Dread swirled as I lowered my arms, the movements in slow motion. Some part of me didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see, didn’t want to confirm the suspicion breaking through the hangover fog swirling in my mind.
I sucked in a breath and looked down at my hand.
Yep.
There they were.
A simple platinum band.
And an absolutely massive emerald-cut diamond on a simple band.
Gorgeous.
Absolutely horrifying.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I whimpered, falling back against the cushions.
I wanted to deny it.
But the proof was right there on my hand.
There was a hollow, tender sensation in my chest as I pressed my fists to my eyes, willing the stupid, useless tears to go away.
“Good morning,” a voice said, making panic surge through my system. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had to tack on, “wife.”
The pained animal sound that escaped me sounded strange and unfamiliar even as I shot upright again, momentarily too shocked to notice the covers pooled around my waist, exposing me from the waist up.
“Harrison?” I hissed as my gaze landed on him.
And, damn him, he looked good.
He’d clearly just gotten out of the shower, his hair still wet, and dressed in a crisp gray suit.
If it was possible, he was even better looking in the morning than he’d been the night before.
Though, to be fair, most of my memories of him had been in the dark.
Memories fought to the surface, making heat flood my system as I remembered his hands, lips, tongue, teeth, the feel of him pressing me into the mattress, the slide of him deep inside me.
His gaze dipped, making mine do the same, looking at my bare chest. I snatched up the covers, holding them under my neck.
“I was too drunk,” I snapped, outrage boiling in my gut.
Harrison’s hands moved up, palms out.
“You stripped yourself naked,” he explained, voice calm. “It started in the elevator. You grumbled something about not wanting to wear a dress made of cactus needles. I managed to keep you mostly decent until we got in the room.”
Okay.
That did kind of sound like me.
“What about this?” I asked, holding up my left hand. “Shouldn’t I have been considered too drunk for this?”
He had nothing to say to that, just offered me a shrug.
“Here,” he said, walking across the suite toward a small kitchenette, then dipping into the bathroom before returning with a bottle of water and some aspirin. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“Because I chugged tequila,” I snapped, snatching the medicine and water out of his hands, knowing I wasn’t going to be able to think straight until my migraine eased.
