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It’s not the no I was expecting or the hell yes I was hoping for, but more middle of the road.
It’s Garrett through and through. He’s the calm to my chaos, never one to make rash decisions that make up my life.
“Okay. So…” I want him to fill in the blank, but he stays silent. “What next?”
“I—” The look on his face flashes from excitement to panic to resignation, and I can’t nail down what feeling is going to win out. “I need a shower.”
Stalking past me, he flips open his suitcase and grabs clothes before moving back to the bathroom. Now is not the time to push—he’s a processor. He always has been. And we’re dealing with information overload and my crazy proposal.
“Proposal.” I chuckle at my pun. My own suitcase is a mess of clothes that Evie and I tossed in while we were waiting for Garrett to get to the house, and it takes me a minute to locate a pair of cut-off shorts I can pull on.
The shower turns on, and I can’t stop myself from imagining Garrett’s body under the spray of water, rivulets tracing lines of muscle down, down, down—Evie’s ring tone distracts me from fantasies I have no business having. My breathing is embarrassingly loud and ragged.
“Ev?”
“Mia! What the hell is going on? My phone has been going crazy all morning with reporters calling and asking for a comment about your Vegas wedding. You and Garrett got married?”
Her voice screeches through the phone at a volume that has me wincing even with the phone several inches from my ear.
“Huh?” I’m going to blame the hangover for my inability to catch anything she said.
“There are pictures all over the place. Did Dolly Parton actually officiate your wedding?”
“Not the real one,” I repeat Garrett’s line from earlier and smile.
“I thought you guys were just friends.”
“We are…we weren’t exactly sober when we met Dolly,” I admit.
“You had a drunk Vegas wedding?!”
“I did. I also have the drunk Vegas wedding hangover this morning.”
“Ooh, sorry.” Her voice is no longer at a pitch only dogs can hear, and I relax my shoulders.
“Thank you.”
“What do you want me to do, Mi? I’ve been saying ‘no comment,’ but I’m not sure how much longer that’s going to work.”
“Um.” Nibbling on my lip, I’m not sure what to tell her. It’s not like Garrett told me which way he was leaning. “I’m—I’m not sure.”
“Mia—”
“Let me talk to Garrett,” I interrupt. “I’ll call you back.”
“Okay. Just, hurry, you know? The sharks are circling.”
“I know.”
I disconnect and pull up the web browser on my phone. Keying in my name, Vegas, and wedding pulls up more links than I care to count and images of Garrett and me leaving the wedding chapel hand in hand. We look sober and…happy.
There’s another picture, this one of Fucker, who released a statement earlier this morning telling the press he was disappointed with my party-girl shenanigans. Literally, he used the word shenanigans. Who even does that?
Roni. Yet again, I’m left questioning her loyalties. But I’ll have to deal with her later.
“Garrett!” I storm into the bathroom, not even pausing to check if the door is locked or if the shower is still running.
“Amelia!” He quickly wraps the towel around his waist, but not before I’m able to check out his toned ass in the mirror. “What the fuck?”
