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“Shots,” I correct. “A lot of fucking shots.”
“Did we dance?”
I do remember that, so I nod. “Yeah.”
It was the safest way to touch her since she wasn’t mine. It was torture, too. But I could survive it for the reward of having her close to me.
“Things get fuzzy after that.” Her fingers come up to massage her temples as she battles her own hangover. “Wait. I remember a veil. And…Dolly Parton?”
The wrinkle of her nose is so fucking adorable that I can’t help but smile.
“Probably not the real one,” I say.
She giggles, and the side of my mouth crawls up in a smile.
“But that doesn’t explain this.” She points to herself and then to me. “We’re naked.”
“Sure are.”
“Where are our clothes?”
“That’s a good fucking question, Ames.” Standing, I step on my boxers by accident. With a quick yank, I straighten and scour the room for clues about what happened. My pants are tossed in a corner. Mia’s dress is nearby, puddled next to the sky-high heels she’d worn with it.
My shirt is by the door to the room, next to a piece of paper. Bending down, I snag it, confirming my suspicions. Done with that, I look up to catch her attention locked on my chest.
“Ames?” I wave in exaggeration to get her attention.
“Huh?” She blinks, and her gaze moves to the paper in my hand. “What’s that?”
Walking closer and closing the distance between us, I don’t imagine the way her breath hitches.
I hold out the page so she can see for herself.
“That, Mrs. Harrison, is our marriage license. Congratulations, honey. It looks like we just got hitched.”
Chapter Three
MIA
The paper in my hand swims in my vision.
Married?
No, no, no, no, no, no. Vegas was supposed to be a getaway, a way to relieve the pressure I felt under the LA microscope. Not a way to screw up my life—and my chance at the part—in one fell swoop.
“Are you joking?”
This is a prank. It has to be.
You woke up naked in bed next to Garrett. That wasn’t a prank, that was familiar…but not…at the same time.
“Does this look like a joke?” He wiggles his fingers at me, and I suddenly have the urge to laugh at the spirit fingers gesture.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” I mutter, kicking off the covers and standing up before I realize I’m still not dressed.
Garrett spins around, facing the wall. “Christ, Ames.”
Grabbing the sheet, I wrap it around my body toga-style. I lift my head to tell Garrett that I’m not Medusa and he won’t turn to stone because he’s seen me practically naked before—prude, much?—but the words and my mouth dry up as I take in his back of rippling muscle. Muscle that narrows to a backside that shouldn’t have my core throbbing.
