Page 26 of One Wild Wedding Weekend

In the end, she decided to go au naturel.

When a soft knock sounded at her door, she glanced at the clock on the bedside table. Ten fifty-five.

She checked the peephole, took a shaky breath and let him in.

“You’re early,” she said.

Tristan dragged her close and kissed her, pushing her gently against the closed door. “Couldn’t wait.”

His intensity was flattering. “Please tell me no one saw you.”

His teeth flashed white as he smiled. “Nope. I was stealthy.”

“And it helps that Tabby and John are otherwise occupied.”

“Indeed.”

Daley felt awkward suddenly. “Would you—”

Tristan’s smile switched from naughty to kind. “What if we sit and talk for a few minutes? Decompress. It was a long day. Great but long.”

“I’d like that,” Daley said. She wasn’t accustomed to having a man want her desperately. Her dating life leaned more toward companionship and the very occasional two-lonely-people hookup.

This time, she didn’t turn on the fireplace.

Tristan took a seat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. “I won’t bite,” he said.

She gave him a look. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Good.” He yawned. “Who knew getting married was such hard work?”

“It’s a billion-dollar industry, right? I remember Tabby pouring over bridal magazines when she was thirteen or fourteen. We would analyze the dresses. Study the flower choices. It’s a harmless rite of passage for some girls.”

“For you?” he asked, apparently serious.

Daley shrugged. “Not so much. I was an art and design major. Colors and themes interested me, but planning a whole wedding? No...”

“And if you do decide to get married someday?” His eyes danced with mischief, but his question seemed genuine.

“Well...” She tugged at the lapels of her robe, making sure her breasts and knees were covered. “I don’t think I’d want all the fuss. Maybe I would elope. Not to Vegas. That’s not my style. But perhaps somewhere like Cadillac Mountain in Maine...at sunrise. It’s supposed to be the first spot the sun hits the continental US every morning.” She wrinkled her nose. “Though to be honest, I don’t know how I could avoid all the tourists.”

His smile was droll. “A February wedding perhaps?”

“I’m guessing you’ve never been there. Even in summer, the wind can cut to the bone. I can’t imagine a winter wedding.” She half turned in her seat and curled her legs beneath her. “How about you? A villa in the south of France? An intimate ceremony on a yacht in the Caribbean?”

Despite the topic, Tristan looked completely relaxed. A plain gray T-shirt strained to cover his broad chest. He wore thin athletic pants and sneakers with no socks. His hair was damp. He smelled of the hotel’s expensive shower gel.

He ran his hand through his hair, kicked off his shoes and stretched out his legs. “That’s a good question. Honestly, if a woman and I ever decided to give things a shot, I’d be happy with a courthouse ceremony. Married is married. I’d be more interested in the honeymoon.”

“I should have known.”

“Liking sex is not a crime.”

“I wasn’t criticizing,” she said quickly.

He ran his thumb along her jawbone, bringing up the heat level, scrambling her wits. “It sounded critical.”

“Well, then, I’m sorry. You’re right. I wouldn’t expect most men to care at all about wedding planning.”

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