Page 19 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Later Friday afternoon — Christopher

O ne by one, the group scattered. Meg dragged Jeremy off to a couples massage.

Nick and Liam left on what they claimed was a “taco run,” but sounded more like a dare than a meal.

Luke disappeared toward the lazy river, and Ellie was FaceTiming her grandma back in Milwaukee from a shaded cabana like it was a perfectly normal thing to do while surrounded by people in sequins and swim trunks.

The bridesmaids? Flirting shamelessly with a pair of sunburned guys from Michigan over by the non-VIP swim-up bar.

Which left Ariana.

And me.

Alone.

By the pool.

She hadn’t said much since the TMZ situation went nuclear, but she hadn’t stormed off either. And after everything, she’d agreed to the placeholder statement. Nothing flashy. Nothing official. But a pause. A window. A maybe.

To her, it was probably damage control.

To me? It felt like hope disguised as strategy.

Maybe I was delusional, just like she kept insisting. But that tiny concession—the agreement to wait, to breathe, to not burn it all down immediately—felt like something more than just crisis management.

It felt like a crack in the door.

Which meant I needed to step up my game. I only had hours to convince Ariana to give me a real shot, after all.

She was floating on one of those resort loungers that sit half-submerged in the water, sunglasses on, arms stretched behind her like a queen exiling all bad vibes from her kingdom.

I’d never seen her look so relaxed.

Or so absolutely untouchable.

I sat on the pool’s edge, feet dangling in, sipping the last of my beer. I wasn’t trying to stare at her legs. Or her collarbone. Or the little smile she got when she thought no one was watching.

But I was.

Because even now— especially now—Ariana Remington wrecked me.

She opened one eye. “If you’re going to stare, at least have the decency to do it without the creeper half-smile.”

I grinned. “You always said my half-smile was hot.”

“That was before you accidentally became my husband.”

“Still hot though.”

She groaned and pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. “Do you ever stop?”

“Not when I’m winning.”

“You are not winning.”

I leaned back on my elbows, warm sun on my skin. “You sure about that? I swear I saw you laugh at something I said earlier.”

“I didn’t.”

“You flinched. With joy.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your delusion is truly exhausting.”

“I’m persistent. There’s a difference.”

She floated closer, the gentle motion of the water pulling her near my knees. Inches from me now.

Close enough to smell the citrus in her sunscreen. Close enough to see the way her lashes curled slightly at the ends.

Close enough to remember exactly how it felt to kiss her. To trace my fingertip along the path of the freckles on her nose.

And I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

But I didn’t.

Because I wanted it to mean something again—not just be a byproduct of nostalgia and chlorinated chemistry.

She looked at me then, eyes shaded but sharp. “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“That look.”

I shrugged. “Just remembering things.”

She snorted. “Well don’t. Nostalgia’s a trap. Like MLMs. Or pineapple on pizza.”

“You used to like pineapple on pizza.”

“I also used to like you. ”

Oof. That one should’ve hurt more than it did. But the heat in her cheeks said otherwise.

“I still like you,” I said softly.

That shut her up. Her eyes flicked to my mouth. And for a second—a single, electric, eternity-long second—I thought she might kiss me.

Or let me kiss her.

We were close enough. The air between us buzzed with it.

She shifted on the lounger, just slightly, toward me.

I held still.

Waited.

Don’t push it, Wentworth. Don’t screw it up.

Her eyes dropped to my mouth again.

I forced myself to lean back on my palms, searching for a new subject. Oh, I had one all right. “You ever get serious with anyone else?”

She tipped her head. Eyeing me. I thought for a second she wasn’t going to answer. “There’ve been a couple of guys.”

“Oh, yeah? Like who?”

She just smiled. A dangerous, smug little smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“I would, actually.”

“Yeah, well. Too bad,” she said, her voice sharp.

“But you’re single now, right?” I pressed.

That got me a laugh. A real one. Loud, bright, and soaked with sarcasm. “Uh, a little too late to ask, don’t you think?”

I grinned. “Just want to know who my competition is.”

“What about you?” she asked, tossing it out so casually it almost hid the sharp edge beneath. “Any favorite groupies?”

The question hit harder than it should have. I leaned back, squinting at her. “No. A few dates here and there. Nothing serious. And no groupies. That’s Liam’s thing.”

Her lips curved into a smirk. “Big surprise.”

I held her gaze, let the grin fade. “I was serious last night. No one ever measured up to you, Ariana.”

Her breath caught. Just a tiny hitch—but I caught it. She covered it fast with an exaggerated sigh, waving me off like I was nothing more than a persistent memory. But I wasn’t blind. Or stupid.

“You should get Courtney’s number,” she said airily. “I’m pretty sure she’d stay married to you after the forty-eight hours are up. You might want to trick her into marriage next.”

“Not interested.” The words came out low, definite. I didn’t let Ariana deflect. Not this time.

She tilted her head, studying me. “No?”

“No.” I didn’t look away. Couldn’t. “Only got eyes for you, Ari.”

That stopped her. Really stopped her. She didn’t have a quip ready. No snark. Just a long, loaded silence while the air stretched thin between us.

God, I wished she knew. Wished she could see herself the way I saw her right now. All sun-drenched and stubborn, trying so hard to keep those walls up while they cracked around the edges.

I wasn’t trying to win an argument. This wasn’t some game of who could out-snark who. I just wanted her to see it. See me.

And for a second, I think she did.

Her shoulders softened. Her mouth parted, like maybe—maybe—she was going to say something real.

But then she sat up fast, breaking the moment like it never existed. “God, it’s hot out here. I need another drink.”

She grabbed her towel and headed into the hotel, not looking back.

I watched her go, my chest tightening in that familiar, stupid way it always did around her. And still, despite everything, a slow smile pulled at my lips.

Because she’d almost said something. And she’d almost kissed me.

Almost.

And that small, impossible almost? That was enough to keep me chasing her. Enough to make me believe the next time wouldn’t be almost.

It would be everything.

And I wasn’t going anywhere.

Not this time.