Page 12 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

High school — Ariana

I never meant to fall for Christopher Wentworth.

He was the kind of boy you were supposed to avoid in high school.

Tall, cocky, always surrounded by a crowd of guys who smelled like Axe and ambition.

He played bass guitar in a band that practiced in our garage and left behind empty soda cans and broken strings.

He had a smile like a dare and a jawline that made people stupid.

He was also my brother’s friend.

Strike one. And two. And three.

I told myself I didn’t like him. That he was annoying. Loud. Distracting. He teased me constantly, called me “Remington” like it was a nickname instead of a last name, and stole my fries whenever he sat across from me in the cafeteria. Which, unfortunately, started happening a lot.

He was a senior. I was a sophomore. He had a parking pass and a leather jacket and that look in his eyes like he already knew the world wasn’t fair—but he was going to charm it into submission anyway.

And God help me, I liked him for it.

He talked to me like I wasn’t just Jeremy’s sister. Like I wasn’t just the girl in too many AP classes, who knew all the answers and never let anyone copy her notes. He asked questions. Listened when I ranted. Laughed when I got worked up about things that didn’t matter to anyone else but me.

He brought me chocolate milk on test days.

He made me feel like I could be fierce and soft at the same time.

And then one day, after band practice, on the way to meet Jeremy and Luke for tacos, he picked me up in his Jeep, turned up the radio, and invited me to tag along like it was no big deal.

But somewhere between stoplights and a shared smile, he parked, and I leaned across the console and kissed him—I couldn’t wait another second.

“Is that okay?” I asked afterward, a little breathless.

“More than okay,” he replied, eyes dark and serious. Then he asked if he could kiss me . I said yes and it was…electric.

For the rest of that year, we were a secret kind of magic. We’d meet behind the bleachers after debate practice, sneak out for milkshakes at the one diner no one else seemed to remember. He wrote me songs; I fine-tuned his lyrics. He said I was brilliant. Intimidating. Way out of his league.

He made me feel like the leading character in a story I didn’t know I was allowed to be in.

And the worst part?

He meant every word.

That’s the thing people don’t understand about Christopher.

Even back then—before the band took off, before the money and the magazine covers and the stage lights—he was real.

He didn’t love halfway. He didn’t kiss like it was casual. He kissed like it was a promise.

We were young. Stupid. Unstoppable.

Until we weren’t.

And now, sometimes, I’ll hear a chord or a lyric or that dumb laugh of his from across a hotel bar in Vegas and remember the boy who used to pull me into his lap in the front seat of his Jeep and say, “If I make it, you’re coming with me.”

And I remember the girl who believed him.

She didn’t exist anymore.

But sometimes, I still missed her too.