Page 30 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Same time — Ariana

I t was the curly straw’s fault.

That and Courtney’s acrylic-tipped fingers draped across Christopher’s arm like she’d personally reserved the right to touch him. She was purring at him. Actually purring . I half-expected her to start making biscuits on his bicep.

And Christopher—damn him—was just sitting there, all casual charm and effortless patience. Not encouraging. Not shutting it down either.

My drink was sweating in my hand. I might’ve been sweating too.

Not because of Courtney.

Because of me .

Because seeing her touching him, smiling at him, sliding into his space like she belonged there—did make me want to stab her with my curly straw.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

I wasn’t supposed to care. This whole Vegas mess was temporary. Legal housekeeping. A detour.

But my body hadn’t gotten the memo.

So I moved.

Right into the seat next to him.

Right into the blast radius.

He smelled the same. Soap and cedar and the faint, impossible echo of summer nights. Like the Midwest in July. Like reckless youth.

His leg brushed mine, and it was an accident the first time.

Not the second.

This isn’t jealousy , I told myself. Lied to myself. It’s pest control .

But then he smiled. That slow, knowing, dangerous smile that had been the undoing of so many of my good intentions. The one that used to make me forget curfews and study plans and every sane thought in my head.

And suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about Courtney anymore.

I was thinking about how easy it would be to lean in just a little closer.

I could smell him now. We were so close. Warm, clean, expensive. My fingers twitched, aching to slide under his sleeve, to relearn the map of his forearm. To see if it still felt the same.

But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was different now.

After all, my memories were from a girl. And now I was a woman.

Maybe it wouldn’t be as good as I remembered. Maybe it would be disappointing. A letdown. A fitting coda to this entire disastrous weekend.

Or maybe it would be better.

The thought was an electric jolt low in my belly.

His arm brushed mine. I didn’t move away. Couldn’t. He laughed at something Luke said, low and rough. The sound went straight to my bones.

“I’m not going to bed with you,” I whispered quickly, because it needed to be said. Because if I didn’t say it out loud, I might do something very, very stupid.

“I didn’t ask you to.”

Liar. He’d asked me with his eyes, and we both knew it.

But when his fingers brushed mine—innocent, casual, bullshit—I didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

We were back in dangerous territory. Old patterns. Old electricity.

His thumb stroked a line along the inside of my wrist. Barely there. But my pulse betrayed me. Jumped under his touch like it remembered everything we were trying to forget.

God, I wanted him.

Maybe it was the drinking. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was just Vegas doing what Vegas does.

But I wanted to go to bed with him.

To remember . To test . To see .

The rational part of my brain screamed that this was a terrible idea. That touching him, being near him, breathing him in like this—was emotional arson.

But my body had always been less reasonable.

“I’m violating the touching clause,” he said, his voice cocky as hell.

“You are.” I took a slow sip of my drink.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

I couldn’t.

I didn’t.

Instead, I traced my fingers up his arm, feeling muscle beneath my palm.

“You still fit me,” I said before I could stop myself. “That’s the problem.”

“Maybe that’s the answer.”

I laughed, soft and bitter. “You always were a good talker.”

“I’m better with action.”

That earned him a look. A glare that wasn’t as sharp as it should’ve been.

But the thing was…he wasn’t wrong.

When his fingers threaded with mine under the table, it was like the last decade evaporated. Like we’d been paused—not ended.

Old times.

Old feelings.

New danger.

We stayed like that. Tethered by a touch. The world noisy and neon around us. But in that moment, it was just us.

And for all my big talk, all my laminated rules, all my righteous fury—my heart was beating to a rhythm I recognized.

Him.

Me.

Us.

Still.

Damn it.