear away with the pad of his thumb, slow and steady. “You don’t honestly believe that.”

“I saw pictures from your gallery opening,” I whisper. “There was a blonde on your arm in every one.”

“She was a fangirl.” His eyes don’t waver. “She wanted a picture. That’s all.”

“She looked at you like you hung the stars.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs. “Like a fangirl.”

I hesitate. “You haven’t… tried to move on?”

“I haven’t even wanted to,” he says. “No one else has ever been you.”

A shaky breath escapes me. “I tried to date.”

“And you clearly failed.” His hand slides down to the small of my back, pulling me tighter. “You’re holding on to me like you never let go.”

“I didn’t sleep with anyone else,” I confess, the words slipping out like a secret too long buried.

He looks at me like he already knew.

“Did you?” I ask, barely breathing.

“No, Emily,” he says, steady and certain. “Anything else?”

My voice catches. There’s too much I want to say.

So I don’t say anything at all.

He kisses me again—slower this time, deeper, achingly tender. A kiss that wipes away the ache and the distance and the time.

I melt into him like coming home.

He presses me flush against his chest, like he’s trying to rewrite all the lost time with the press of his body and the heat of his mouth. His lips graze mine again, soft and breathless.

“I’ve missed you so fucking much,” he whispers. “You have no idea.”

And for the first time in forever, I feel whole again.

Like maybe this time, we’ll finally stay.