Epilogue Can’t Help Falling in Love #2
“We’re literally just talking,” August says, though his hand stays firm on Harlee’s waist.
Kelley takes a sip of his drink. “Sure. You’ve been eye-fucking the intern all night.”
I snort. He’s not wrong.
Harlee shoots him a look. “Why are you even here? Since when do you do weddings?”
Kelley grins. “Single vulnerable women, free booze, and a designer suit. There’s a whole movie about this. Keep up.”
“You’re insufferable,” she mutters, failing to hide a smile.
“Don’t hate the player.” He shrugs, then his gaze slides to me, slow and deliberate. “Evening, Wynter. You’re looking… frosty.”
I lift my glass. “Still using trash pickup lines.”
“Come on,” he says, leaning in. “That one landed.”
“Try it on someone else.” I nod toward a nearby table.
“Jealous,” he murmurs.
“In your dreams.”
“If anyone needs a room, it’s you two,” August says, reminding us we’re not alone.
Kelley doesn’t look away from me. “If she keeps looking at me like that, we won’t make it out of here.”
I lean back, crossing my legs, slit riding high. “As if. You couldn’t handle me.”
He dips closer, voice low. “I think I could.”
I laugh, heat creeping up my neck. “You talk too much.”
“I don’t have to try with you,” he says easily. “It’s already happening.”
I sip my drink, walls up, pulse betraying me. Another refill appears. Bless these ninja waiters.
We clink glasses.
Harlee cuts in. “Why are you really here, Kelley?”
He lounges back. “I love weddings.”
“No, you don’t,” August says.
“I do. Sixth one this year. Lori invited me.”
“She wanted the gift,” Harlee deadpans. "And it's January."
I cackle. “Free booze, right?”
Kelley shrugs and grins. “And a certain songstress who plays hard to get.”
I lean forward, smiling sweet. “I’m not playing. I am hard to get.”
August and Harlee crack up. Kelley’s eyes darken.
“Oh, I know,” he says. “And I love it.”
I take another sip, letting the alcohol settle exactly where I want it. Warm. Steady. The kind of buzz that loosens my shoulders without stealing my instincts. Kelley watches me like I’m the only person left on the island.
I narrow my eyes and drink slower on purpose. He’s good. Annoyingly good. That way he talks like he’s already solved me, already knows where this ends. It pisses me off. And yeah—maybe it’s the champagne—but it’s also hot as hell.
“You know,” I say, leaning in just enough to drop my voice, “if you keep acting like this, I might have to remind you of your place. You’re not the only one who knows how to flirt, Wilde. I’m not some easy win for a pretty smile and smooth words.”
He chuckles—not dismissive. Satisfied. Like he likes the resistance. “I don’t want to conquer you, Wyn,” he says, voice all velvet confidence. “You’re perfectly capable of doing that yourself. I’d just enjoy watching.”
I roll my eyes, even as my pulse betrays me. “Wow. Humble, too.”
“Confidence,” he corrects, tilting his head. “And don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this.”
The tension hums. Thick. Charged. It’s in his posture, the way he doesn’t crowd me but doesn’t retreat either. I know this dance. I’m in it just as deep. I like the friction. The push. The almost.
He holds my gaze, unblinking, lifting his glass for a slow sip like it’s a dare.
“On that note,” August cuts in, “you wanna dance, baby?”
“Yes,” Harlee says immediately, climbing out of his lap. “Before I punch someone.” She smooths her jumpsuit, glancing at me. “You good?”
I don’t look away from Kelley. “I’ve handled bigger egos. I’ll survive.”
Harlee squints. “You sure? Actually—never mind.” She waves us off as August laughs and pulls her toward the floor.
Kelley finally breaks eye contact, shaking his head, amused. I watch him drink again and wonder—briefly, dangerously—what would happen if we stopped circling and let it snap.
I shut that thought down fast. This is Kelley Wilde. Ego the size of a small nation. But when I catch him sneaking another look at me, a thrill curls low in my stomach.
Maybe tonight gets interesting.
I push back from the table, grab my clutch and a fresh flute, and slip outside. The party noise drops away, replaced by waves and warm night air. Lanterns line the stone path as I walk toward the balcony, heels clicking, pulse finally slowing.
Moonlight streaks silver across the water. I lean on the railing, breathe in salt and quiet.
Down the beach, a couple strolls barefoot. The man spins the woman into his arms, lifts her easily. She wraps around him like gravity just gave up.
“Damn,” I murmur. “Get it, girl.”
They’re going at it like teenagers at prom. Wandering hands. Open mouths. Her fingers knotted in his hair like she’s trying to fuse them together. He stumbles forward with her wrapped around him, all limbs and desperation, like a horny koala with zero shame.
I’m fully expecting them to eat sand when he pulls some slick-ass save, spins them both, and lands flat on his back with her straddling him. Smooth enough that I almost clap.
