Page 22 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Friday night — Christopher

I f I’d known all it would take to get Ariana to agree to dinner was a poolside near-kiss and a quarter-million-dollar pledge, I would’ve tried it years ago. Worth every cent.

Getting out of bar-hopping with the others had taken groveling on my part—Remington’s eyebrows had nearly shot off his face—but Meg had simply said, “It’s up to Ariana.” That had been the longest ten seconds of my life.

I’d wanted our wedding to mean something. Instead, it got turned into memes and gossip site fodder. Ariana deserved better than that. I had to make sure she got it. Tonight was my chance.

I’d been holding my breath without realizing it until she walked into the restaurant, five minutes late and somehow still managing to turn every head in the room.

A fan had just asked for an autograph, and I could see the flicker of discomfort in Ariana’s eyes as she glanced around, taking in the stares.

She had never loved the spotlight—it wasn’t her style.

She liked control, quiet, knowing who she was without a thousand strangers weighing in.

I didn’t always love the fame either, but it came with the job.

The life I chose. And part of me wondered whether I could truly convince her that we could still make something real inside all the noise.

The second I saw her, it felt like the wind was punched out of me. That dress—deep green, silky, wrapped around her like it had been commissioned by my worst and best dreams. The click of her heels was the countdown to my own destruction. The look in her eyes? A hard, gleaming Don’t get cute.

God, I’d missed her.

“Nice place,” she said, sliding into the deep booth across from me. “I was expecting neon, sequins, and at least one Elvis impersonator.”

“Saving that for dessert,” I offered. “He sings Sinatra.”

Not even a smile. But her mouth twitched. Small victory. I’d take it.

We ordered steaks, wine for her, bourbon for me. The steakhouse was romantic in that expensive, dimly lit way that made her suspicious. Good. Suspicion was better than indifference.

“You picked this place on purpose,” she accused, swirling her wine. “Trying to soften me up with ambiance?”

“No. Trying to feed you so you don’t murder me.” Honest.

“Smart,” she said.

We both knew she turned into a Tasmanian devil when she was hangry. She stared at me, long and assessing. I could see her cataloging every move, every breath, measuring how much trouble I was worth.

For a while, we ate in silence. Not uncomfortable. Not comfortable. A truce of sorts. But it couldn’t hold.

“I was going to move to LA for you, you know,” she said.

The words were soft. But they detonated inside me. My fork stopped mid-air. “What?”

“In college. Junior year. You said you’d probably end up in LA. I started looking at law schools in California.”

She’d never told me that. And now, that omission felt like a knife between my ribs.

“You never told me.”

“I never got the chance. You broke up with me three weeks later.”

God. My throat closed around the burn of alcohol. “I didn’t want you to give up your dream. Being a prosecutor in Milwaukee—that was your north star. You talked about it all the time.”

“I also talked about you all the time,” she said, each word a scalpel, precise and deadly.

I knew. I knew. I had been oxygen to her once. And I’d cut off her air supply without warning.

“You made that decision for me, Christopher. You didn’t ask. You assumed. You left.”

My insides twisted. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You weren’t.”

“I know that now.” The vise tightened. Regret, heavy and suffocating. I’d been a coward. A noble, self-righteous coward.

Her gaze pinned me. “So now what? We just pretend none of that happened?”

“No,” I said, voice low. “We let it sit there between us. And then we see if there’s anything left.”

Her eyes flicked to her wine, then back to me. The wall around her heart was thick. I’d built it there myself.

“This isn’t a fair fight,” she murmured, her eyes softening just a bit.

“I’m not trying to fight you, Ari.”

“Maybe not, but you are trying to win.”

I smiled, slow and aching. “Win you .”

She didn’t answer. But the muscle in her jaw betrayed her. Her nostrils flared.

“You’re not going to kiss me tonight,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

I arched a brow. “Was I going to?”

“You were thinking about it.”

Of course I was. Every second. Still was. But she was right. It was too soon. We weren’t ready for another collision.

“Not tonight,” I said. “Tonight we eat. We talk. We survive each other.”

She smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s what you think.”

I should’ve left it there. But no, I had to push my luck.

“Let’s get our own suite. One night. One bed. Zero touching. Just…coexist. Like a science experiment.”

Her stare was sharp enough to cut diamonds. “You’re proposing proximity as a strategic advantage?”

I grinned. “I’m proposing you’ll crack first.”

Ariana leaned in, chin propped on her hand. “I’m proposing you’re delusional.”

“You would’ve said that about our marriage two days ago. And yet.” I spread my hands.

She narrowed her eyes on me. “One bed. No touching. No flirting.”

“Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout.”

“True. But I’m willing to learn.”

We clinked glasses.

And I smiled because tonight, she was here. Sitting across from me. Choosing to stay.

Tomorrow? Tomorrow that bed wouldn’t know what hit it.