Page 32 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

One minute later — Ariana

I closed the bathroom door behind me like it could hold everything in.

It couldn’t.

I stared at myself in the mirror. Red lipstick worn away. The faint shimmer of highlighter still clinging to my cheekbones. Hair barely hanging onto its bun like it, too, had had enough of this day.

I looked like a woman on the edge. Because I was.

Christopher’s words were still ringing in my ears, low and sure and true. I hated that part the most. Do you still love me?

The answer in my mind hadn’t been the one that had shot out of my mouth. Did I still love him? God help me, yes .

But that wasn’t the question.

The real question—the one I’d been avoiding for eleven years—was: Can I ever trust him again?

Because loving him had never been the problem.

I’d loved him since I was sixteen and rolling my eyes at his silly jokes.

I loved him when he serenaded me under my window and wrote songs with my name in them.

I loved him when we were broke and messy and dreaming too much.

I even loved him the day he left.

And I hated that.

Because when he left, he didn’t just walk out of my life. He walked out of our future. Without a fight. Without a chance. Without even asking what I wanted.

He made a choice for both of us.

And now here we were again. Another choice. But this time…it was mine.

Twelve and a half hours. That’s what I’d said. Like I could hold out. Like I could keep him at arm’s length with sarcasm and clauses and righteous fury.

But the truth?

I’d let him back in the second I woke up in his arms and didn’t run.

And now, the idea of letting him go again?—

That hurt.

Because what if this was it?

What if this was our second chance? The one we actually deserved?

My hands were shaking as I turned off the bathroom light and stepped back into the suite.

He was standing by the window, shirtless again—why always shirtless?—watching the Strip glow like a slot machine about to eat someone’s soul.

He turned when he heard me. He didn’t speak. Just waited.

And for once, I didn’t make a speech. I didn’t argue. I didn’t deflect. I walked right up to him, heart pounding like a trial verdict was coming in.

And I kissed him.

Slow. Certain. Like I meant it. Because I did.

He didn’t move at first. Then his hand cupped my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek like I was something breakable. Like he remembered exactly how I used to fall apart in his arms.

When I finally pulled back, he whispered, “That wasn’t part of the rules.”

“I don’t care.” I looked up at him. “I’m still scared.”

“I know,” he replied. “Me too.”

“But I don’t want to let you go. Not tonight.”

He exhaled, shaky and slow. “Then don’t.”