The Wedding Wrecker

8. James

8

JAMES

OOPS…

T he single word summed up the last half hour pretty well. From the way Richard Wellington had seemed downright pissed that Emma was supposedly in a relationship, to how he’d snapped his finger and suggested something I was sure Emma was going to hate me even more for.

“This presents the perfect opportunity,” he had said, eyes sparkling with… something. Had that been genuine excitement, or was it thinly veiled anger? I still wasn’t sure.

But he had smiled as he told us about his “opportunity”. “My Aunt Martha wasn’t happy with the views in her room,” Richard had said, “and Emma’s room has amazing views. I’m sure you two wouldn’t mind giving her Emma’s, since the views in hers are superior. That way, you both can cozy up together in James’ room like a proper couple.”

That was half an hour ago, and Emma hadn’t really spoken to me since then. Instead, she was busy storming. She’d walked calmly enough out of the restaurant while we were in view of the Wellingtons, and then she’d practically torn herself off my arm and began embodying the female equivalent of a hurricane, or maybe a tornado.

Her pissed off energy seemed to seep into the air around her.

Honestly, it was kind of adorable watching her. She was a small woman, and something about small things rampaging and raging admittedly tickled at my amusement.

Even with much longer strides, I had to pick up my pace to keep up with her as she stormed into the elevator, down the hallway, and even stormily used her keycard. To her frustration, it hadn’t worked until I helpfully showed her she was holding it backwards.

Now she was rage-packing her suitcase with her ass pointed right at me.

Accident? Maybe. But I had my hands stuffed in my pockets as I fought my natural impulse to stare at the absolutely mouth-watering view that put the Rockies to shame. Yeah. With a woman like Emma, you could save a few bucks booking hotel rooms. Why would you give a shit what was out your windows when you’d want nothing more than to stare at her?

“Are you going to offer to help?” she asked, voice muffled as her ass wiggled with the force of her packing. She was trying to gather all of her things from her room—which was definitely way nicer than mine. If she thought she was pissed now, I wondered how much worse it would be when she saw the comparatively shit room I’d been given.

“Did you want help devouring this welcome platter of food and champaign? Because it looks like you were doing pretty well on your own.” I grinned, picking up a piece of cheese with a small bite taken from it. I popped it into my mouth and chewed. Tasty. “This thing looks like a pack of wolves went at it.”

Emma whirled, still crouched as she glared with one hand in her suitcase. "This is your fault," she said, turning back to shove more clothes into her bag with impressive force. "All of it. If you hadn't shown up playing hero?—"

"You'd be fending off Dick right about now.”

"I could have handled Dick just fine on my own."

The joke was right there. So easy. So perfect.

I bit my lip to stop from speaking, because I only needed one look at her face to tell me humor wasn’t going to soften her. No. There was real hurt beneath her anger, and it was very possibly a bridge between us I wouldn’t ever be able to mend.

"Since when are you a 'family friend' anyway?" she demanded, turning to face me. "Because I think I would have remembered someone like you hanging around family gatherings."

I kept my face carefully neutral. "Your mother?—"

"My mother?" She dropped the shirt she was folding. "What about my mother?"

Shit. I probably should’ve been more vague. "I just meant?—"

"Did she hire you?" The color drained from her face. "Is that why you're here? To wreck another wedding? To wreck my little sister’s wedding? "

I met her gaze, keeping my expression neutral. "Maybe I knew you’d be here. Maybe I wanted to see an old friend."

"We're not friends." The words had an edge sharp enough to draw blood. "Friends don't destroy each other's careers."

"I didn't try to destroy?—"

"Save it." She yanked open another drawer and dumped the contents in her concerningly stuffed suitcase. “Tell me why I shouldn’t go to Mr. Wellington right now and tell him exactly who you are and what you do."

“Well…” I hesitated, wishing there was a way to word this that wouldn’t sound like a threat. “Because he’s probably going to want to know why the wedding planner didn’t notice someone like that on the guest list? And now he’ll also wonder why you’re dating me. At the very least, he’ll wonder why you didn’t tell him the moment I showed up back there.”

Emma’s face scrunched in an adorably terrifying mask of anger. “So you’ve entrapped me. Perfect. Was this all part of your plan?”

“No,” I said. “I happened to overhear some creep hitting on a girl. I stuck my head in and was coming over to help even before I knew it was you. But considering our… history, we should at least be pretty good at making it look like we’re attracted to each other. So I’d call it a happy accident.”

“Okay,” she said, voice slow and dangerously quiet. “Maybe I should just ask why I shouldn’t strangle you in your sleep tonight? Hm?”

