knot of anticipation tightened in Reese’s belly. Six days to ensure every detail was just right. But as she stared out of the second-floor window at the manicured grounds of Bellington Estate—grounds that included several formal gardens—a sense of peace rolled through her body. June in the Hamptons was gorgeous. Spring showers had done beautiful things to the one hundred acres that surrounded the twenty-five-bedroom, historical home, the closest thing to a castle that Reese could find.
The perfect place for her fairy-tale wedding.
But it wasn’t the antique-adorned rooms, the priceless artwork, or the towering stone turrets that had sold her on the location. Yes, the grounds were perfect for an outdoor wedding reception. Yes, the restaurant-quality kitchen had a walk-in freezer capable of housing as many ice carvings as she wanted, personally inspected and approved by the sculptor located half a state away. But what convinced her to book the wedding here was the stately feel, the sense of serenity that Bellington Estate brought. It had been worth the two-year engagement to Dylan.
The right location for the right wedding to the right man.
Satisfaction swelled, and she let out a contented breath. It certainly beat an impulsive ceremony in a county courthouse. The swirl of roller-coaster, nauseating excitement. And a cocky Mason in his military fatigues, his feet shifting impatiently as they stood before the judge. Reese in her simple sundress...
Anger and hurt rose up, as familiar as her own reflection, and she pressed her lips flat, shoving the ten-year-old memory aside. That was then, and this was now. Dylan made her happy. He made her laugh. They were a great team, not only professionally in her position as chairman of fundraising for The Brookes Foundation, his family’s charitable organization, but personally, as well. They rocked the compatibility charts in every way.
Dylan deserved a beautiful wedding. After all these years, she deserved one.
Reese glanced back at her bodice and tried to shift her left breast higher, hoping to fill the gap.
“Rearranging them isn’t going to help. The girls are looking a little malnourished.”
The male voice slid through her consciousness, triggering long-suppressed emotions that came bubbling up like an ominous ooze. Her heart set up house in her throat, making speech impossible, and Reese slowly removed her hand from her bodice. Shifting her gaze in the mirror, she took in the lean, muscular form lazing against the doorjamb. The familiar potent power and arrogance were not lost in the reflection as, arms crossed, Mason Hicks met her eyes in the mirror.
Reese blinked, hoping the figure staring back at her was a trick of her imagination, the voice emanating from inside her head. Visual and auditory hallucinations would be most welcome in comparison. There were treatments for those, but all the medication in the world couldn’t see her through a visit from Mason. And the intensely curious look on Amber’s face was proof positive that her ex-husband was indeed...here.
“Girls?” Reese repeated, feeling stupid.
“Puppies,” he said. His thickly fringed, hazel eyes were lit with mischief as he crossed the room in her direction. And every footstep ratcheted her heart rate higher. “Bazookas.”
His disturbing gaze grew closer, and, just like when they first met, elicited the same burning low in her gut. His chest looked as cut as ever beneath his military, olive green T-shirt. And pretty soon he was standing next to her, near enough to smell his musky, masculine scent. Close enough to touch.
And her expression must have remained as blank as her brain.
“Boobs,” he clarified.
The word finally shattered the trance, the same sensual web the man had magically spun so many years ago. But she was older now.
Wiser.
She narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to continue with his man-thesaurus listing of names for the female anatomy. Instead, he took the direct approach.
“Last time I saw you, your breasts were bigger,” he said. “I think a few cream puffs are definitely in order.”
“See, the man agrees with me,” Amber said, eyeing Mason with interest. “At least have a little ice cream, Reese.”
Mason’s lips tipped up at one corner. “She loves crème brûlée.”
“Topped with caramel topping,” Amber added, returning the smile.
Mason turned his attention back to Reese, and looked at her as if she was incapable of intelligent speech. No need to wonder why.
“Surprised to see me, Park Avenue?” The familiar, sexy rumble and the nickname added to the surreal nature of being transported back in time when she had laughingly told Mason her college roommates’ nickname for her, Park Avenue Princess. And then he’d made the name his own, dropping the princess part. Which for some strange reason had pleased her to no end.
But she was not pleased to see Mason.
Days away from her wedding.
Reese gritted her teeth, struggling to retain her cool as the anger finally built high enough to surpass every other emotion—shock, doubt and dread, just to name a few. Why was he coming to see her again? After ten years, why now? Right when all of her dreams were finally about to come true.
And since her appetite had been suffering from the stress of the planning, her chest shrinking, it only seemed fair his muscles should have gone soft, as well. Less sharply defined. Less capable of reaching out to the very core of what attracted a woman to a man.
Strength. Power. And a raw masculinity.
She forced her voice to remain smooth. “And the last time I saw you, you were dodging the dog tags I hurled at you.”
“Your aim was good.”
Quirking her lips dryly, she said, “I should have used your baseball bat.”
“It still made a nice punctuation mark for your demand for a divorce.” The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Claimed irreconcilable differences, if I remember right.”
She tipped her chin higher. “Temporary insanity was more like it.”
“A lust-induced state of insanity.” Heat flushed through her like a flash fire, though he steadily held her gaze. His expression more reflective than affected, he murmured, “A drug, that.”
Her chest pinched, making breathing more difficult. Bad enough he had to still look good, now the unwanted memories invaded. Memories of Mason making love to her. The incredibly intense state of happiness they’d achieved, right before it had all been blown to hell. Correction, right before Mason had blown it all to hell.
Remember, Reese. Never again.
Never again.
“The sex wasn’t a drug,” she said, though, at the time, she’d thought the same thing. But God knows she’d learned her lesson the hard way. She was no longer susceptible to the whims of her hormones. “It was quicksand.”
And just as deadly to her peace of mind. Her sanity.
He hiked a brow and studied her a moment more. “Maybe,” he said softly, his lips curling at
