Page 31 of The Wedding Wrecker

"What about pants?"

"Those too!"

"But you seemed to like?—"

The door flew open, catching me off guard. Emma stood there in a towel, hair dripping, cheeks flushed. "One more word about what I liked, and I'll tell Dick you're actually my gay best friend who's just pretending to date me."

I held up my hands in surrender, but I couldn’t help noticing the mirror in the tiny bathroom behind her wasn’t even steamed up in the slightest. I smiled, pointing. “Looks like somebody took acoldshower. Did it help?”

She threw her wet hair towel at my face and stormed past me to her suitcase.

“So,” I said, watching the shape of her ass press against the white towel as she bent down, one arm holding the towel from falling. “What’s on the itinerary for today?”

“I’m meeting with some vendors to iron out a few details.”

“We’remeeting with vendors, you mean?”

She glared over her shoulder. “No. You’ll screw something up.”

“We’re the happy couple, Em. I think we should probably do this together. Besides, maybe I can help.”

“Don’t call me Em. And I highly doubt that.”

I shrugged. “I might just surprise you.”

“Last time you surprised me, it was by sabotaging a wedding and my career.”

“Rule number three,” I said softly.

She stood with her clothes clutched in one hand and waved them at me. “Don’t you rule number three me, Mister.”

I smirked. “You’re adorable when you’re mad. Also… pink thong.” I flashed a thumbs up. “Great choice. Your ass is amazing, so why hide it?”

She looked down at the thong nearly falling from her hands and tucked it tighter into the ball. Then she made a strangled sound and stormed back into the bathroom.

I watched the door after it closed and wondered what the hell I was doing, exactly.

Things between us would never, ever work. That much became clear in Ireland. So why was I playing with fire? Especially when I still had to do some work investigating this Marcus Wellington guy. Depending on what I found, I might even have to wreck yet another Emma Marshall wedding.

11

EMMA

The resort's private tasting room, like every other space in this building, was stunning. Dark wood panels lined the walls, framing massive windows that stretched from the hardwood floors to the exposed beams above. Winter light spilled across elegant place settings, making the crystal glasses and fine china sparkle against crisp white tablecloths. Outside, snow-dusted pines swayed in the morning breeze, completing the picture-perfect mountain retreat atmosphere.

I glanced down at my phone, which had been buzzing all morning with texts from Maggie. So far, I hadn’t wanted to step into that rabbit hole. She’d sense drama in the air the moment I spoke to her. Hell, she’d probably sense it via text. I wasn’t quite ready to unload the whole situation on her. Not this morning, at least.

I left the room while James was getting ready, deciding less contact was better. I’d hoped to avoid him all day. Considering I had some critical elements of wedding planning to handle in person today, I hardly needed him around looking distractingly good and causing chaos.

"Everything okay?"

I looked up to find James sliding into the chair beside me, and my breath caught despite myself. He'd dressed in a charcoal sweater that hugged his broad shoulders and dark jeans that made his legs look impossibly long. His dark hair was still slightly damp from his shower, falling across his forehead in twisted black clumps I was tempted to reach up and touch. Between that and his stubbled jaw and those intense blue eyes, he looked like he belonged in this luxurious setting—dangerous and refined all at once.

Not that I was noticing.

“How the hell did you find me here?” I asked.

I was sitting at an empty table with plans to meet the head chef of the whole resort to talk about the menu. I hadn’t told anyone—especially James—where to find me.

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