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Reason number one: She was no longer a miss or missy, as Babs liked to call her. She was a Mrs.
Mrs. Landon Bartholomew Paige.
She’d married a half-naked L. Bartholomew Paige, surrounded by drunken ballerinas and boozed-up leather-clad gladiators while going commando and rocking brown boots and her fake fiancé’s T-shirt.
Not exactly the kind of wedding most girls dream of—not that she’d ever been one of those girls.
Still, she figured she’d at least be wearing underwear when she said “I do.”
Reason number two: thanks to their after-wedding escapades, she was pretty damned sure the marriage was legit.
In the movies, if the couple hadn’t sealed the deal by bumping naughty parts, there was a chance the marriage could be annulled.
That’s not how it went for Landon and her.
They’d bumped, pumped, and banged the hell out of each other.
They’d spent their wedding night locked in Landon’s decked-out suite, doing the dirty deed.
No, more like doing the dirtydeeds, plural.
They’d christened the bed, the bedroom floor, the shower, the bathtub, and the bathroom floor. They’d done it against the door to the suite, against the door to the bedroom, and against the refrigerator in the little kitchenette. Then, because it was another flat surface, he’d pressed her back against the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked onto the strip and rocked her world with another trio of mind-blowing orgasms.
They’d knocked out an all-you-can-eat sex buffet bender for the ages.
Honestly, the entire night was a testament to the strength of female anatomy. Her lady parts had been licked, fucked, and sucked until her eyes rolled into the back of her head and her body erupted into orgasmic bliss, which sounded terrific until she woke up bleary-eyed and alone in bed.
Yes, alone.
And not the good kind of alone where a gal wakes up, glances around in shock before her attentive lover returns with a tray of pastries and fresh coffee—not that anyone had ever done that for her, but again, movies and pop songs painted this picture every day.
And this illuminated the third reason she’d self-medicated with copious amounts of chocolate.
Reasonnumero tres: when she’d woken up from the honeymoon boink-fest—alone—she soon learned that Landon was nowhere to be found.
She’d married an MIA pop star.
When she ventured down to the concierge to claim her tote bag, the woman working the desk informed her that Mr. Paige had been called away.
Called away?
Yes, that’s right, her freaking sex god pop star heartthrob husband had skipped out on her in the early morning hours.
And he hadn’t even left a note.
Still, he wasn’t a complete dirtbag. He’d done her one favor that couldn’t be categorized as sexual.
He’d retrieved Carol.
He’d paid her fine and had her Volvo returned to the hotel.
There was another piece of information that gave her a sliver of insight into her runaway husband. The chick at the concierge desk mentioned Landon had looked distraught when he checked out.
But this only tamped down her wrath for a few seconds before the anger volcano churning inside her erupted.
Her deadbeat husband didn’t get to be distraught.
Um…hello, actual distraught is waking up in a Vegas mega-suite, rocking no underwear and a diamond the size of Texas, only to learn your husband has bolted.
