Page 21 of The Marriage Clause

And apparently, that includes moments of catastrophic lapse in judgment.

Desperation makes girls do stupid things.

I just need to find Penelope and Cammy and get drunk on Everett’s dime at the open bar and forget this night ever happened.

I should leave.

It’s been almost an hour since I kissed Everett upstairs. I stayed for the silent auction, ate several serving trays of hors d’oeuvres and several glasses of champagne with Cammy. Now I should hail a cab and go home with my tail between my legs.

That’s the smart thing. The dignified thing. The thing a woman with an ounce of self-preservation would do after throwing herself at a man in his office and getting dismissed like an inconvenience.

Instead, I drain the rest of the champagne in my glass and spot Everett Kauffman slipping through the private exit like the devil departing a gala.

My pulse kicks.

He’s leaving.

This is it. My last shot.

I don’t think. I just move.

"Aria?" Cammy calls somewhere behind me, but I’m already weaving through tables, past waiters carrying champagne flutes and donors in designer gowns. My heels are impossible on the slick floor, so I kick them off mid-stride and grab them in one hand.

By the time I burst through the private entrance and out into the cool night air, Everett is halfway to the sleek black town car waiting at the curb. Media and paparazzi are already snapping shots of him as he and Jeremy head straight for the car.

His driver steps forward and opens the back door for them, and Jeremy slides in first, his eyes still glued to his phone, typing something as if the man works for Everett 24/7 and never sleeps.

"Everett!" I call out right as he’s about to slide in next.

He turns at the sound of my voice just as I start flying down the stone steps barefoot, my dress hiked in one fist, my heels swinging wildly from the other hand.

For one absurd second, I see his face register me in pieces.

His eyes flickering to the shoes in my hands, my bare feet, my hair wild from pulling out all the bobby pins at the bar that were driving me insane.

Then before I know it, I slam into him.

One hand fists in his lapel to steady myself, and before I lose my nerve, I rise onto my toes and kiss him.

It’s reckless and humiliating and absolutely fueled by one too many glasses of liquid courage.

I’m not drunk, just free of any inhibitions holding me back from trying one last time to make Everett believe that I’m fake-wife material.

For one heartbeat, I expect resistance. A polite refusal in front of the cameras.

Instead, Everett kisses me back.

Hard.

A startled sound catches in my throat as his hand slides from my hip to my ass and hauls me tighter against him, like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want to touch me. My heels slip from my fingers and clatter against the pavement as his mouth takes mine with force I’d expect from a control freak like Everett.

This is not the careful, restrained kiss from upstairs. This is heat and possession and hunger that makes my knees go weak.

His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I swear the entire world tilts.

Flash.

Flash. Flash. Flash.