Page 124 of Cold Mercy

Jesus Christ. Even a saint would’ve been tempted. I created that tension myself, like a dumbass, now every time he looks at me, I get the impression he wants to eat me alive and leave no fucking crumbs. And yeah… I like the idea of that. Just the idea.

The asshole better not think that one wet shirt moment erases every shitty thing he’s ever done. Even if he was so sinfully, unfairly, offensively sexy in it.

✽✽✽

I wake up with a jolt. Tomorrow is the wedding, and soon I get to go back to my quiet little nowhere and rebuild whatever’s left of my sanity. So I need to stop craving a man who’s bad for me in every possible dimension.

Thomas is already gone from the floor. Only a cup of tea sits on the nightstand, and next to it is a page torn from the kitchen notebook.

Two facts.

1) I wake up every morning thinking about you.

2) I go to sleep doing the same.

Of course he’d pick today to be poetic. He probably went running or wrestling a tree, or punching the forest into submission.

Elizabeth is swallowed by the combined forces of her mother and future mother-in-law, and I’m not suicidal enough to interrupt that cyclone.

The entire garden looks like a wedding bomb exploded. Rows of chairs half-assembled, crates of flowers everywhere, a tent being hoisted by three guys who seem like they regret all of their life choices.

I barely make it ten steps before someone screeches my name.

“Sophia, oh, thank god!”

The wedding planner.

“You’re perfect,” she gasps. Perfect? I’m in black pants and a wrinkled tank top.

“Elizabeth is trapped between both moms,” she explains, exasperated. “James is absolutely nowhere to be found, and we have to rehearse the entrance to the altar right now. Please, please—”

Before I can get a single word out, a voice behind me says:

“We’ll do it.”

I don’t even need to turn to know who it is. His voice hits the back of my neck like a warm hand. He walks up beside me as if summoned, sweat-damp hair pushed back, a fresh post-training flush coloring his cheeks. I feel my grip tighten around my mug.

“Perfect! You can be our stand-in bride and groom,” the planer beams.

I open my mouth, ready to demand why the hell he keeps volunteering me for things, but she’s already shoving a small practice bouquet into my hands and spinning me toward the aisle runner.

My heart thuds unreasonably hard, and I have to remind myself that it's just a rehearsal. It's just a stupid walk toward Reed, who is waiting at the altar like he owns the world.

He's already there by the time I take a single step. Tall, sweat-slick and disgustingly attractive, thumbs hooked into his pockets like he’s posing for a magazine cover.

And he watches me walk, his gaze slow and so intent it feels like he’s memorizing every breath I take.

A low curl of heat builds in my stomach, and my legs go weak, my focus blurring for a split second. A sharp clap of the planner's hands snaps me back to reality.

“Okay, Sophia, walk all the way to him. Thomas, take her at the altar.”

I force my feet to move.

When I reach him, his hand slides around my waist, warm and steady, pulling me that last inch closer until my pulse is hammering under my skin. His eyes barely drop to the bouquet in my hands before meeting mine again.

Then he leans in, his mouth curving into a slow smile.

“Sophia Moreau,” he murmurs, voice low enough only I can hear, “will you make me the happiest man alive and marry me?”