Page 9 of Marrying Mr. Wentworth (Austen Hunks #3)

Later that night — Ariana

T he Sprinter van smelled like tequila, hairspray, and bad decisions waiting to happen.

Nick was already on his second pregame beer, Liam was DJing from his phone with increasingly questionable ‘party anthems,’ and someone (Courtney?) had brought a glittery cowboy hat that was making its way down the bridesmaid row like a cursed object in a horror movie.

The driver had done a double-take when the guys climbed aboard—probably trying to figure out if this was a bachelorette party or a Rolling Stone cover shoot.

The guys were used to the stares, the whispers, the barely-suppressed fangirl squeals.

I was still getting used to being next to that kind of spotlight.

Luke was snuggled into a back seat with Ellie. Those two seriously needed to get a room. Oh, wait. I guess they already had one. With a balcony. And probably rose petals.

Meanwhile, I sat wedged between Courtney and a window, clutching my sparkly purse like it contained the secret to surviving this night. I wished it did.

“You look amazing, by the way,” Meg said, eyeing my strappy black cocktail dress with just the right amount of cleavage, leg, and vengeance. “That’s not a compliment. It’s a warning.”

“Noted,” I said, scanning the van like an assassin checking exits.

And then—there he was. Christopher. Stupidly hot in a dark-blue button-down with the sleeves rolled like he had a personal vendetta against my willpower.

His hair was artfully tousled, which I knew damn well meant he’d been anxiously raking his fingers through it for the last hour. Classic Wentworth.

And his eyes? Oh, his traitorous, dark, remember-everything eyes?

Locked on me.

I turned to Meg. “Remind me again why I came?”

“To celebrate your brother and me , your fabulous future sister-in-law,” she said, clinking her glass against mine. “And because your revenge dress deserved a proper stage.”

I didn’t laugh. Okay, fine, I barely didn’t laugh.

Across from me, Christopher was still looking. Not talking. Not smirking. Just…watching.

Whatever. Let him look.

I was here to eat overpriced tapas, drink aggressively, and survive the weekend with my soul intact. Not to get drawn back into the Christopher Wentworth Vortex of Poor Life Choices and Emotional Scarring.

The van pulled up to the restaurant—one of those trendy spots where the plates were small and the cocktails were large and everything came with a sprig of something vaguely inedible. We spilled out onto the curb in a glittery herd, all clattering heels and cologne and chaos.

Inside, the waiter tried to split us into two tables. Meg shut that down with the efficiency of a woman who had color-coded RSVPs and a vision board for this moment.

We crammed ourselves into one long table like a rehearsal dinner sponsored by Instagram.

Christopher ended up next to me. Of course he did.

“Hey,” he said under his breath.

I arched a brow. “Is this the part where we pretend we’re friends now?”

He grinned, like that was charming. Like he was charming.

He gave a quiet laugh. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“I can. And I do. Frequently.”

He looked sideways at me, as if he was amused. “So…anyone special in your life these days?”

I turned to him slowly. “Curious or jealous?”

His laugh was a little shaky. Good . “Just making conversation.”

I narrowed my eyes. “And you? Breaking hearts on the tour bus? Do the groupies come with a punch card? Buy five, get a sixth free?”

His mouth curved. “Not exactly.”

“Just endless variety then?”

“I’ve never been much for variety,” he said, voice quiet but unshakably certain. “One woman’s always kind of ruined me for the rest.”

I blinked. Oh no. Absolutely not. He did not get to say that with that voice and that face and those goddamn forearms.

“Well,” I said briskly, “maybe she’ll send you a fruit basket.”

He laughed again. A real one this time. “You’d probably send a subpoena.”

“You’d deserve it.”

“I probably would.”

And just like that, the air shifted. Again. Like it always did with him.

But I didn’t come here to get caught up in old chemistry.

I came here to drink overpriced wine, deliver devastating one-liners, and make it out of Vegas without losing my mind.

And I was just getting started.