Page 41 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Meg and Jeremy’s wedding reception — Christopher

T he second the music shifted to something slow, I found her.

I’d waited all through the ceremony, all through photos, all through the cocktail hour filled with tiny appetizers and overly polite conversation. I’d held back.

Not anymore.

She was standing near the bar, talking to Ellie and laughing—God, that laugh —head tilted, wine glass in hand, looking like she belonged to another life. One I still wanted.

I walked straight toward her.

She saw me coming. Straightened slightly. Braced.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t ask. I just offered my hand and said, “Dance with me.”

Her lips parted like she might say no. But she didn’t.

She set down her glass, slipped her hand into mine, and let me lead her to the dance floor like it didn’t cost her everything.

And then?—

We were moving.

Slow. Quiet.

Her hand on my shoulder. Mine on her waist. The kind of closeness that wasn’t about sex or history or tension—it was about gravity.

We didn’t say anything at first. We didn’t need to. Her eyes met mine, just for a second, then dropped. She looked tired—shadowed under the eyes, like sleep had been avoiding her too. When I pulled her closer, her breath hitched. I felt it in my chest like a ripple.

I could tell… That she wasn’t okay. That I wasn’t okay. That maybe this dance was the only place where either of us had made sense in a long time.

“You look beautiful,” I said softly.

She didn’t answer.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” I added. “It’s been weeks.”

Her voice was tight. “You could’ve called.”

My brows shot up. “I did.”

“I meant again. ”

I looked at her. “I didn’t want to push you.”

“You pushed me just by showing up.”

“I had to.”

Her eyes finally met mine. And something cracked.

“I’m tired, Christopher,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“Tired of being angry. Tired of holding on to hurt. Tired of pretending none of this matters.”

“Then stop pretending,” I said, voice low. “This is real, Ari. It always has been.”

She didn’t speak. But her grip on my shoulder tightened. Her body softened. And for a few perfect seconds, we weren’t in a reception hall. We were in our own world.

“I never stopped loving you,” I said.

“I know,” she whispered.

“And I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

She blinked. Swallowed. Then leaned her forehead against my chest.

And we just…danced.

No tension. No pretending. Just her. Just me.

And one dance that said everything we couldn’t.