There's a thin trail of dark hair below his navel that the towel barely conceals, his thighs muscular where they emerge from the towel.
And he stops dead when he sees me fully upright in his bed.
His eyes, a bluish storm-gray, flick over me in one smooth sweep, his gaze hooking and stopping on the diamond on my left hand.
His jaw tightens in a way that's both threatening and devastatingly attractive.
Right away, I realize that I know that jaw, those eyes.
"Vic?" I croak.
Vic from the plane. Vic from the club. Vic from the "hottest person in Vegas" scavenger-hunt photo that Amelia had immediately upgraded to "possibly the hottest person in this half of the country."
Which at the time I'd called dramatic.
In case I really am dead, I would like to formally retract that statement.
"You're awake," he rumbles, voice rough from sleep and I can barely move.
"I—" My voice comes out like I swallowed sandpaper. "What are you doing here?"
One dark brow lifts, letting me know that he finds the question mildly amusing and deeply stupid. "This is my suite."
I stare at him, then around the room, then back at him.
The polished black suitcase by the closet. The watch on the nightstand. The laptop on the desk. The severe, elegant order of everything.
His suite. His bed. His very expensive, very intimidating, very minimal rich-man lair.
"Oh," I say faintly. Then, because my brain enjoys humiliation, "Oh no."
He moves past the foot of the bed toward the closet, completely unbothered by his near-nudity, and pulls out a crisp white shirt.
I should not be watching the muscles in his back shift as he moves. Or the way his spine creates this perfect line down to where the towel sits on his hips.
And I definitely should not be wondering what's under that towel.
He turns back to face me, and something in his expression makes my stomach drop.
Probably because he’s wearing look of a man who's already made several calculations and doesn't like the sum.
"Do you remember anything from last night?" he asks, his tone sounding more like this is a business meeting and not a conversation with a woman who apparently spent the night in his bed.
"I—" I try to think. The restaurant. More bars. Amelia doing karaoke. Someone suggesting we go to an arcade. Neon lights. A pixelated Elvis?
Wait.
"Did we?—"
He starts buttoning his shirt—slowly, methodically—and I'm genuinely mourning the loss of the view while simultaneously terrified of whatever he's about to say.
"Did we what?" His voice is measured—even.
"Get married," I hear myself say just as Vic’s long elegant fingers freeze on the third button of his shirt.
He blinks. “So you know?”
My heart thunders beneath my ribs. I hold up my left hand, including the diamond that’s spraying a shower of white reflections across the walls.