“That is probably a better question,” I admitted. “But even if I was working this wedding, which I’m not…” Liar, liar. “It’s not like I ruin every wedding. People hire me to investigate. Sometimes, there’s absolutely nothing going on, and I just enjoy the free drinks and festivities.”

“I’m not going to believe you aren’t working this wedding for a second.”

Smart girl.

“Well,” I said. “That’s your choice. But I’m just here to have a good time and watch an old family friend get married.”

Her eyes narrowed into slits. “A good time, huh? Planning to fuck another wedding planner the night before you destroy her wedding? Oh, wait. It would be the same wedding planner this time, and she’s not going to fall for your charms again.”

I cleared my throat. Even her furious mention of what we’d done in that wine cellar was still enough to make my skin flush hot. She had been the best I’d ever had. By far. I would be a dirty liar if I said I didn’t think about her nearly every day.

“That was a mistake.”

“Fantastic. So you ruined my career and thought sleeping with me was a mistake. Is there anything else you’d like to say to deepen my hatred of you before night falls? Because this is helping. I wasn’t sure I’d have the willpower to murder a sleeping man, but I’m getting there.”

I ran a hand through my hair. “Uh, no. I think I’ll stop digging the hole deeper there. Here, let me help you zip that.”

Emma was struggling to close her overstuffed suitcase, so I put a knee on it and tugged the zipper shut.

“You really made the most of this suitcase, huh? Didn’t feel like carrying two?”

“Ever since Ireland, I’ve been doing much smaller weddings. They don’t pay as well, and I wanted to save the bag fees.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling myself wither a little more on the inside. I couldn’t say a single thing right around her. What the fuck was my problem?

We were both kneeling over the suitcase when she met my eyes. “You're here for a reason, and it's not because you're suddenly best friends with my family."

She was right, of course. Lying about why I was here was stupid, but I also thought it might make her less inconsolably pissed if she just heavily suspected it versus having it outright confirmed. Honestly, I was actually a little scared she might really try to kill me in my sleep if I made her any more angry.

For now, the full truth could wait. It hardly mattered, anyway, considering she didn’t believe a word I said.

The walk to my room was silent, broken only by the wheels of her suitcase on the hardwood floors. She had nearly bit my hand off when I offered to carry it for her.

I tried not to notice how the light from the wall sconces caught in her hair, or how she still smelled like vanilla and something uniquely Emma. I did notice the way her perfectly plump ass swayed as she walked, and how every little movement brought me back to the way it had felt to have my hands on her skin—to hear her soft moans and hot breath in my ear.

I felt the impending reveal of my room drawing closer like a small time bomb.

My room was… cozy. That was the polite word for it. The less polite word might be cramped and depressing compared to the luxurious place she just gave up for “Aunt Martha”.

Emma stood in the doorway, taking in the single queen bed, the small sitting area, and the distinct lack of space for two people who weren't actually dating.

"No," she said.

"It's not that bad."

"There's one bed."

"I don’t snore, and I’m a very sound sleeper. I’ll stay on my side.”

She set down her bags and pulled out her laptop. "We need rules."

"Rules?"

"Yes. Rules." She opened PowerPoint with terrifying efficiency. "If we're going to survive this week without killing each other or ruining my sister's wedding, we need structure."

I leaned against the wall, watching as she typed with fierce concentration.

"Are you actually making a presentation about this?" I asked. “Because we could try just talking.”

"Relationships require clear communication and boundaries." She didn't look up. "Even fake ones. And I’m going to do as little actual talking to you as I can manage, thank you very much."

"What happened in Ireland…” I said slowly. “That was real to me.”

Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. For a moment, neither of us breathed.

"That was a mistake. You said it yourself."

For some reason, her words and tone felt like a punch in the gut. God damn. I’d known Emma Marshall had been lingering in my head for years now, but I hadn’t realized how easily she could still get to me.

I tried to talk to her a few times, but she just hushed me and continued letting her fingers fly over the keyboard. Apparently, I had to sit patiently while she made this ridiculous presentation.

I poured myself a water, ate some nuts from the mini-bar, and mostly observed her as she sat cross-legged on my bed.

My bed.

Emma Marshal—the girl I was dead-sure had gotten away and would never come back—was currently sitting on my bed, looking like every sexual fantasy I’d ever had all wrapped into one small, curvy package.

Fuck.

“Okay,” she said, surprising me after several minutes of silence. “It’s ready.”

I tried not to roll my eyes when Emma turned her laptop toward me and began the presentation.

The title slide read: " Cohabitation Guidelines and Relationship Parameters for Surviving the Next Seven Days Without Committing Murder (or Destroying Any More Careers) ."

"Really?"

"Rule number one," she said, clicking to the next slide. "No touching unless absolutely necessary to maintain our cover."

"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.