Page 2 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

The same Saturday — Nashville — Christopher

I was halfway through a cold beer and a half-decent riff—one of those moody bass lines that might’ve turned into something if I’d stuck with it—when my phone lit up with a text from Remington.

JEREMY:

Just a heads-up. Ariana’s coming to Vegas next weekend. Luke’s jet leaves at noon Thursday.

I stared at the screen for a solid minute, like maybe if I blinked hard enough, it would morph into something less catastrophic. Something like:

Just kidding, she’s not coming.

Never mind—she moved to Siberia.

Ariana Remington has legally changed her

name and joined a monastery in the Swiss

Alps.

But no. The text remained stubbornly unchanged, glaring up at me in brutal clarity.

Ariana. Coming. Vegas.

I stood up too fast and knocked over my amp stool. The thud echoed across the room like karma.

“Shit.”

Across the studio, Holt didn’t even look up from his laptop. He was eating trail mix straight out of the bag, earbuds in, sunglasses on indoors like a man determined to keep the illusion of chill at all costs.

“You okay, bro?” he asked, not glancing up.

“No,” I muttered, picking up the stool and setting it upright. “No, I am not okay.”

“Why? The label screw something up again? Please tell me we don’t have to re-record that chorus again. I will lose my mind?—”

“She’s coming to Vegas,” I said.

That got his attention.

He pulled one earbud out. “The she ?”

I gave him a look. The look. The one that said, Don’t even pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about.

Nick Holt, drummer and human meme generator, let out a low whistle. “Damn. What’s it been, like, ten years?”

“Eleven,” I said automatically.

He smirked. “And you still know the exact number. That’s…alarmingly unhealthy.”

I didn’t answer. Just dropped onto the couch like someone had cut the strings holding me up and let my head fall back against the cushion. The ceiling fan above me spun lazily, unbothered. Must be nice.

“I didn’t think she’d come,” I said finally.

Nick shut his laptop and leaned back in the chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Why wouldn’t she? She’s Jeremy’s sister. And Meg’s best friend. She’s in the wedding party. You? You’re just the bandmate with emotional baggage.”

“Yeah, thanks for that.”

He shrugged. “Hey, I didn’t say you weren’t important. Just…less impossible to avoid.”

“I figured if she knew I was going, she’d find an excuse,” I said. “Some court thing. A ‘can’t miss’ case. Sudden flu. Literally anything .”

“Wait,” Nick said, squinting at me. “You didn’t want her to come?”

“No, I did. I do. I just…didn’t expect it.”

“Bro. That sounds like a line from a song you already wrote.”

I ignored that. Mostly because he wasn’t wrong.

Nick leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Alright. Walk me through this again. You and Ariana were what? High school sweethearts?”

“Yep.”

“College couple?”

“Three years.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Then what happened?”

“I happened.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I sighed. “I ended it. Thought I was doing the right thing. Thought she needed to be free to go live her big life without dragging around a guy sleeping on couches and chasing record deals that paid in beer and exposure.”

Nick didn’t say anything. Just gave me that look—the one that said, You already know you messed this up, so I won’t pile on…much.

The truth was that all the guys knew. Hell, anyone who’d toured with us in those early years knew. The ones who shared hotel rooms or vans or even those terrible little green rooms with the flickering fluorescent lights—they’d all heard the stories.

Because when I got drunk enough—and I usually did—I talked about Ariana.

Not in the past tense. Not like some ex I’d “learned a lot from.” No. I talked about her like she was still there. Like she was waiting somewhere. Like I was going to open a door and find her sitting on the couch with a mug of tea and that sharp, skeptical eyebrow raised like finally .

Because in my head?

She was still there.

I never really let her leave. Not emotionally, anyway. She was frozen in time in my memory—twenty and brilliant and furious and mine. Except she wasn’t anymore.

And now?

Now she was going to be real. In front of me. Breathing. Moving. Looking at me with those emerald eyes that could cut steel or seduce, depending on the day.

“You think she’ll talk to me?” I asked, trying to make it sound casual.

Nick snorted. “Not unless it’s to file a restraining order.”

I groaned and let my head fall forward into my hands. “God. She hates me.”

“And you’re still in love with her.”

I looked up. “Did I say that?”

“You didn’t have to.”

He stood, stretching like a man with no emotional crisis to shoulder. “Well, either way, this trip just got a lot more interesting. Hope you packed something bulletproof.”

I leaned back, closed my eyes, and tried to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Ignore the memory of how Ariana looked the last time I saw her—chin lifted, jaw clenched, eyes full of betrayal.

I hadn’t meant to hurt her.

But I had.

And now?

Now I was going to have to face her in Vegas, where emotions were high, the champagne was unlimited, and the temptation to say the wrong thing was lurking in every shadow.

God help me.

Vegas just got a whole lot more dangerous.