Page 27 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Saturday — Ariana

T he thing about emotional boundaries is that when one gets breached, the others start to look suspiciously flimsy.

I needed new rules. Stronger ones.

The kind written in stone, notarized, laminated, and possibly tattooed across Christopher’s abs just to make sure he didn’t forget.

Because waking up wrapped in him had felt good. Too good. Dangerously good.

The suite had been a mistake. A reckless, emotional landmine I’d stepped on with both feet.

I told myself it was about boundaries. About proving I could coexist with him, stay detached, be professional .

But the second the door had shut behind us, I’d known better.

Sharing a bed with Christopher wasn’t harmless proximity—it was suffocating.

His breathing in the dark, the familiar smell of his skin, the way his body heat seeped across the mattress like it remembered mine…

It was devastating. Every second chipped away at the walls I’d spent years fortifying.

And the worst part? I’d put myself here.

Voluntarily. Like an idiot who thought playing with matches wouldn’t burn.

I needed to course-correct immediately.

“New terms,” I said flatly, pouring myself hotel coffee like it wasn’t a direct insult to caffeine.

Christopher looked up from the couch, still barefoot, hair sleep-ruffled, wearing a T-shirt that should be illegal on someone with biceps and that much nerve.

“Terms?” he repeated.

“Of our agreement,” I clarified, sitting at the table with my laptop open but untouched. “Clause 1: No sleeping in the same bed.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Little late for that, don’t you think?”

“That was a breach. You’re on thin ice.”

He smirked. “Is that official legal language?”

“Clause 2: No confessions, real or implied.”

His brows shot up. “You want me to lie to you?”

“I want you to stop trying to be the Christopher you were before you left me. That version of you died in a dorm room hallway eleven years ago.”

That shut him up.

Good.

I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was trying to survive.

“Clause 3,” I continued, steadying my voice, “No touching. We didn’t touch last night.”

“You sure about that?”

My eyes snapped to his.

Smug. Infuriating. Smirking like the memory of me pressed against him was his new favorite hobby.

I glared. “Accidental contact does not constitute touching.”

He held up his hands. “Hey. You’re the expert.”

“And finally—Clause 4: No more almost kisses. No more tension. No more wandering gazes or shirtless proximity or soft-voiced declarations that make me question everything I’ve built since you left.”

His expression softened. And that pissed me off even more. Because he looked like he understood. Because he always looked like he understood.

“Got it,” he said quietly. “All clauses acknowledged. Terms accepted.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I’m playing the long game.”

There it was again—that confidence. That certainty. That Christopher-ness that made me want to throttle him and kiss him in the same breath.

“I’m serious,” I said.

“So am I.” He stood, walked to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and looked at me over his shoulder. “But just so I’m clear…no touching, no kissing, no flirting, and definitely no telling you I still love you?”

I sucked in my breath, then I froze.

He turned to me and smiled. But there was no smugness in it this time. Just something patient. And quietly devastating.

“Noted,” he said. “Clause 5: don’t say the thing I’ve wanted to say since the moment I saw you again.”

He disappeared into the giant bathroom, and I stared down at my coffee. The warmth was long gone, but I drank it anyway.

Some habits were hard to break.

Just like him.

Because the worst part wasn’t hearing he still loved me.

It was realizing I wanted to believe it.