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Her long tan legs from half a summer spent in the Hamptons only brings back memories of last year. But last year hurt like a bitch. I had to say goodbye to her then, so why would I have willingly gotten together with her now?
Grabbing my phone, I pull up her alias, Marge, (just in case my brothers ever saw) and check what happened last night. Damn, I initiated the conversation.
Me: Hope the dance competition is going well.
Then the memory floods in like a tidal wave. The innocent text exchanges once I saw her dance studio was in town for a competition. Each of us mentioning where we were staying. Her asking me out for a drink and my stupid horny ass accepting. Going to her hotel bar, gambling at blackjack, drinking some more. Her studio won the competition and she was excited to celebrate, and I, of course, took any excuse to be with her.
I’m an idiot.
She stirs under the sheets, her dark wavy hair sprawled on the pillow. I examine her while her eyes are still closed and see the matching silver band on her left hand. Then I spot a few crumpled up papers on the floor near the edge of the bed. I must’ve taken them out of my jacket or pants last night when we returned.
When I open them, the reality of the situation comes crashing down on me like a crumbling building.
One of those papers is a marriage license, and the two names listed have me squeezing the bridge of my nose.
Dominic Anthony Mancini and
Valentina Daniella Sommerland
I can’t help the small smile that forms on my face when I think of how we all used to make fun of her name when she was younger. No one said her first name without also using her middle and her last—though it was Cavallo back then. To the grade school kids, using her whole name was fun, and it stuck all through high school.
Now, she’s Valentina Daniella Mancini, though I don’t hold my breath—she’d probably expect me to become Dominic Anthony Cavallo. Doesn’t matter that Cavallo isn’t even legally her last name anymore.
Why the hell is my mind heading in a direction this situation is never gonna go?
As I’m wondering whether we’ll qualify for an annulment, her eyes pop open. She smiles at me, her naked body sliding across the sheets. She’s always been slow to wake up, though I only know that from the rare occasions she let me sleep in bed with her.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi.” She wiggles up to rest her back on the headboard, making sure to keep the sheet over her.
“No need to be shy. I am your husband, after all.” I raise my hand, the stream of light coming through the curtains making the silver band shine.
Her breath leaves her in one rush and her mouth hangs open. She snaps her head down to look at her perfectly manicured hand, with red polish that matches her toes and plucks the cheap wedding band we must’ve gotten along the way as though it’s a piece of foil. But it’s not foil. It’s the real deal.
I pick up the marriage license from the side table and toss it on the bed next to her. “Do you want breakfast, Mrs. Mancini, or should we each call our attorneys first?”
No sense in pretending this situation is anything other than what it is—a mistake.
Her plump pink lips that have always turned me on dip, and she twists the sheet in her fingers.
Yeah, figured as much. Attorneys it is.
“I’ll let you get dressed,” I say, walking around the bed, and picking up my pants and shirt from last night. Anything goes in Vegas, no one will give me a second look.
“Dom,” she sighs.
But I put up my hand, hurrying to get the hell out of here before I ask more questions like why, drunk or not, she’d agree to marry me. “No worries. Not sure how we got ourselves in this predicament, but I’ll handle it.”
I slide the ring off my finger and put it on the nightstand. Then I walk out the door, and this time, I do let it slam shut.
Valentina isn’t meant to be mine. She’s always belonged to someone else. This time, I’m determined to remember it.
