“I have to say,” David murmurs over the music, “if someone had asked me an hour ago what type of woman I thought Nathan Thorn would marry, I’d have been wrong as fuck.”
The words hit harder than they should.
Like a slap.
Or a sucker punch.
An echo of every insecurity I’ve had since we stepped into this glittering rooftop fantasy.
Embarrassment floods me.
Humiliation follows right behind.
Because no fucking duh.
I know I’m nothing like the public imagines at Nathan’s side.
I’m not a model.
Not an actress.
Not an influencer.
Not a leggy blonde or a sultry brunette with a million followers.
I’m a baker.
A small-town girl with curves in places social media health & wellness crowds would callproblem areas.
A woman who bought her wedding dress at a discount warehouse sale.
“Yeah, well, I mean, we’ve known each other forever,” I say weakly, offering some half-assed explanation, because what am I supposed to say?
Oh, don’t worry, he didn’t marry me for love.
He married me so a mafia-adjacent stranger doesn’t steal my niece.
I swallow against the truth clawing up my throat.
Shit.
Was I wrong to ask Nathan for help?
Wrong to say yes to this Vegas wedding trip?
Wrong to let myself get swept up—even for a moment—in the fantasy of him being mine again?
David must see every emotion flicker across my face—embarrassment, doubt, fear—because he shakes his head instantly, expression softening.
“Hey,” he says gently, lowering his voice so only I can hear.“You misunderstand me,linda.I don’t mean it like you don’t measure up.Not at all.”
I blink, startled.“Then what do you mean?”
He grins, wide and sincere.
“I mean you are way too hot and way too damn good for that gnarly motherfucker.”
A shocked laugh bursts out of me.
