“Exactly. I’m a man of science.”
“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 Iknowwe’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?”
Igape, 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.”
