Page 3 of Made for Reign

It’s the man standing next to him.

He’s just as tall as the groom, just as broad through the shoulders, with dark hair and the kind of rugged face that belongs on a movie screen. Early forties, I’d guess. Probably the best man based on how he’s staying close to the groom’s side.

The hostess leads them toward a large table near the windows. As they walk, the best man’s eyes sweep across the bar in a casual scan.

And then they land on mine.

Everything else—the music, the chatter, Iris and Violet’s voices—fades to white noise. Heat floods my cheeks and spreads down my neck like I’ve just stepped too close to a fire. My pulse kicks up a notch, then another, until I can hear it thundering in my ears.

He’s not just looking at me. He’s studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, and I’m the missing piece.

I should look away. Any normal person would break eye contact by now. But I can’t seem to make my body obey my brain. Those dark eyes hold mine captive, and for a wild moment, I wonder if this is what it feels like to be hypnotized.

“Earth to Audrey,” Iris’s voice cuts through the spell.

I blink hard and turn back to my friends, my face burning. “Sorry, what?”

“I said, did you see the bride? She’s got to be at least twenty years younger than that guy.” Violet takes a sip of her drink. “Though I have to admit, they look happy.”

“Yeah.” I risk another glance toward their table. “They do.”

The mystery man is settling into his chair, but his gaze finds mine again immediately, like he was waiting for me to look back. This time, one corner of his mouth lifts in the barest hint of a smile.

My stomach does a little flip.

“Okay, what’s wrong with you?” Iris demands. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” I grab my drink and take a large gulp, hoping the cherry sweetness will calm my suddenly racing heart. “I’m fine.”

“You’re many things, Audrey Worthington, but fine isn’t one of them right now,” Violet observes. “You’re all flushed.”

“It’s warm in here.”

“It’s perfectly climate-controlled,” Iris counters. She follows my previous line of sight and grins. “Oh my gosh. You’re checking out the best man.”

“I am not.”

“You totally are.” Iris cranes her neck to get a better look. “And oh, wow, I can see why. He’s like a lumberjack in a Tom Ford suit.”

“There is definitely something in the water wherever these guys are from.” Violet muses. “How are all these men so huge and hot?”

“They’re probably mountain men,” I reply. “Literally every guy from my hometown looks like that.”

“Well, this certainly explains your thing for guys built like refrigerators,” Violet smirks as she continues to stare at them.

Heat creeps up my neck. “I don’t have a thing for guys built like refrigerators.”

“You absolutely do,” Iris counters. “Every time a guy at school would ask you out, you’d practically yawn in their face. Remember Trevor? That gorgeous surfer who kept showing up to your art history class even though he wasn’t enrolled?”

“He was sweet.”

“He was gorgeous and completely smitten with you, and you treated him like he was asking you to watch paint dry.” Iris grins. “Same with Connor, and Jake, and that guy from the coffee shop who wrote his number on your cup every morning for three weeks.”

“What?” I ask innocently. “They were nice guys.”

“They were California pretty boys,” Violet corrects. “And you had zero interest because they probably couldn’t change a tire if their lives depended on it.”

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