Page 5 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Thursday afternoon — Las Vegas — Christopher

T he second I stepped off the jet, the Nevada heat hit me like a sucker punch while Ariana’s gaze hit me like a freight train made of ice.

She didn’t say a word. Just put on her sunglasses, adjusted her bag strap like it was a weapon, and breezed past me as if I were part of the scenery. Like I was the baggage cart. Or worse— forgettable.

Which was rich, considering she was the only thing I’ve never managed to forget.

Holt slapped my back as we stepped onto the tarmac.

I glanced around automatically—habit, after all these years—and sure enough, our security team was already there, stationed discreetly near the edge of the hangar.

Black polos, earpieces, and that unmistakable air of calm vigilance.

No one had made a scene yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Vegas had eyes everywhere. Phones. Paparazzi.

Fans who knew what Whiskey Smoke looked like, even in sunglasses.

I caught one of the guards giving me a quick nod—standard check-in.

I returned it, then turned back just in time to catch Ariana clocking the whole setup, her jaw tightening ever so slightly.

Yeah. She definitely hadn’t missed it. She didn’t say anything, but I felt her judgment from across the asphalt.

“You good, man?” Holt asked from beside me.

“Yep,” I lied.

He gave me a look. “You sure? You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where your face says ‘I’m fine’ but your soul looks like it’s dying a little.”

I ignored him. Up ahead, Jeremy and Meg were in deep conversation with the event planner-slash-coordinator-slash-masochist in charge of corralling this entire pre-wedding circus.

The bridesmaids were fluttering around in perfectly curated outfits, already taking selfies like we were filming a reality show.

Ariana? She was next to Meg. Her posture screamed politeness and proximity, but her expression was detached, like she might bolt at any second and hitchhike home in a convertible.

She looked amazing .

Hair pulled back in a sleek dark ponytail. Oversized sunglasses. Black tank top, high-waisted jeans, little boots that could kick you in the chest if you got too close. She’d always dressed sharp, even back when we were broke and stealing coffee filters from the dorm lounge.

Now she looked like a woman who won court cases for breakfast and burned hearts for fun.

I waited until we were herded into the Sprinter van, waiting to take us to the hotel, before I made my move. She was sitting next to Ellie and one of the bridesmaids—Brittany? Courtney?—scrolling her phone like the screen owed her money.

There was a space across from Ariana. My moment.

I sat down.

“Hey, Ariana.”

Her head turned slowly, and she lowered her sunglasses with surgical precision.

“Oh,” she said. “You speak.”

“Figured I should at some point,” I offered with a half-smile.

She nodded. “Well. Don’t strain yourself.” She gave me a tight smile.

I breathed out a laugh. “Still sharp as ever.”

“I’m a prosecutor. I get paid to eviscerate people.”

Ellie stifled a laugh. The bridesmaid straight-up gasped.

A beat passed.

“You look good,” I said. Because I’m an idiot.

“Thank you,” was her only reply.

“Look,” I said, trying again, “I didn’t think you’d be coming.”

Her brow shot up. “That’s funny. I’m in the wedding. I’m the groom’s sister . You, however, didn’t need to come.”

“Luke invited me. Said it wouldn’t be the same without the full band.”

“And you couldn’t say no?”

“I didn’t want to.”

Ariana made a show of turning back to her phone. “We don’t need to talk. In fact, I’d prefer if we didn’t.”

The message was clear. The conversation was over.

Holt raised his eyebrows at me from the next seat over. How’s that going? his look said.

I gave him a look back that translated to shut up before I write a breakup album with tons of drum solos.

The rest of the ride passed in uncomfortable silence. At least on my end. Ariana was chatting with Ellie and the bridesmaid, while ignoring me like it was her full-time job. I stared out the window, pretending I wasn’t counting the ways I’d already screwed this up.

By the time we reached the hotel—a sprawling, glitter-drenched monument to luxury—I was already mentally halfway through a bottle of bourbon. Nick and Liam made a beeline for the bar in the lobby, and I wasn’t far behind.

Bourbon on the rocks. Then another. I didn’t speak. Didn’t joke. Just sat there and let the alcohol take the edge off the ache that had been sitting in my chest since she turned away.

Ariana was across the lobby, laughing at something Meg said. The sound hit me right in the chest. Not because she laughed—but because it wasn’t with me.

Once, it had been with me.

We’d had plans. A future. A messy, wonderful, duct-taped-together kind of life that involved coffee at midnight and arguments about takeout. A shared toothpaste. A cat we rescued during a thunderstorm. Jokes no one else understood.

And I threw it away.

Because I thought I was being noble. Because I thought letting her go would give her the life she deserved.

I didn’t want to hold her back. So I let her walk away.

And now?

Now she looked at me like I was a mistake she didn’t remember making. A bad decision in retrospect. A song she skipped when it came on the radio.

I downed the last of my drink.

We checked in. Security had to disband a group of fans in the lobby. Room keys were passed around. There was some confusion with the luggage—someone packed a bag full of prank props—but it all blurred together.

In the private elevator, Ariana didn’t look at me once. Not when I held the door. Not when I pressed the button for the floor. Not even when she brushed past me when her floor came up.

She stepped out without a word.

And I stood there, watching the doors close between us.

I wasn’t drunk.

Not yet.

But I was dangerously close to remembering how good she used to feel in my arms.

And even closer to admitting that no matter how far I’d come...

I’d never really left her behind.