Page 7 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

High school — Christopher

I t started in the cafeteria—like most bad decisions and unforgettable moments in high school.

I was halfway through my usual lunch—two peanut butter sandwiches, a bag of chips, and a lukewarm soda—when I spotted her.

Ariana Remington.

She was arguing with the assistant principal about a parking ticket. Her tone was composed, her eyes flinty, her words surgical. She didn’t technically have a parking pass. I did—senior lot, space #37. But she was determined to fight the fine on principle.

Even at barely sixteen, Ariana cared about justice. And about being right. Watching her verbally dismantle a school official with nothing but logic and thinly veiled disdain was…well, something else.

She didn’t see me at first. Her ponytail was tight, her jaw tighter, and her tray of cafeteria food untouched. I knew who she was—my friend Jeremy’s little sister. Sophomore. Honor Society. AP everything. Unofficially terrifying. Officially magnetic.

I waited until the assistant principal retreated in defeat, then slid into the seat across from her and stole a fry off her tray.

"You’ve got the debate team energy of someone who alphabetizes their arguments," I said.

She blinked. Slowly. "Excuse me?"

"That was an impressive takedown. Ten out of ten. Would not want to face you in a courtroom."

She arched a brow. "You won’t. Because I’ll be the prosecutor and you’ll be the defendant."

I grinned. "See? This is why I sat down."

"Because you have a death wish?"

"Because you’re the most interesting person in this cafeteria."

She stared at me. "What do you want, Wentworth?"

I shrugged. "Mostly a milkshake. But also, I figured I’d find out what you’re really like."

"You literally practice guitar in our garage twice a week. You’ve seen me doing laundry and yelling at Jeremy about using all the milk.”

"Sure," I said. "But that was before you destroyed an adult with a laminated map of student parking."

A flicker passed across her face. Not quite a smile. But close.

"I’m not supposed to talk to you," she said eventually.

"Why not?"

"You’re my brother’s friend."

"That’s a terrible reason."

"It’s the only reason."

"And yet," I said, stealing another fry, "you’re still talking to me."

That earned me a sigh. "You’re annoying."

"So I’ve been told."

I reached into my bag and pulled out the chocolate milk I’d grabbed from the vending machine on the way over. I slid it across the table toward her. I’d seen her drink one every day for a week.

She hesitated. Then cracked it open and took a sip.

"Still not talking to you at home," she said.

"Fair. But here? You’re kind of stuck with me."

We started talking that day. And the next. And the next.

She was brilliant. Relentless. Opinionated. She wore sarcasm like armor and breathed ambition like oxygen. She didn’t giggle or flirt. She challenged. And I kept coming back for more.

I wrote a song about her that week. She told me my chorus needed work.

She was right.

A couple weeks later, I offered her a ride home after band practice. Luke and Jeremy were meeting us for tacos, but I took the long way. The sun was setting. Her ponytail was undone for once, her laugh rare and quiet in the dark.

When I pulled into a side lot behind the taco place, she leaned toward me. Or maybe I leaned toward her. Either way, she kissed me. Quick. Sure. Like it wasn’t her first time thinking about it.

She smelled like strawberries and soap.

When we broke apart, she said, “Don’t tell Jeremy.”

I nodded. “I won’t.”

Then I went home and wrote another song.

It became a thing. Late-night drives. Study dates that turned into make-out sessions. Me sneaking her into band practice and her offering more brutally accurate lyric edits. We kept it quiet. For a while.

She challenged every assumption I had about what I wanted in a girl. She didn’t care about my band. She didn’t care that I barely passed geometry. She cared about truth. About justice. About doing things the right way, even when they were hard.

And she made me want to be better.

There was this one day—just a Tuesday. She was in the hallway convincing her AP History teacher to give the class a rewrite on a quiz because it had one unfair question. And I watched her—saw the way she gestured with her hands, the fire in her eyes, the calm fury in her voice—and I knew.

I was done.

She had me.

She was two years younger. Two years smarter. And she had her whole future mapped out in sharp, bold lines.

I didn’t know where I was going.

But I wanted her there when I got there.

And I didn’t even know I was falling until I was already flat on my back for her.