She throws her head back, runs her hands down her body like she’s auditioning for a music video, then grabs his collar and drags him up into another kiss. It’s obscene. Cinematic. I’m invested.
I lean farther over the balcony, squinting like that’ll magically sharpen my vision. “Are they actually fucking,” I mutter, “or just aggressively dry humping?”
“Are you into voyeurism now, Maddox?”
I damn near jump out of my skin. I whirl around, ready to cuss somebody clean out, and of course—it’s him.
“What the actual fuck, Wilde?” I hiss, heart racing. “You trying to kill me? And no, I’m not a voyeur. I was appreciating the scenery.”
That stupid, lethal smirk curls his mouth. The one that makes me want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or commit a felony. “Right. Just admiring the wildlife.”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “If it isn’t the human embodiment of ‘who invited you?’” I sip my champagne. “You following me now?”
He chuckles, low and rich, and my body reacts before my pride can stop it. “Please. You’re not subtle, sweetheart.”
“Boy, kiss my ass,” I snap, but it’s muscle memory at this point. Our rhythm.
His gaze darkens as he steps closer. “Oh, I plan to. I wanna eat that ass like groceries.”
I choke. Fully choke. “Have mercy.” I cough. “You kiss your mama with that mouth?”
“No,” he says easily. “But I’d kiss you with it.”
I laugh despite myself. “You couldn’t handle this ass if it came with instructions and a warranty.”
“Wanna test that theory?” Brows waggle. Menace.
“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” I warn, and yeah—I hear the tease in my own voice.
“Oh, I always make sure my women finish.”
The air tightens. Electric. For one reckless second, I consider it.
Then sanity kicks back in.
“Boy, take your drunk ass inside—”
“I’m trying,” he says, grinning. “You’re the obstacle.”
I snort. “Touché.”
He steps closer again, eyes dragging over me slow enough to feel like hands. From my legs to my chest to my face. I track every inch.
“That outfit’s doing dangerous things,” he murmurs. “Shame it’s missing something.”
I arch a brow. “Excuse you? I ate. Left no crumbs.”
He hums, thoughtful, then snaps his fingers. “Got it.”
“And that is?”
“My hand around your neck. Like a necklace.”
Well. Fuck.
The moment snaps taut, breathless and charged. I clear my throat, latch onto the first distraction I can find—his full glass.
“That for me,” I say, reaching for it, “or you just enjoy double-fisting?”
Our fingers brush. Too long. I take the glass, sip slow, bubbles stinging my nose.
“Well,” I drawl, “aren’t you a knight in shining Armani. Saving a damsel from sobriety.”
Kelley’s lips curl into that infuriating smirk. “What can I say? I’m a giver.”
I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t eject. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
We turn back to the beach. The couple is still at it like rabbits on spring break. Moonlight catches in her hair as she throws her head back, and I swear I hear her from here.
“Damn,” Kelley mutters, leaning in. “They’re really putting on a show.”
I snort. “Please. I’ve seen better performances in the back of an Uber.”
His eyebrow lifts, amused. “Oh? Do tell, Ms. Maddox.”
“In your dreams, Wilde.” And annoyingly, I feel that little spark anyway.
After another beat, I look away. It’s starting to feel intrusive. Also, I don’t need the reminder of how long it’s been since I’ve gotten laid.
I lean against the railing, facing the party.
Music pulses through the glass, steady and warm.
Inside, Harlee and August sway together, wrapped up in each other like the rest of the room doesn’t exist. It’s…
a lot. Not jealousy. Just that quiet ache that shows up when you realize you’re watching something you don’t have.
“So,” Kelley says, cutting in, “I hear you’re dating Evan Thompson from the Raptors.”
I whip around. “And where did that lie come from?”
He shrugs. “Word travels.”
“Let me guess. My best friend.”
He grins. “I plead the fifth.”
I sigh. “We’re not dating. We’re just—” I pause.
“Fucking?” he offers.
I glare. “We’re cool people.”
“Cool people,” he repeats. “That code for friends with benefits?”
I sip my champagne, buying time. My sex life isn’t public information. “It means exactly what I said. End of story.”
He lifts his hands, surrendering, though his eyes are still working. “Fair. I’m just saying—you came alone. You’re out here alone. Every time I see you, you’re alone. I'm simply reading the signs.”
I smirk. “Clearly, you can’t read.”
He laughs. “Damn. It’s like that?”
“It’s like that.”
He doesn’t retreat. Of course he doesn’t. “So you’re available? Or at least the version where I can shoot my shot?”
A flutter hits. I squash it. “Depends. Is this you shooting?”
“You miss all the shots you don’t take.”
I roll my eyes. “Alright, Casanova. Impress me.”
He pauses, eyes slow and deliberate, like he’s committing me to memory. “As flattering as that two-piece is on you,” he says quietly, “it’d look better on the floor of my villa.”
I burst out laughing. “Boo. Absolutely not.”