Page 8 of Baiting His Bride

“I wouldn’t,” I assure her, my teeth grinding at the thought of spending so much as a minute in another woman’s presence, now that I’ve met Mallory.

Not that I’ve had a chance to tell the bombshell at my side how I feel. And not that she’ll believe me when I do. But I wouldn’t blame her. It’s not exactly as if my well-known reputation with women screams commitment.

But after meeting Mallory yesterday, everything’s changed no matter who she is. As soon as she said I was off limits, it was game on. Not because anything between us is forbidden. There are ways to change that. I’m just going to need some time.

As I steer us toward the ice sculpture, with Mallory once again on my arm, it registers that I can’t recall a single detail of the walk down the aisle, other than the sensation of Mallory tucked against my side. And the vision of her across from me during the ceremony, with her hair twisted up and a bouquet of white roses in her grasp, is burned in my memory in the best possible way.

The realization hit me like a front-page headline yesterday and was only confirmed this afternoon when, for the first time ever, I was jealous of Sawyer. When I wished I was the man standing up in front of his friends and family, promising forever to a beautiful bride. And when I dreamed Mallory was the one smiling at me with eyes full of love and affection.

I barely slept a wink last night and not because she turned me down. No, after Mallory slipped off to her room, I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, watching every video snippet I could find online, admiring her poise and polish.

I’ve got my work cut out for me. Good thing I’ve never been the type to give up once I’ve determined the end game. Which is not one night with her in my bed.

“Where are we going?” Mallory asks, snapping me back to the present. We’ve reached the far end of the patio, shaded by the four-story resort overlooking the lake.

“Sorry,” I murmur, pulling up short.

She spins to face me. “Can I ask you something?”

“Is it if I like my drink?”

She smirks as I lift it to my lips and take a sip. The bracingly sweet concoction is fizzy and couldn’t be further from a full-bodied, barrel-aged bourbon.

“No,” she says, as my face twists into a grimace. “But I can see it’s not your favorite.”

“What is it then? Your question?” Because I have a million for you. Starting with what makes you tick.

She opens her mouth and then closes it again. Then she takes a long swig of her drink and eyes her glass as her nose wrinkles in the most delectable way. “That’s really terrible, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“At least, it’s got one redeeming quality,” she says, fishing out the maraschino cherry and depositing the glass on a nearby table.

“A cherry?”

“A challenge.” Her eyes twinkle. “Since you seem to enjoy fun and games.”

I do. More now than ever.

“What’s that?”

Like a siren, she plucks the cherry off its stem with her teeth as her lips curl into a saucy smile. “Fastest to tie the cherry stem into a knot with their tongue wins.”

Fuck. She might as well be speaking directly to my cock.

“Deal.”

She giggles. “That was fast.”

I arch an eyebrow. “I’m good with my tongue.”

Her breath hitches. “You don’t say?”

I bite my cherry off its stem while she watches, her eyes tracking my lips.

“What are we playing for?” The question is scarcely above a whisper.

I pin her with my gaze. “A chance to prove it.”

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