Page 11 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Very late that night — Ariana

T here’s a certain point in every night out where you stop asking questions. Questions like: “Is this a good idea?” Or: “Do I need to eat something?” Or: “Is that an actual Elvis impersonator or just a guy in sequins with unchecked confidence?”

That point happened somewhere between the second rooftop bar and the daiquiri place that served drinks in souvenir flamingo cups the size of my arm.

I was having a good time.

Correction: I was deciding to have a good time. That was important. That was agency.

Was I doing shots with Meg and Ellie? Yes.

Was I dancing with Courtney and Haley? Also yes.

Was Christopher watching me from across the dance floor like he couldn’t decide whether to come talk to me or set my world on fire for old time’s sake?

Definitely.

I tossed my hair, downed the rest of my drink, and grabbed Ellie’s hand as the next song came on.

“Is this the one with the line dance?” I shouted.

“No idea!” she yelled back, laughing.

Perfect.

Someone bumped into me. I spun around. It was him.

Christopher.

Of course.

“Sorry,” he said, hand on my elbow like he thought I might topple.

I was not going to topple. My heels were solid, my spine was held up by sheer vengeance, and I had enough tequila in my system to defy physics entirely. I could fly if I wanted to.

“I’m good,” I said, brushing him off. “You don’t need to rescue me.”

“I’m not trying to,” he said. “I’m just?—”

“You’re just hovering, ” I said. “Like a big, sad memory with a perfect jawline.”

He blinked. “That’s…oddly specific.”

“I’m oddly specific,” I replied, stabbing a straw into another drink that had appeared in my hand. “You knew that. Once.”

His smile was slow. Pained. “I never forgot.”

Too much. The music was too loud. The lights were too much. His eyes were definitely too much.

“Don’t,” I said, backing away. “Don’t get sentimental on me now, Christopher. That ship has sailed. Crashed. Sank. The band played. Everyone drowned.”

“I didn’t drown,” he said.

“You didn’t have to,” I snapped. “You left the boat before the storm.”

I turned away before he could respond, letting the crowd swallow me back up. I found Meg. I hugged her. I kissed her on the cheek and made her promise not to let me tragic text anyone. She promised.

More drinks. More dancing. Glitter. Screaming laughter. A conga line. A random bachelorette party from Florida that tried to recruit us. I may have stolen one of their veils. No one stopped me.

The night blurred at the edges like a photo with too much flash.

Christopher found me again in a cab line. Or maybe I found him.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Wherever you want,” he said, a little breathless, like I was the only real thing in the world.

I remember lights. I remember a fake bouquet. I remember someone asking if I wanted “The Elvis Deluxe” or “The Classic Romance Package.”

I remember turning to Christopher and saying, “You always were trouble.”

And he grinned and said, “You always liked that.”

I remember laughing.

And then?—

Nothing.