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But for half a second, my traitorous brain shows me a flash of Grace—demanding some ridiculous, over-the-top wedding. The mental image is so her that a stupid grin tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.

And the worst part? I’d do it.

I’d actually fucking do it. I’d make every insane, ridiculous detail happen if she told me she wanted it.

I drag a hand down my face, heart suddenly pounding.

I’m so screwed.

I slide my phone into my pocket and push through the back door into the cool night air.

The parking lot sits directly behind the restaurant—open-air, but walled off from the service alley by a shoulder-high stone barrier. There’s only one vehicle entrance, and I’m certain it’s covered by at least one camera.

I stay tight to the shadows along the back of the building, scanning for any other cameras. Once I’m confident the coast is clear, I keep my head low and move. I spot Charles’s black Mercedes immediately, recognizing the number plate I’d been staring at the entire way down the hill. Maverick told me to keep my distance. I hadn’t really listened.

I move quickly between the cars, crouch beside the rear passenger tire, and drive my pocket knife deep into the sidewall. The rubber gives with a sharp hiss as air rushes out. I shift to the front tire and do the same.

Both tires are visibly sinking by the time I stand.

I can’t risk going back into the restaurant. Not with this knife in my hand and the way I’m feeling. Instead, I head for the stone wall, plant my hands on the rough top, haul myself up, and drop quietly down into the alley on the other side.

I brush the dirt from my hands and walk briskly across the road to my car.

About thirty minutes later, they finally step out of the restaurant.

Charles keeps his hand on the small of Grace’s back as they wait for his car under the lights. The sight makes my jaw clench so hard it aches.

So much for repelling him.

The valet approaches them, looking uncomfortable, and starts explaining about the tires. Charles’s face twists in confusion, that entitled expression cracking. Grace pulls out her phone right on cue.

My phone rings a second later.

I answer instantly.

“I’ll just order a car home,” she says sweetly. Then her voice shifts, light and surprised. “Oh…look. There’s one already here. An Aston Martin…wow.”

I start the engine, the deep rumble cutting through the quiet street, and pull smoothly around to the front to the curb before them.

Charles blinks, frowning like his brain is short-circuiting.

Grace doesn’t miss a beat. She gives him one last regretful smile and slides into my passenger seat, her dress riding up her thighs as she settles in.

“Goodnight, Charles. Thank you so much for dinner,” she calls back.

I don’t give him time to answer.

I floor it.

The car leaps forward with a throaty growl, tires gripping the asphalt as we peel away from the curb. The second we’re around the corner and out of sight, the mask drops.

“What the fuck was that?” I snap.

Grace sinks lower in the seat. “He didn’t fall for it.”

“Yeah? You sure you actually tried?”

“Yes!” She throws her hands up. “I told him I was chopping all my hair off into a pixie cut right after I get married. He said I have the perfect bone structure for it. Then I went full throttle—I said I can’t wait to get pregnant and start indulging in dessert for every meal and that I’d probably gain forty pounds. You know what he said?”