Page 1 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

A Saturday in May — Milwaukee — Ariana

I stared at the group text like it personally offended me. Which, to be fair, it kind of did.

Meg:

Vegas here we come! Less than one week til party time! Pack your party-pants people—Luke’s jet leaves Thursday at noon!

There were heart emojis. A cowboy hat. A champagne bottle. Someone had even replied with a dancing Elvis. I reread it four times, hoping my phone might spontaneously combust and save me from what I was about to do.

Because the part Meg didn’t mention?

Was that Christopher Wentworth would be on that plane.

The Christopher Wentworth.

My ex. My first love. My high school sweetheart turned college boyfriend turned absolute emotional wrecking ball. The man who broke my heart so cleanly, so suddenly, so surgically, it should’ve come with a hospital bill and a complimentary trauma counselor.

Also? He just so happened to be the bass guitarist for Whiskey Smoke. Which wasn’t just a band. They were the band.

Billboard #1s. CMA awards. Sold-out arenas.

Magazine covers. Streaming charts. Viral tours.

You couldn’t throw a rhinestone in Nashville without hitting some piece of Whiskey Smoke merch.

And Christopher? His face—and abs—no doubt graced a thousand bedroom walls.

His broody stage presence and boyish smirk had turned him into a walking, bass-playing thirst trap.

That Christopher.

I dropped my phone onto the kitchen counter like it had insulted my entire bloodline and reached for the nearest coffee mug. It still held yesterday’s dregs. Appropriate.

The man had been out of my life for years, and now he was about to be on a private jet with me ahead of an entire weekend in Vegas, where everything was loud and glitzy and fueled by bad decisions and worse judgment.

I needed backup. This called for FaceTime.

I picked up the phone again and clicked my brother’s number.

Jeremy and his fiancée, Meg, had moved to Nashville recently.

Jeremy was building a career as a custom woodworker, and Meg, a former history professor, was now writing historical romance novels full-time.

I still missed them. FaceTime made it slightly better.

He answered on the third ring, FaceTime switching on to reveal him standing in his shop with some kind of sanding tool in one hand and guilt already written all over his face.

“Everything okay?” he asked, trying to sound casual. He’d seen the group text. He knew damn well everything was not okay.

“You knew about the jet,” I said flatly.

He set the sander down like that was going to protect him. “Luke offered. He’s got the jet. Figured it’d be more fun than a bunch of commercial flights.”

“Uh-huh.” I folded my arms. “And the part where he’s going?”

Jeremy’s face tightened like he was bracing for impact. “Luke wanted to invite the whole group. And he’s…technically part of the group.”

“He hasn’t been part of my group since the Obama administration.”

“Come on, Ari. It’s been—what—ten years?”

“Eleven.” Not that I was counting. (I was absolutely counting.)

Jeremy had the decency to look vaguely ashamed. “You don’t have to talk to him. Just get on the plane, drink champagne, wear something sparkly, and pretend he doesn’t exist.”

Oh, sure. Just pretend the man who once made me believe in forever hadn’t shattered me like a dropped wineglass. Easy peasy. “You make it sound simple.”

Jeremy ran a hand over his face. He sighed. “Look, I get it. It’s not ideal. But Meg wants you there. I want you there. And it’s Vegas. It’s not like you’re gonna get trapped in an elevator with him.”

“You say that like fate doesn’t have a sick sense of humor.”

I moved back to my laptop, closed the case file I’d been reading with a satisfying snap, and let the silence stretch between us.

Finally, I said, “Fine. I’ll go. But if he even breathes near me, I’m invoking my right to disappear and fake my own death.”

Jeremy smirked. “That’s the spirit.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” His smile softened. “Still glad you’re coming.”

I didn’t respond. Because I was going. I was going to slap on a smile, toast my brother and his future wife, and pretend that being trapped on a jet at thirty thousand feet with the man who’d turned me into an emotional armadillo wasn’t sending me into a full-blown cardiac episode.

But the truth?

The second I laid eyes on Christopher Wentworth again?

All bets were off.