Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
“Be right back, Einstein.” So fucking cheeky.
She disappears down the hall again, leaving me to stare at the spot where she was standing and reevaluate suggesting we crash a wedding when I know we’ll end up dancing. Together. Close.
And her laugh would sneak past every single one of my defenses like it owns the place.
I rub the back of my neck and look out the window; the sound of the bedroom door creaking open has me turning before I can prepare myself.
And yeah.
Yeah, I’m done for.
She steps out barefoot, the dress hugging her curves like it was sewn onto her body by a team of angels with excellent lighting. Her hair is still twisted up in that towel, somehow making the whole look even more ridiculous and hot.
“Well?” she says, spinning slowly. “Do I pass inspection?”
I gape, touching my face to make sure my mouth isn’t open.
She’s braless, tits straining against the fabric.
“Uh,” I manage. “If I was marrying someone else and you showed up like that? I’d leave them.”
She clutches her heart dramatically. “That is the sweetest thing any man has ever said to me. Are you saying I pass?”
“You . . .” I swallow, then try again. “Yeah. You pass. The dress, on the other hand, might fail. It’s struggling.”
She raises one perfectly unimpressed brow. “Struggling?”
“To contain you.”
Now she’s laughing, shaking her head as she twirls back toward the bedroom, ass swaying.
“Get dressed!” she calls out. “We’re doing this.”
We’re doing this.
Fuck yeah!
I move toward the bedroom I’ve been crashing in and yank open my bag. Black pants. White shirt. Simple, but it’ll work. I throw it all on the bed and start changing fast, adrenaline kicking up like I’m suiting up for game day.
I button the last button on my shirt and catch my reflection in the mirror. “Don’t you dare fall for her.”
Too late. She’s already under my skin, wrapped around every thought like that pale-blue dress wraps around her curves.
I smooth the sleeves of my dress shirt and head back out to the kitchen where she’s waiting—hair still damp from her shower, it’s slicked back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, a few strands escaping to curl against her cheekbones.
She’s wearing pearl studs—small, classic, elegant. The kind of earrings you wear to a real wedding. The kind of earrings that scream “I’m not a party crasher, I’m a guest, thank you very much.”
Two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of tequila sit in front of her.
Well, well, well.
“Pregame ritual?” I ask, stepping into the room.
She grins, cheeks flushed. “Wedding crashing requires confidence. Confidence requires tequila. Don’t fight me on this.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
I take the glass she offers, and we clink. “To terrible decisions,” she says, eyes twinkling.
Clink! go our shot glasses.
As I tip it back, hot liquid burning my throat, I realize I should be worried about someone recognizing me. About her getting bored. About this being a mistake.
But I’m not.
I’m worried I won’t be able to stop looking at her all night.
“Maybe I should have another one.”
Annabelle snorts. “Save it for the dance floor, big guy.”
She grabs my hand—doesn’t ask, just laces her fingers through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and pulls me toward the front door.
Outside, the sky is painted pink and orange, the last hints of daylight fading as the sun dips behind the trees.
I inhale the crisp air; pine and woodsmoke thread through on a cool breeze as we follow the narrow footpath from our cabin toward the resort. She grips me tighter so she doesn’t trip as her heel catches on a branch. Annabelle lifts the hem of her dress as we go, stepping over roots and ducking under a low-hanging branch.
Suddenly hyperaware of how close we are, the way her shoulder brushes mine every few steps, how the baby bit of tequila hums in my veins and mixes with the clean scent of her skin—like soap and lake water and whatever perfume she probably put on for no one but herself.
“It’s a live band,” she whispers. “I love that.”
“Reception’s in full swing,” I whisper back. “Think they’re ready for us?”
She glances up at me with a sly smile. “They have no idea what’s coming.”
We break through the trees, emerging from the shaded trail like we’re stepping into another world.
The back lawn of the resort stretches out in front of us, strung with hundreds of fairy lights that zigzag overhead like constellations. Round tables are scattered across the grass, white tablecloths fluttering in the breeze. A hardwood dance floor is laid down at the center, ringed by flickering lanterns and tipsy wedding guests holding champagne flutes.
Perfect.
The bride and groom are nowhere in sight, but the band is already in full swing, music jazzy and current and enough to make you want to tap your feet. A group of older women are camped out at a table near the bar, giggling behind their wineglasses.