Page 25 of The Wedding Wrecker

"Define necessary."

She glared at me. "Rule number two: You stay on your side of the bed. Incursions into my territory are grounds for liberal physical retribution.”

“I already said I?—”

"Rule number three: No talking about Ireland."

"Emma—"

"Rule number four,” she said. “No using that voice."

"That one isn’t even in the presentation,” I noted. The laptop was still sitting on the Ireland slide. “And what voice?"

"That one. The one that makes me want to—" She stopped, cheeks flushing.

I stepped closer. "Makes you want to what?"

She slammed the laptop shut.

“It took you that long to make up three rules and put them in a powerpoint? Or were there more?”

She inched away from me, voice coming out rushed and breathy. "Rule number five: No standing that close to me. And rule number six: you tell me right now why my mother hired you."

Our eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. “Do I get to make any rules?”

“No,” she said.

“Rule number seven,” I said, eyes on hers. “You need to… look less good. Because rule number one is going to be hard for me when you look like this.”

Emma’s breath came faster as she brushed a hair out of her face. “Too bad,” she said.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Emma? James?" Richard's voice called through. "We're having drinks in the lounge. Join us?"

Emma's eyes held mine, a clear message in them:This isn’t over.

"After you, babe," I said, opening the door and putting a hand on the small of her back.

She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "you’re going to die tonight" as she passed.

If nothing else, this would be interesting.

9

EMMA

The resort's lounge was lit by fancy sconces and warm lighting, making the snow-covered mountains out the many windows the perfect backdrop. It was all timber beams, stone fireplaces, and animal furs draped over comfortable couches and chairs. The kind of place that made you want to curl up with hot cocoa and pretend you were in a Hallmark movie.

If this was my Hallmark movie, though, I would be here with the divorced bartender who was a father of two adorable, rascal kids. They’d call me aunt Emma, and my plaid-shirt-wearing bartender would fall for me when I read them bedtime stories one night. Oh, and we’d have sex in a hot tub, but none of the usual underwater logistical concerns would apply. It’d just be great.

But this wasn’t a Hallmark movie.

Because I was curled up against James and resentfully pretending the two of us were in the early weeks of a new, budding relationship and sickeningly in love. Because if the wedding planner wasn’t happy in her relationship, how the hellcould you trust her to handle your big day? And if we weren’t in a relationship, I just lied to Mr. Wellington’s face while making my first impression.

So, yeah. I was completely, thoroughly, infuriatingly stuck playing along with this fake relationship.

James had his arm draped casually over my shoulders as we listened to Richard and one of his friends talk business. I was currently stiff as a board with anxious nerves. So far, the “gathering” was only people I didn’t really know—people who had no reason to be shocked to find me cuddled up with a gorgeous man.

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