Page 23 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Later Friday night — Ariana

T he suite was too nice. That was my first mistake.

I should’ve known the second we checked in. The front desk clerk had stammered through our reservation like she was trying not to faint. Apparently, dating a rock star—even accidentally—meant you got penthouses with your room key.

This one had high ceilings and a view of the Strip that shimmered like a glitter bomb went off. The king-sized bed was so cloudlike, it looked like a hotel ad come to life. And the kicker?

Only one of them.

Which I knew going in. I agreed to it.

Because I don’t flinch. I don’t bend.

And I certainly don’t fall for Christopher Wentworth just because he upgraded us to a huge hotel suite with blackout curtains and a bathtub the size of a Manhattan studio apartment.

He dropped his bag by the closet. I dropped mine by the door. We moved like competitors entering a chess match.

“Which side do you want?” he asked, already taking off his jacket.

“Left,” I said instantly.

He nodded. “Power side.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t start with your psychological warfare.”

“Noted,” he said, heading to the minibar. “Want anything? Whiskey? Water? Self-control?”

I arched a brow. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of that.”

He smiled like that was a compliment.

I sat on the edge of the bed, resisting the urge to sprawl.

He handed me a bottle of water and grabbed one for himself, then stretched out across the right side of the bed like he belonged there.

“Remember,” I said, sipping slowly, “no touching. No flirting. No heat of the moment backsliding into memory lane bullshit. ”

“Crystal clear.”

We clicked on the TV. Some vintage crime documentary was playing—low volume, moody narration, and the soft glow of the Strip in the background casting gold across the walls.

For fifteen minutes, we didn’t speak.

It was…infuriatingly pleasant.

Then he laughed—low and under his breath—at something the narrator said.

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Just reminded me of you.”

“Why? Was it the part where the killer used precision and icy detachment to lure his victims into false security?”

“Exactly.”

I side-eyed him. “Do not flirt with me using serial killer analogies.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, smile tugging at his mouth. “I was complimenting your ruthlessness.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

He caught it anyway.

“You’re slipping,” he said.

“No. I’m tolerant. Big difference.”

We went quiet again. I turned onto my side, facing away from him, and clicked the volume up one notch. Focus. Reclaim the moment.

First, his cologne hit me—clean, sharp, devastating. It should’ve come with a warning label.

Then I felt it.

The heat of him. Just a few inches away. That stupid, solid, reliable presence I used to fall asleep next to for three straight years.

And my body remembered.

It wasn’t fair. It had no loyalty.

It remembered the way he used to wrap his arm around my waist before we fell asleep. The way his breath would catch when I shifted toward him. The way I never once woke up and didn’t feel safe.

I adjusted the covers, trying to push back the memories.

“Still breathing over there?” he murmured into the dark.

“Unfortunately.”

He laughed. “This was a good idea.”

“No,” I said. “This is a trap. You’re trying to nostalgia me into giving you a second chance.”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

It was.

I squeezed my eyes shut. “This doesn’t change anything, Christopher. Tomorrow, we go back to normal. You’re the guy I used to love. The guy who left.”

“And you’re the woman who used to love me,” he said softly.

I didn’t respond.

Because I didn’t trust my voice.

And because I didn’t want to admit that part of me—some traitorous, flickering part—still might.