Page 16 of Irresistibly Dangerous

My heart pulses out an extra beat. “Does that go for you too?”

“Yes.”

I stare skeptically at him. “You’re going to go a year without any other women?”

“We’re not fucking,” he says, throwing my words back at me. “But yes. No one else as long as you’re my wife.”

Hard to argue. Especially when men aren’t part of my recovery and rebuilding my life era.

I clear my throat—I swear this man is giving me hot flashes with his I’m possessive and I’ll keep you safe stuff. “Deal. No one else—or each other—for that matter—since that didn’t work out well for me in the past. Anything else?”

A head shake.

“I’m not sure I have anything else either. Can we agree that if we have to add more, we do?”

A nod.

“So blood, spit, pinkie swear, or something else? I’d get a tattoo, but I don’t want your signature inked on my skin.”

He smirks at me. “Your word will do fine. You’re trusting me, so I’ll trust you.”

Fair enough. “I need to go shopping,” I tell him, and I don’t even know why other than talking seems to help. “I need a wedding dress, or at least a dress I can wear to my wedding.”

He frowns but doesn’t look my way again as he resumes whatever it is he’s doing on his computer.

“We’re staying at Caesars. That’s where the conference is.” I swallow, feeling an annoying flush creep up my cheeks—sometimes being a fair-skinned redhead sucks like that. “We have a suite, but?—”

“It’s shared,” he cuts in, and I nod warily, chewing on my lip because I do that when I’m nervous, but I immediately stop because… well, yeah. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Maybe because I expect him to change his mind at any second and turn around and go home. Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen him in six years, and the last time I did, it was awful, and since then I’ve grown hateful and resentful toward him. Or maybe it’s because I’m fucking marrying him, and that feels nothing short of wrong despite my knowing I’m doing it for all the right reasons.

If this had been Asher or Callan, we’d be laughing, drinking champagne, and teasing each other about the wedding night that was never going to happen. But I don’t have a history with Asher the way I do with Lenox, and everything about this is a minefield waiting to explode.

“It’s a suite though, so there’s a couch, I believe.”

“A couch in a Vegas suite. I’m sure it’s the hallmark of cleanliness and sanitation.”

I choke on the sip of my drink, half of it spraying out of my mouth in a brown shower that covers the back of the seat in front of me while the other half goes down the wrong pipe, causing me to hack up a lung as the bubbles from the soda shoot up my nose and tickle the back of my throat, making my eyes immediately water. He reaches over and smacks my back without removing his eyes from his screen.

When I can finally manage to drag air back into my lungs, I go for my purse, pulling out some tissues to wipe my face and the back of the seat.

And when that’s done, I gawk at him and wheeze out, “You made a joke.”

His lips twitch. “If that’s how you respond to them, I’ll be sure not to make another. I’d hate to end up like that seat.”

I laugh and smack his shoulder. “That’s another one. Quit it.”

He’s done talking to me as he continues to type gibberish into his weird-ass laptop.

I shake my head at this conundrum of a man. Talk about an onion, but the last time I tried to peel back his layers he left me in tears, so no thanks on that.

I let it all end there, slipping in my AirPods, turning them to noise-canceling, and watching the least romantic movie I can find on the airline’s streaming. I end up falling asleep only to be jostled awake when the plane hits the tarmac with a bumpy landing, the Las Vegas Strip just beyond my window.

We’ve arrived, and by tonight, I’ll be married to Lenox Moore.

And just like that, those nerves are back and firing through me like bullets.

The plane pulls into the gate, and the door opens and then Lenox stands and pulls down our suitcases. I stand and follow after him while wishing my mom were here. I should have brought her along for emotional support. She would have gone dress shopping with me. She would have held my hand through all of this. Even if she would have told me to marry Ezra instead of Lenox.

Tonight is the first event for the conference—a cocktail hour—and Ezra will be there. He already messaged me asking what plane I’m on and what time I’m checking in and if we can meet for a drink before the cocktail hour to talk. I haven’t responded to him because any time I have, he’s more all over me than he was before. If I give him an inch—even a benign inch—he wants a mile and seriously dislikes the word no. It’s been unsettling with him to say the least.

---