Page 42 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

That night — Ariana

T he zipper on my bridesmaid dress stuck halfway down.

Of course it did.

I stood in my hotel room bathroom in my slip, wrestling with satin and shame and the echo of his voice in my head. “This is real, Ari. It always has been.”

The irony wasn’t lost on me. The wedding was in Milwaukee—my own backyard—but we’d all booked rooms at the fancy venue hotel. Safer than driving home after the reception, we’d said. Really, it was an excuse not to go back to real life just yet.

Now I was regretting it. Because it meant Christopher was here in this hotel tonight too.

In this building. In some room. Maybe still awake like I was. Maybe not. Maybe fast asleep without a care in the world.

God, I hated that I cared.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t supposed to still feel like this. I was supposed to be past him.

Above him. Beyond him.

I was supposed to dance, smile politely, pretend I wasn’t unraveled by the way his hand rested at my waist like he still had every right.

But I had unraveled. On the dance floor. In his arms.

With every word, every look, every breath that felt too easy for two people who were supposedly broken beyond repair.

I sat on the edge of the bed, toes still aching from the heels I’d kicked off hours ago, hair loose now, makeup smudged. I looked like the girl who’d once slept beside him for years—and felt like the woman who still wanted to.

Don’t make me want this.

That’s what I kept thinking.

Because if I let myself want it again, I’d start to need it. And needing him? That had once destroyed me.

I reached for my phone. Opened my texts. His name sat there, unread.

I tapped it open.

You didn’t have to say anything tonight. That dance was enough. For me. Always has been.

I stared at it.

Closed it.

Then opened it again.

And typed: I think it was enough for me too.

I hovered over send.

Deleted it.

Then I tried again. What happens if I stop pretending?

Still too much. Still too raw. I set the phone down and laid back on the bed. I stared at the ceiling and hated the way my chest hurt more now than it did when I left him in Vegas.

Because back then, it was clean. Final. Now it was messy. Now it was real.

And now?

Now I was still carrying around his ring. I opened my little silk purse, the one that matched my bridesmaid gown. The cheap gold ring sat at the bottom of the silky lining, taunting me. Why I had I slipped this in my purse before I left my house earlier?

I was still legally his. And still?—

Stupidly. Dangerously. Undeniably…

His.

I pulled the ring out of my purse…and slipped it on my finger.