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“He was gorgeous and completely smitten with you, and you treated him like he was asking you to watch paint dry.” Iris grins. “Same with Connor, and Jake, and that guy from the coffee shop who wrote his number on your cup every morning for three weeks.”

“What?” I ask innocently. “They were nice guys.”

“They were California pretty boys,” Violet corrects. “And you had zero interest because they probably couldn’t change a tire if their lives depended on it.”

She’s not wrong. There’s something about a man who knows how to work with his hands that’s always gotten under my skin.

It started when I was seven. I used to spend Saturday mornings at Dad’s gym, watching the local contractors and mechanics come in to train before their shifts.

These weren’t men who called AAA when their trucks broke down.

They were the guys other people called when something needed fixing.

There was something deeply attractive about that kind of self-reliance, that quiet confidence that came from knowing you could handle whatever life threw at you.

While my friends were swooning over actors and musicians, I was drawn to the kind of men who could build a house from the ground up, who smelled like sawdust and honest work.

“What are you waiting for?” Violet nudges my shoulder. “Go talk to him.”

“Are you insane?” I hiss. “I can’t just walk over there.”

“Why not?” Iris demands. “You’re single, he’s gorgeous, and you’re moving across the country tomorrow to marry a criminal. If there was ever a time to live a little, it’s tonight.”

“He’s at a wedding celebration with friends. I can’t just interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Violet argues. “You’re introducing yourself to a fellow human being. What’s the worst that could happen?”

My mind immediately supplies about fifty different scenarios, each more humiliating than the last.

But before I can voice any of them, Iris is already flagging down our server.

“Excuse me,” she says when he approaches. “Could you send a round of champagne to the wedding party over there? And tell them it’s from the three ladies at table seven.”

“Iris, no,” I whisper frantically.

“Iris, yes,” she says with a wicked grin.

The server nods and heads toward the bar. Within minutes, he’s walking toward their table with a bottle of champagne and four glasses on a silver tray.

I watch in horror as he gestures in our direction. The bride claps her hands together delightedly. The groom raises his glass in thanks.

And the best man looks directly at me with those dark eyes and that barely-there smile.

“I’m going to kill you both,” I mutter.

“You’re going to thank us,” Violet replies. “Look, he’s getting up.”

Sure enough, the mountain man is rising from his chair, saying something to his friends before turning and walking straight toward our table.

My mouth goes dry.

“Oh my gosh, he’s coming over here.”

“Breathe,” Iris instructs. “And for the love of all that’s holy, do not mention that you’re getting engaged tomorrow.”

He moves with the easy confidence of a man who’s comfortable in his own skin, weaving between tables like he owns the place.

And when he reaches our table, his presence seems to fill all the available space.

Up close, he’s even more devastating. His dark hair is slightly mussed, like he’s been running his fingers through it, and his jaw is shadowed with just enough stubble to make my fingertips itch.

“Ladies,” he says. His voice is exactly what I expected. Deep and rough around the edges, with just a hint of mountain accent. “Thank you for the champagne. That was very generous.”

“Our pleasure,” Violet says smoothly. “Congratulations on the wedding.”

“I’ll pass that along to the happy couple.” His gaze shifts to me, and I feel that same electric jolt from across the room. “I’m Jackson, by the way. Though most people call me Reign.”

Reign. Of course, he has a name that sounds like he conquers small countries in his spare time.

“I’m Elizabeth,” I say, the lie rolling off my tongue before I can stop it. Why did I just lie about my name? My heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised he can’t hear it.

“Violet,” my friend says, extending her hand like she’s meeting royalty.

“And I’m Iris.” She’s practically glowing with excitement at this turn of events.

Reign shakes both their hands politely, but his attention keeps drifting back to me.

“Elizabeth,” he repeats, like he’s testing how it sounds. “Pretty name.”

“Thanks.” I take a sip of my drink to give my hands something to do. “So is Reign. That’s not exactly common.”

“It’s a nickname from the Marines.” He slides his hands into his pockets, the movement causing his suit jacket to pull slightly across his broad chest. “Stuck around longer than I expected it to.”

Of course, he’s former military. That explains the way he carries himself, like he’s constantly assessing threats and calculating angles.

“What brings you three out tonight ?” he asks.

I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. What am I supposed to say? That I’m here hiding from an arranged marriage to a mob boss? That tomorrow I fly back to Wyoming to sacrifice myself for my family’s company?

“We’re celebrating,” Iris jumps in smoothly. “Elizabeth is moving.”

“Oh?” Those dark eyes are focused on me again, and I feel like a deer caught in headlights. “Where to?”

“Home,” I manage.

“Home,” he repeats, but there’s something in his tone that tells me he knows I’m being evasive. Those dark eyes seem to see right through me, like he can sense there’s more to the story I’m not telling.

The silence stretches between us for a beat too long, tension crackling in the air. I should say something, fill the quiet, but my brain has apparently short-circuited.

“Ooh!” Violet says suddenly. She drains her glass and stands up. “I love this song.”

I glance around, confused. “What song?”

“This one,” Iris chimes in, also getting to her feet despite the fact that the music is barely audible background noise. “We should definitely dance.”

“We should?”

I look between my two friends, panic rising in my chest. They’re not seriously about to leave me alone with him, are they?

“Absolutely.” Violet grabs Iris’s hand and starts backing toward the small dance floor near the DJ booth. “You two should get acquainted. Elizabeth was just telling us how much she loves meeting new people.”

“I was not?—”

But they’re already gone, disappearing into the crowd of swaying bodies like the traitors they are.

When I look up, Reign is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Mind if I sit?” he asks, though he’s already moving toward the spot Violet vacated.

I scoot over to make room. “Sure.”

The booth suddenly feels much smaller with him in it. His thigh brushes against mine as he settles in, and heat shoots up my leg like I’ve been branded. The scent of him, something clean and masculine with hints of cedar, fills my senses.

He turns to face me fully. “So, Elizabeth. What’s the real story?”