Page 20 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Friday night — Ariana

I needed a drink.

Not because I was thirsty. Because I was in danger.

I nearly kissed Christopher. And what’s worse? I wanted to.

For about three seconds out there in the pool, the world went soft at the edges. It was just him—tan, shirtless, looking at me like he used to. Like I was the only thing he ever wrote a song about.

I hated that look.

Because I remembered what it felt like when it went away.

Now, back in my room, I was pacing like I was waiting for a jury to return with a verdict. Hair still damp, heart still loud, pacing between the minibar and the absurd gold-accented hotel couch like I was trying to prepare for oral arguments in the case of Remington v. Emotional Recklessness.

I was waiting for Meg and Ellie to come to my room. I’d texted them “911” five minutes ago.

I finally stopped pacing, cracked open the minibar, and made myself a vodka soda like it was an emergency.

Which, honestly, it was.

Because I’d almost kissed Christopher Wentworth at the pool!

Voluntarily.

Sanely.

In broad daylight.

I emptied the tiny bottle into a glass and then took a very undignified gulp.

“Ariana Remington,” came a voice. It was Meg. I hurried over to the door and let her and Ellie in, glancing down the hallway as if I thought Christopher might just be lurking out there. He was not, but I shut the door quickly anyway.

Meg’s sunglasses perched on top of her head, hair still damp from whatever she and Jeremy had been doing at the spa. “We just saw you storm in here like you were about to file a restraining order. What happened?”

“I didn’t storm.”

Ellie appeared on my other side, settling into the trio like it was a strategy meeting. “You definitely stormed. Jeremy called it a ‘classic Ari stomp.’ What’s going on?”

I glared into my drink. “Nothing.”

Meg narrowed her eyes. “Nothing is the most suspicious word in the English language. Spill it.”

I swirled the straw and stalled for time.

And then I cracked.

“I nearly kissed him.”

The world stopped. I swear, even the TV gave me a moment of silence.

Meg gasped like I’d confessed to treason. “WHAT?”

I set down my drink and covered my face with both hands. “Oh my God. This is why I don’t drink during the day.”

“You—you almost kissed him?” Meg leaned in like she was trying to keep me from jumping off a ledge. “Like, actually kissed him? At the pool?”

“It was a lapse in judgment. A heatstroke situation. Sun poisoning. I don’t know. I’m horrified.”

Ellie, in true lovable Ellie fashion, shrugged. “If you want to kiss him, kiss him. What’s the big deal?”

Meg and I turned to her simultaneously. “No, no, no,” Meg said, waving her hands. “That is not the speech we need right now.”

“Correct,” I said. “I need the ‘don’t do it, don’t even think about it’ speech. Fear tactics. Cautionary tales. Consequences.”

Ellie just smiled. Smug. Wise. Dangerous. “I spent far too long fighting my attraction to Luke last summer,” she said, casually taking a sip from her water bottle. “All it did was make me miserable. And tired.”

Meg’s mouth opened, closed, recalibrated. “That’s not helping.”

Ellie shrugged again. “You want me to lie? Tell you to repress your feelings? Give you a PowerPoint on why emotional constipation is fun? Sorry, wrong friend group.”

I pointed my finger. “This is unhelpful.”

“But is it wrong?” Ellie countered, cocking an eyebrow.

I opened my mouth with a scathing retort primed and ready. But nothing came out.

Because, unfortunately, it wasn’t wrong.

“I’ll never stop fighting my attraction to Christopher,” I said, trying to sound casual. Like that wasn’t the most depressing truth I’d ever admitted aloud.

Ellie didn’t flinch. “Exactly. Which means you admit that you’re attracted to him.”

Meg made a tiny wounded sound, clutching her imaginary pearls.

But Ellie’s words hit their target. Bullseye. Right in the chest.

“Oh, shit.”

There it was.

Not the casual kind of attraction. Not the “oh, he’s hot” sort of thing you feel for an unattainable celebrity or a stranger at a bar.

No. This was Christopher Wentworth .

The boy who wrecked me. The man who was still doing it.

And I still wanted him.

I dramatically slapped a hand against my forehead.

Meg patted my back with sisterly care. “It’s okay, Ari. We’ll get through this.”

Ellie just batted her eyelashes. “Yeah. Probably by kissing him .”

I groaned into the bar.

It was already out there—pictures, headlines, hashtags. I couldn’t undo that. But maybe the real risk wasn’t the press. Maybe it was him. And me.

God help me.

This weekend was going to kill me.

My phone buzzed in my bag, screen lighting up with a new text.

Scott (DA’s Office):

You're married?

Attached: a screenshot of the TMZ headline.

I groaned and fired back:

It’s sooo complicated.

Then I dropped the phone like it burned and let the scream rip free.

Because how the hell had I not taken Scott up on that drink offer?

Because I could’ve been on a perfectly normal date with a sweet, emotionally available prosecutor who had never done me wrong.

And instead?

I was somehow married to Christopher Wentworth.