Chapter 9 Barbara
BARBARA
Ican’t believe Emily’s getting married today. We’re drinking champagne in her bridal suite, helping her get ready, laughing at Morgan’s friend, Basia’s jokes. We’ve quickly become a quartet, despite the two girls only being in Emily's and my lives for a couple of months.
“I still can’t believe your name is practically Barbara, too,” I tell the only other blonde in our group.
Basia chuckles, her eyes sparkling despite having a dangerous stalker who keeps sending her threats… and other unsavory things. “Yeah. My mom wanted to honor her Polish roots.”
“A bit like that actress from Law & Order: SVU!” Emily says enthusiastically. She’s a big procedural shows fan.
I stick my tongue at her. “I prefer S.W.A.T.”
“Hmm,” Morgan muses. “Anyone else think the boys would make fine as hell S.W.A.T. officers?”
Basia giggles into her champagne flute. “Please. Can you imagine Damien with a battering ram? He’d just glare at the door until it unhinged itself out of fear.”
Morgan smirks, unapologetically smug. “You’re not wrong.”
“Killian would definitely be the team leader,” Emily adds, her eyes going all soft. “He has that bossy ‘kick down the door first, ask questions later’ energy.”
I grin. “And Ethan would be the one who never follows orders but somehow gets away with it because he looks like that.”
The girls laugh, and Emily nearly chokes on her drink. “Looks like what, Barbara?”
“Moving on,” I say, inspecting my nails.
Basia raises a brow. “And Caleb?”
“Oh, he’s the one who’d quietly handle everything while the others argue,” Morgan says. “The steady one. The protector.”
Basia’s cheeks pinken. “Yeah. I can see that.”
Emily claps her hands, sparkling from more than just the champagne. “Okay, okay, new rule—if any of the men actually do start their own S.W.A.T. team, we get matching tactical gear. In pink.”
I laugh so hard my stomach hurts. “Please let that be Morgan’s bachelorette party theme.”
“I’m not getting married,” Morgan says sheepishly.
Basia wiggles her eyebrows. “Yet.”
The room bursts into laughter again, and for a moment it’s just that—light, warmth, the kind of easy joy that feels rare lately.
But then the coordinator pokes her head in. “Ladies? It’s time.”
The mood shifts in an instant, excitement rippling through the air. Emily’s laughter softens into a nervous giggle as Morgan hands her the bouquet, Basia adjusts her veil, and I smooth out the delicate lace at her hips.
“You ready to make an honest man out of him?” I tease.
She exhales, a trembling smile curling her lips. “I’ve never been more ready for anything.”
Morgan squeezes her hand. “He’s going to lose it when he sees you.”
Basia dabs at the corner of her eye. “So am I, apparently. Damn it, don’t make me cry before the photos.”
“Too late,” I murmur, blinking fast.
Then the music starts.
Emily’s wedding is the kind of thing you see on Pinterest boards. Fairy lights are draped through the old stone chapel, a thousand candles flicker against vaulted ceilings, and the air is thick with roses and nerves.
When she starts walking down the aisle, Killian’s expression hits me right in the chest. That man looks like he’s watching the sun rise after years in the dark. For a second, I forget to breathe. Will someone love me like that one day? Maybe Seb?
I glance to my left—Ethan’s already looking at me instead of the bride. He’s in a dark suit and tie that fits like sin, his hair perfectly tousled, his mouth curved into that half-smile that promises trouble. My stomach flips.
I quickly turn back toward the altar, but I can feel his gaze, heavy on my skin like a touch. He’s looking at me like he knows I’ve been thinking of him while touching myself.
By the time the officiant pronounces them husband and wife, I’m a mess of emotions—some romantic, some distinctly unholy.
I down the first drink at the reception like I crawled through the desert to get to it.
The ballroom looks like a fever dream of gold and champagne.
Emily and Killian are the perfect newlyweds—dancing, laughing, sneaking kisses like they’ve forgotten the room full of people watching them.
Morgan and Damien dance close, his hand low on her back, their movements slow and intimate.
Basia’s on the dance floor too, laughing as Caleb keeps a discreet but constant eye on her from nearby.
And me? I’m at the bar, pretending to be utterly fascinated by my drink.
Of course, that’s when Ethan slides onto the stool next to me, close enough that his cologne wraps around me like a trap.
“Can’t believe you’re drinking alone,” he murmurs. “At a wedding, no less. Tragic.”
I sip my champagne without looking at him. “The drink’s better company than the groomsman I was paired with,” I quip.
He grins. “Careful. I might start thinking you like me.”
My face grows hot, but I try to sound unbothered. “You’re delusional.”
“And you need to dance,” he returns, holding out his hand. “Come on, firecracker.”
I blink at his hand. Didn’t someone else call me firecracker recently? Before I can remember who and when, Ethan’s hand is wrapped around my wrist, and he’s gently pulling me up to my feet.
For a heartbeat, I just stare at him.
Then I let him lead me onto the dance floor.
The music slows as we step between couples, and suddenly it feels like the world narrows to just us.
His palm settles at the small of my back, warm even through the satin of my dress.
My other hand finds his shoulder, and I instantly regret it—it’s solid, strong, the kind of body made for sin and bad decisions.
We start to sway, moving to the rhythm, our bodies close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. I focus on breathing, on the soft rustle of fabric, on not giving in to the urge to rest my head against his chest.
“You clean up nice,” he murmurs, his breath brushing my temple. “But you already knew that.”
I scoff, trying to sound indifferent even as my pulse stutters. “Flattery’s your default setting, isn’t it?”
His lips tilt into that infuriating grin. “Only when it works.”
“You’re assuming it’s working.”
He dips his head, his nose skimming my cheek, and I feel his smile. “You’re assuming it’s not.”
God help me, he’s right.
The air between us feels charged, electric. His thumb traces idle circles against my spine, each one burning a little deeper. My body moves closer without my permission, drawn by something magnetic and dangerous.
When our eyes meet again, there’s no laughter left—just heat.
It’s too much. Too intimate. Too everything.
“I shouldn’t,” I whisper, my voice shaky.
His answer is a low growl against my ear. “Then don’t think. Just feel.”
The song changes, but neither of us stops moving. His thigh brushes mine. My breath hitches. The tension that’s been building for weeks stretches thin, trembling like a live wire between us.
“Ethan…” I start, but my voice fades when he leans in close enough that his lips ghost over the corner of my mouth.
“Say the word, and I’ll stop,” he murmurs, his hand tightening just slightly at my waist. “But if you don’t, I’m going to kiss you like I’ve been dying to.”
I should walk away. I should think about Seb, about what this means, about everything.
Instead, I tilt my head just enough that our lips brush—a spark that ignites into a wildfire.
The kiss starts slow, teasing, but the moment I sigh into it, Ethan takes over. His hand slides up my spine, his tongue coaxes mine into a dance of its own, and suddenly I’m lost.
Someone laughs nearby, and reality slams back in. I pull away, breathing hard, but Ethan’s hand catches mine before I can escape.
“Come with me,” he says, low and certain, his eyes dark and hungry.
“Ethan, we can’t—”
“We already are.”
Before I can argue, he threads his fingers through mine and leads me off the dance floor. My heels click against the marble as he cuts through the crowd, down a dim hallway that leads to the coatroom. The music fades, replaced by the sound of my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
When he stops in front of a heavy door and looks back at me, I already know I’ve lost.
He opens it, steps inside, then turns—waiting.
One more second of hesitation, of pretending I have control left.
Then I follow him in, the door clicking shut behind us.