And that’s how I see the text—the one that says: “We’re on our way. Hunt n me, and Cross + Merri, too. Suri…I’m wearing white! We want to do this now! This week! In Vegas!”

I squeal and hold the phone up so Marchant can read the text. His eyes widen, and he says, “Well, hot damn.”

“Will you be my date to the wedding?”

He pulls me down onto the mattress with him. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and whispers, in a husky voice that sends chills racing over my skin: “If you’ll have me, Suri Dalton.”

“I will have you.” I grin wickedly. “If I lie still so I don’t hurt my chest, can I have you right now?”

“Fuck yes.”

I’m so busy pulling him down over me, I don’t notice the shadow outside the window.