Chapter 20 Adrianna
Chapter Twenty
Adrianna
I’m fully aware that Nate and I need to talk.
God, we definitely need to talk.
About what we did.
About what comes next.
About custody and chaos and whatever the hell this marriage actually means outside of panic and paperwork.
But right now?
Nathan Thorn—international rockstar, living legend, breaker of my teenage heart—is wining and dining me like I’m the only woman alive.
And I’ve never had such a good time.
We’re at the exclusive rooftop restaurant inside the hotel—fancy tablecloths, violin trio in the corner, glittering skyline stretching out like a bowl of stars.
The kind of place where the menu doesn’t have prices because if you have to ask, you shouldn’t be there.
I spot A-listers.
Actors.
Influencers.
Popstars.
Possible mob affiliated billionaires.
People whose faces I’ve only ever seen filtered on magazine covers.
And yet here I am, in my skintight clearance rack ivory dress, being seated as if I belong.
Nathan looks uncomfortable at first—jaw tight, shoulders stiff, eyes scanning the room like he’s tracking threats—but I don’t miss the way people glance at us as we walk in.
Some recognize him instantly.
Some whisper behind their champagne glasses.
Some pretend to take selfies but are absolutely aiming their phones at us.
And suddenly—there it is.
That creeping, choking doubt I thought I buried years ago, clawing its way up my throat.
I clear my throat lightly. “Nate, really, if you want, we can just order room service,” I say quietly. “I’m fine, really. We don’t have to do all this.”
He looks at me like I’ve suggested we eat dinner in a parking lot Dumpster.
“What? No way.”
Then he leans in, voice low, warm, and dangerous—the kind of tone that hits every nerve ending I have and turns my bones into chocolate pudding.
“You deserve a special dinner on your wedding night, Ad.”
My breath catches.
But then his eyes darken, dragging down my body like he can’t help himself.
And my confidence?
Yeah, it shatters like sugar glass.
“I appreciate that, but,” I whisper and swallow hard. “I don’t want to ruin your reputation or embarrass you.”
I instantly regret saying it.
Nathan’s head snaps toward me, jaw clenched, brows slamming down.
“What the fuck are you talking about, Sparky?”
It’s the first time he’s called me that since we were kids, and I get shivers at the sound of my old nickname on his lips.
It’s not sexy or anything, but there’s just something about the intensity flaring to life in his blue eyes when he says it that just—bam—slams right into my chest.
His voice is low and sharp. I don’t know if he’s angry at me or at the idea itself. And for a moment, I stare at my napkin like it might save me.
Somehow, I manage to pull up my big girl pants, and I meet his gaze.
“I just—look, you’re a rockstar. You should be with a supermodel or something—”
The moment I say it, insecurity floods me—loud, ugly, merciless.
I’m too curvy.
Too soft.
Too normal.
Too me.
I’m a good person, I know I am, but good people don’t belong next to rockstars.
They don’t marry them.
Not in real life.
Nathan leans closer, and his voice drops to a gravelly rumble.
“Listen to me, because I’m only saying this once—you are a fucking knockout, Adrianna Thorn. No one has a goddamn thing on you.”
My name in his mouth.
The curse words.
The heat.
It sends a shiver straight through me.
“Nathan—”
“What?” he demands, softer but still fierce. “It’s the truth. And why the hell would you think otherwise?”
“I mean, okay. Hear me out?” My voice is tiny. “You got all stiff when we walked in. And people were staring. And I know you married me for Bella, for the custody case, and I just— I was trying to give you an out. To save you from the ever watchful public eye.”
Mortification burns through me.
I feel raw and embarrassed. But goddamn it, who wants to ugly cry in a Michelin-star restaurant?
He inhales sharply, then he drags his chair over so he’s right beside me, and he leans in until his breath brushes my cheek.
“First off, I’ll tell you the real reason I married you later, Sparky, when we’re all alone.”
My stomach flips. Hard.
“Secondly,” he murmurs, “did I mention how fucking gorgeous you look in that dress, Ad?”
“Nathan—”
“And lastly—if I’m stiff?” He grins like sin and flicks his gaze downward.
My eyes follow.
Oh.
OH.
“Oh my God, are you? Is that?” I whisper, face exploding with heat.
He huffs a soft laugh. “What? Am I hard? Is my cock threatening to bust through my fly? Fuck, yes. And that’s all because of you, Sparky. Honestly? It’s the most alive I’ve felt in a long damn time.”
I’m still trying to breathe when he adds, voice dropping to a dark growl.
“And if you want to know why I was glaring earlier? It wasn’t because of you. It was because I hate the idea of everyone in here eye-fucking you in that sexy-as-fuck dress.”
“What?”
“You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. Do you have any idea how many sorry motherfuckers are seconds from getting their asses kicked?
I know it’s wrong to get worked up over his words. I mean their rough. Rude. And a little unhinged.
And yet, the world tilts.
Heat spirals through me.
And for the first time in years, I don’t feel like the insecure girl who never quite fit the mold.
I feel wanted.
Desired.
By the one man who has always had the power to destroy me or save me.
And right now?
I can’t look away.
“Your eyes are saying a thousand things, Ad, asking a million questions. I promise to try to answer all of them, but right now, I need you to believe me when I say being here with you, married, celebrating, is exactly where I want to be. Can you do that, Sparky? Can you trust in me?”
I swear I feel his question straight down to my toes, then back up again to places that should not be tingling in public.
Heat flares under my skin.
My cheeks.
My chest.
My thighs.
“Nathan,” I whisper-scold, though it comes out a little more breathless than intended. “You can’t just say things like that.”
He arches a brow, the picture of unrepentant male arrogance.
“Why not? It’s true. Just turn your head and see how they’re all looking.”
“They’re looking at you,” I counter weakly.
“No,” he murmured, leaning in. “They’re looking at you. And I don’t fucking like it.”
My entire body went molten.
This wasn’t the teenage boy I loved.
This wasn’t sweet, shy Nathan with floppy hair and guitar calluses.
This was a man.
A confident, unfiltered, jealous, grown-ass man.
Were old feelings resurfacing? Maybe. Yes.
Shit. I don’t know.
But this isn’t the same.
We’re not the same.
These are sharper.
Hotter.
Heavier.
Adult.
Our knees brush under the table.
He doesn’t move his.
Neither do I.
Every time he reaches for his wine glass, his fingers graze mine like he’s testing the electricity between us.
And it’s there.
Oh God, it’s there.
The waiter sets down our plates. I barely see them. Nathan thanks him without taking his eyes off me.
“We’ll talk about it soon, Sparky. Now eat your dinner,” he says softly, reading my mind.
My chest tightens. “Yes. Okay. We should really talk though, Nate.”
“Agreed. But,” he adds with a slow, devastating smile, “let’s just enjoy tonight. Let’s just celebrate us.”
Us.
The word hits me like a chord he once played, the one that made my heart split open when I was seventeen.
I look at our plates, untouched.
At the glittering skyline.
At him.
And for the first time all day, the panic recedes just a little.
Because somehow, impossibly, Nathan Thorn is sitting across from me—looking at me like I’m a miracle—and I realize he’s right.
Talking can wait.
Just for now.
Tonight? Tonight might be the start of something else entirely.